_ PHASE III. PISGAH HEIGHTS
CHAPTER XI
"When we have fallen through storey after storey of our
vanity and aspiration, it is then that we begin to measure
the stature of our friends."--R.L.S.
Next evening Dyan arrived. He stayed for an hour, and did most of the talking. But his unnatural volubility suggested disturbance deep down.
Only once Roy had a glimpse of the true Dyan, when he presented Aruna's '
prasad,' consecrated by her touch. In silence Dyan set it on the table; and reverently touched, with his finger-tips, first the small parcel, then his own forehead.
"Aruna--sister," he said on an under breath. But he would not be drawn into talking of her, of his grandfather, or of home affairs: and his abrupt departure left Roy with a maddening sense of frustration.
He lay awake half the night; and reached certain conclusions that atoned for a violent headache next morning. First and best--Dyan was not a genuine convert. All this ferment and froth did not spell reasoned conviction. He was simply ensnared; his finer nature warped by the 'delusion of irresistible suggestion,' deadlier than any weapon of War. His fanatical loyalty savoured of obsession. So much the better. An obsession could be pricked like an air-ball with the right weapon at the right moment. That, as Roy saw it, was his task:--in effect, a ghostly duel between himself and Chandranath for the soul of Dyan Singh; and the fate of Aruna virtually hung on the issue.
Should he succeed, Chandranath would doubtless guess at his share in Dyan's defection; and few men care about courting the enmity of the unscrupulous. That is the secret power behind the forces of anarchy, above all in India, where social and spiritual boycott can virtually slay a man without shedding of blood. For himself, Roy decided the game was worth the candle. The question remained--how far that natural shrinking might affect Dyan? And again--how much did he know of Chandranath's designs on Aruna?
Roy decided to spring the truth on him next time--and note the effect. Dyan had said he would come again one evening; and--sooner than Roy expected--he came. Again he was abnormally voluble, as if holding his cousin at arm's length by italicising his own fanatical fervour, till Roy's impatience subsided into weariness and he palpably stifled a yawn.
Dyan, detecting him, stopped dead, with a pained, puzzled look that went to Roy's heart. For he loved the real Dyan, even while he was bored to extinction with the semi-religious verbiage that poured from him like water from a jug.
"Awfully sorry," he apologised frankly. "But I've been over-dosed with that sort of stuff lately; and I'm damned if I can swallow it like you do. Yet I'm dead keen for India to have the best, all round, that she's capable of digesting--yet. So's Grandfather. You
can't deny it."
Dyan frowned irritably. "Grandfather's prejudiced and old-fashioned."
"He's longer-sighted than most of your voluble friends. He doesn't rhapsodise. He
knows.--But I'm not old-fashioned. Nor is Aruna."
"No, poor child; only England-infatuated. She is unwise not taking this chance of an educated husband----"
"And
such a husband!" Roy struck in so sharply that Dyan stared open-mouthed.
"How the devil can
you know?"
"And how the devil can you
not know," countered Roy, "when it's your precious paragon--Chandranath."
He scored his point clean and true. "Chandranath!" Dyan echoed blankly, staring into the fire.
Roy said nothing; simply let the fact sink in. Then, having dealt the blow, he proffered a crumb of consolation, "Perhaps he prefers to keep quiet till he's pulled it off. But I warn you, if he persists, I shall put every feasible spoke in his wheel."
Dyan faced him squarely. "You seem very intimate with our affairs. Who told you this?"
"Aruna--herself."
"You are also very intimate--with her."
"As she has lost her brother, her natural protector, I do what I can--to make up."
Dyan winced and stole a look at him. "Why not make up for still greater lack--and marry her yourself?"
It was he who hit the mark this time. Roy's blood tingled; but voice and eyes were under control.
"I've only been there a few weeks. The question has not arisen."
"Your true meaning is--it
could not arise. They were glad enough for her service in England; but whatever her service, or her loving, she must not marry an Englishman, even with the blood of India in his veins. That is our reward--both----"
It was the fierce bitter Dyan of that long ago afternoon in New College Lane. But Roy was too angry on his own account to heed. He rose abruptly.
"I'll trouble you not to talk like that."
Dyan rose also, confronting him. "I
must say what is in mind--or go. Better accept the fact--it is useless to meet."
"I refuse to accept the fact."
"But--there it is. I only make you angry. And you imply evil of the man--I admire."
He so plainly boggled over the words that Roy struck without hesitation.
"Dyan, tell me straight--
do you admire him? Would you have Aruna marry him?"
"N--no. Impossible. There is--another kind of wife," he blurted out, averting his eyes; but before Roy could speak, he had pulled himself together. "However--I mustn't stay talking. Good-night."
