_ PHASE III. PISGAH HEIGHTS
CHAPTER XIII
"One made out of the better part of earth,
A man born as at sunrise."
--SWINBURNE.
It was all over--the strenuous joy of planning and preparing. Christmas itself was over. From the adjacent borders of British India, five lonely ones had been gathered in. There was Mr Mayne, Commissioner of Delhi, Vincent's old friend of Kohat days, unmarried and alone in camp with a stray Settlement Officer, whose wife and children were at Home. There was Mr Bourne--in the Canals--large-boned and cadaverous, with a sardonic gleam in his eye. Rumour said there had once been a wife and a friend; now there remained only work and the whisky bottle; and he was overdoing both. To him Thea devoted herself and her fiddle with particular zest. The other two lonelies--a Mr and Mrs Nair--were medical missionaries, fighting the influenza scourge in the Delhi area; drastically disinfected--because of the babies; more than thankful for a brief respite from their daily diet of tragedy, and from labours Hercules' self would not have disdained. For all that, they had needed a good deal of pressing. They had 'no clothes.' They were very shy. But Thea had insisted; so they came--clothed chiefly in shyness and gratitude, which made them shyer than ever.
Roy, still new to Anglo-India, was amazed at the way these haphazard humans were thawed into a passing intimacy by the sunshine of Thea's personality. For himself, it was the nearest approach to the real thing that he had known since that dear and dreamlike Christmas of 1916. It warmed his heart, and renewed the well-spring of careless happiness that had gone from him utterly since the blow fell; gone, so he believed, for ever.
Something of this she divined--and was glad. Yet her exigent heart was not altogether at ease. His reaction to Lance, though unmistakable, fell short of her confident expectation. He was still squandering far too much time on the other two. Sometimes she felt almost angry with him: jealous--for Lance. She knew how deeply he cared underneath; because she too was a Desmond. And Desmonds could not care by halves.
This morning, for instance, the wretch was out riding with Dyan; and there was Lance, alone in the drawing-room strumming the accompaniments of things they would play to-night: just a wandering succession of chords in a minor key; but he had his father's gift of touch, that no training can impart, and the same trick of playing pensively to himself, almost as if he were thinking aloud. It was five years since she had seen her father; and those pensive chords brought sudden tears to her eyes.
What did Lance mean by it--mooning about the piano like that? Had he fallen in love? That was one of the few questions she did not dare ask him. But here was her chance to 'put in a word' about Roy.
So she strolled into the drawing-room and leaned over the grand piano. His smile acknowledged her presence, and his pensive chords went wandering softly away into the bass.
"