Roy's anger--fierce but transient, always--had faded. "There are some ties you can't break, Dyan, even with your Bande Mataram. Come again soon."
Impossible to resist the friendly tone. "But," he asked, "how long are you hanging about Delhi like this?"
"As long as I choose."
"But--why?"
"To see something of you, old chap. It seems the only way--unless I can persuade you to chuck all this poisonous vapouring, and come back to Jaipur with me. Aruna's waiting--breaking her heart--longing to see you...."
He knew he was rushing his fences; but the mood was on; the chance too good to lose.
Dyan's eyes lightened a moment. Then he shook his head. "I am too much involved."
"You
will come, though, in the end," Roy said quietly. "I can wait. Sunday, is it? And we'll bar politics--as we did in the good days. Don't you want to hear of them all at Home?"
"Sometimes--yes. But perhaps--better not. You are a fine fellow, Roy--even to quarrel with. Good-night." They shook hands warmly.
On the threshold, Dyan turned, hesitated; then--in a hurried murmur--asked: "
Where is she--what's she doing now ... Tara?"
He was obviously unaware of having used her name: and Roy, though startled, gave no sign.
"She's still in Serbia. She's been simply splendid. Head over ears in it all from the start."--He paused--"Shall I tell her--when I write ... about you?"
Dyan shrugged his shoulders. "Waste of ink and paper. It would not interest her."
"It would. I know Tara. What you are doing now would hurt her--keenly."
"Tcha!" The sharp sound expressed sheer unbelief. It also expressed pain. "Good-night," he added, for the third time; and went out--leaving Roy electrified; a-tingle with the hope of success at last.
Tara was not forgotten; though Dyan had been trying to pretend she was--even to himself. Ten chances to one, she was still at the core everything; even his present incongruous activities....
Roy paced the room; his imagination alight; his own recoil from the conjunction, overborne by immediate concern for Dyan. Unable to forget her--who could?--he had thrust the pain of remembering into the dark background of his mind; and there it remained--a hard knot of soreness and bitterness--as Aruna had said. And all that bottled-up bitterness had been vented against England--an unconscious symbol of Tara, desired yet withheld; while the intensity of his thwarted passion sought and found an outlet in fervent adoration of his country visualised as woman.
Right or wrong--that was how Roy saw it. And the argument seemed psychologically sound. Cruel to be kind, he must touch the point of pain; draw the hidden thing into the open; and so reawaken the old Dyan, who could arraign the new one far more effectually than could Roy himself or another. Seized with his idea, he indulged in a more hopeful letter to Aruna; and had scarcely patience to wait for Sunday.
* * * * *
In leisurely course it arrived--that last Sunday of the Great War. The Chandni Chowk was a-bubble with strange and stirring rumours; but the day waned and the evening waned--and no Dyan appeared.
On Monday morning--still no word: but news, so tremendous, flashed half across the world, that Dyan and his mysterious defection flickered like a match at midday.
The War was over--virtually over. From the Vosges to the sea, not the crack of a rifle nor the moan of a shell; only an abrupt, dramatic silence--the end! Belief in the utter cessation of all that wonderful and terrible activity, penetrated slowly. And as it penetrated Roy realised, with something like dismay, that the right and natural sense of elation simply was not. He actually felt depressed. Shrink as he might from the jar of conflict, the sure instinct of a soldier race warned him that hell holds no fury and earth no danger like a ruthless enemy not decisively smitten. The psychology of it was beyond him--shrouded in mystery.
Not till long afterwards did he know how many, in England and Prance, had shared his bewildered feeling; how British soldiers in Belgium had cried like children, had raged almost to the point of mutiny. But one thing he knew--steeped as he was in the sub-strata of Eastern thought and feeling. India would never understand. Visible, spectacular victory, alone could impress the East: and such an impression might have counteracted many mistakes that had gone before....
Tuesday brought no Dyan; only a scrawled note: "Sorry--too much business. Can't come just now."
If one could take that at its face value----! But it might mean anything. Had Chandranath found out--and had Dyan not the moral courage to go his own way?
He knew by now where his cousin lodged; but had never been there. It was in one of the oldest parts of the city; alive with political intrigue. If Roy's nationality were suspected, 'things' might happen, and it was clearly unfair on his father to run needless risks. But this was different. 'Things' might be happening to Dyan.
So, after nearly a week of maddening suspense, he resolved--with all due caution--to take his chance.
* * * * *
A silvery twilight was ebbing from the sky when he plunged into a maze of narrow streets and by-lanes where the stream of Eastern life flows along immemorial channels scarcely stirred by surface eddies of 'advance.'
Threading his way through the crowd, he found the street and the landmark he sought: a doorway, adorned with a faded wreath of marigolds, indication of some holy presence within; and just beyond it, a low-browed arch, almost a tunnel. It passed under balconied houses toppling perilously forward; and as Roy entered it, a figure darkened the other end. He could only distinguish the long dark coat and turbaned head: but there flashed instant conviction--Chandranath!
Alert, rather than alarmed, he hurried forward, hugging the opposite wall. At the darkest point they crossed. Roy felt the other pause, scrutinise him--and pass on. The relief of it! And the ignominy of suddenly feeling the old childish terror, when you had turned your back on a dark room. It was all he could do not to break into a run....
In the open court, set round with tottering houses, a sacred neem tree made a vast patch of shadow. Near it, a rickety staircase led up to Dyan's roof room. Roy, mounting cautiously, knocked at the highest door.
"Are you there? It's Roy," he called softly.
A pause:--then the door flew open and Dyan stood before him, in loose white garments; no turban; a farouche look in his eyes.
"My God--
Roy! Crazy of you! I never thought----"
"Well, I got sick of waiting. I suppose I can come in?" Roy's impatience was the measure of his relief.
Dyan moved back a pace, and, as Roy stepped on to the roof, he carefully closed the door.
"Think--if you had come three minutes earlier! He only left me just now--Chandranath."
"And passed me in the archway," added Roy with his touch of bravado. "I've as much right to be in Delhi--and to vary my costume--as your mysteriously potent friend. It's a free country."
"It is fast becoming--not so free." Dyan lowered his voice, as if afraid he might be overheard. "And you don't consider the trouble it might make--for me."
"How about the trouble you've been making for me? What's wrong?"
Dyan passed a nervous hand across his eyes and forehead. "Come in. It's getting cold out here," he said, in a repressed voice. Roy followed him across the roof top, with its low parapet and vault of darkening sky, up three steps, into an arcaded room, where a log fire burned in the open hearth. Shabby, unrelated bits of furniture gave the place a comfortless air. On a corner table strewn with leaflets and pamphlets ("Poisoned arrows, up to date!" thought Roy), a typewriter reared its hooded head. The sight struck a shaft of pain through him. Aruna's Dyan--son of kings and warriors--turning his one skilful hand to such base uses!
"What's wrong?" he repeated with emphasis. "I want a straight answer, Dyan. I've risked something to get it."
Dyan sat down near a small table, and took his head between his hands. "There is--so much wrong," he said, looking steadily up at Roy. "I am feeling--like a man who wakes too suddenly after much sleepwalking."
"Since when?" asked Roy, keeping himself in hand. "What's jerked you awake? D'you know?"
"There have been many jerks. Seeing you; Aruna's offering; this news of the War; and something ... you mentioned last time."
"What was that ... Tara?" Roy lunged straight to the middle of the wound.
Dyan started. "But--how----! I never said...." he stammered, visibly shaken.
"It didn't need saying. Aruna told me--the fact; and my own wits told me the rest. You're not honestly keen--are you?--to shorten the arm of the British Raj and plunge India into chaos?"
"No--no." A very different Dyan, this, to the one who had poured out stock phrases like water only a week ago.
"Isn't bitterness--about Tara, at the back of it! Face that straight. And--if it's true, say so without false shame."
Dyan was silent a long while, staring into the fire. "Very strange. I had no idea," he said at last. The words came slowly, as if he were thinking aloud. "I was angry--miserable; hating you all; even--very nearly--
her. Then came the War; and I thought--now our countries will become like one. I will win her by some brave action--she who is the spirit of courage. From France, after all that praise of Indians in the papers, I wrote again. No use. After that, I hoped by some brave action, I might be killed. Instead, through stupid carelessness, I am only maimed--as you see. I was foolishly angry when Indian troops were sent away from France: and my heart became hard like a nut."--He had emerged from his dream now and was frankly addressing Roy----"I knew, if I went home, they would insist I should marry. Quite natural. But for me--not thinkable. Yet I
must go back to India. And there, in Bombay, I heard Chandranath speak. He was just back from deportation; and to me his words were like leaping flames. All the fire of my passion--choked up in me--could flow freely in service of the Mother. I became intoxicated with the creed of my new comrades: there is neither truth nor untruth, right nor wrong; there is only the Mother. I was filled with the joy of dedication and unquestioning surrender. It gave me visions like opium dreams. Both kinds of opium I have taken freely,--while walking in my sleep. I was ready for taking life; any desperate deed. Instead--Tcha! I have to take money, like a common dacoit, because police must be bribed, soldiers tempted, meetings multiplied...."
"It takes more than the blood of white goats to oil the wheels of your chariot," said Roy, very quiet, but rather grim. "And he's not the man to do his own dirty work--eh?"
"No. He is only very clever to dress it up in fine arguments. All money is the Mother's. Only they are thieves who selfishly hide it in banks and safes. Those who release it for her use are deliverers ..." he broke off with a harsh laugh. "In spite of education, we Indians are too easily played upon, Roy. If you had not spoken--of her, I might have swallowed--even that. Thieving--bah! Killing is man's work. There is sanction in the Gita----"
"Sanction be damned!" Roy cut in sharply. "You might as well say Shakespeare sanctioned theft because he wrote, 'Who steals my purse steals trash!' The only sanction worth anything is inside you. And you didn't seem to find it there. But let's get at the point. Did you refuse?"
"No. Only--for the first time, I demurred; and because the need is urgent, he became very violent--in language. It was almost a quarrel."
"Clear proof you scored! Did you mention--Aruna?"
Dyan shook his head. "If
I become violent, it is not only language----"
"No. You're a
man. And now you're awake again, I can tell you things--but I can't stay all night."
"No. He is coming back. Only gone to Cantonments--on business."
"What sort of business?"
Dyan chewed his lip and looked uncomfortable.
"Never mind, old chap. I can see a church by daylight! He's getting at the troops. Spreading lies about the Armistice. And after that----?"
"He is returning--about midnight, hoping to find me in a more reasonable mind----"
"And by Jove we won't disappoint him!" cried Roy, who had seen his God-given chance. Springing up he gripped Dyan by the shoulder. "Your reasonable mind will take the form of scooting back with me,
jut put;[17] and we can slip out of Delhi by the night mail. Time's precious. So hurry up."
But Dyan did not stir. He sat there looking so plainly staggered that Roy burst out laughing.
"You're not half awake yet. You've messed about so long with men who merely 'agitate' and 'inaugurate,' that you've forgotten the kind who act first and talk afterwards. I give you ten minutes to scribble a tender farewell. Then--we make tracks. It's all I came here for--if you want to know. And I take it you're willing?"
Dyan sighed. "I am willing enough. But--there are many complications. You do not know. They are organising big trouble over the Rowlatt Bill--and other things. I have not much secret information, or my life would probably not be worth a pin. But it is all one complicated network, and there are too easy ways in India for social and spiritual boycott----"
He enlarged a little; quoted cases that filled Roy with surprise and indignation, but no way shook his resolve.
"We needn't go straight to Jaipur. Quite good fun to knock round a bit. Throw him off the scent, till he's got over the shock. We can wire our news; Aruna will be too happy to fret over a little delay. And you won't be ostracised among your own people. They want you. They want your help. Grandfather does. The best
I could do was to run you to earth--open your eyes----"
"And by Indra you've
done it, Roy."
"You'll come then?"
"Yes, I'll come--and damn the consequences!"
The Dyan of Oxford days was visibly emerging now: a veritable awakening; the strained look gone from his face.
It was Roy's 'good minute': and in the breathless rush that followed, he swept Dyan along with him--unresisting, exalted, amazed----
The farewell letter was written; and Dyan's few belongings stowed into a basket-box. Then they hurried down, through the dark courtyard into the darker tunnel; and Roy felt unashamedly glad not to be alone. His feet would hurry, in spite of him; and that kept him a few paces ahead.
Passing a dark alcove, he swerved instinctively--and hoped to goodness Dyan had not seen.
Just before reaching the next one he tripped over something--taut string or wire stretched across the passage. It should have sent him headlong had he been less agile. As it was, he stumbled, cursed and kept his feet.
"'Ware man-trap!" he called back to Dyan, under his breath.
Next instant, from the alcove, a shot rang out: and it was Dyan who cursed; for the bullet had grazed his arm.
They both ran now; and made no bones about it. Roy's sensations reminded him vividly of the night he and Lance fled from the Turks.
"We seem to have butted in and spoilt somebody's little game!" he remarked, as they turned into a wider street and slackened speed. "How's your arm?"
"Nothing. A mere scratch." Dyan's tone was graver. "But that's most unusual. I can't make it out----"
"You're well quit of it all, anyhow," said Roy, and slipped a hand through his arm.
* * * * *
Not till they were settling down for a few hours' sleep in the night mail, did it dawn on Roy that the little game might possibly have been connected with himself. Chandranath had seen him in that dress before. He had just come very near quarrelling with Dyan. If he suspected Roy's identity, he would suspect his influence....
He frankly spoke his thought to Dyan; and found it had occurred to him already. "Not himself, of course," he added. "The gentleman is not partial to firearms! But suspecting--he might have arranged; hoping to catch you coming back--the swine! Naturally after this, he will go further than suspecting!"
"He can go to the devil--and welcome; now I've collared
you!" said Roy;--and slept soundly upon that satisfying achievement, through all the rattle and clatter of the express.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 17: At once.] _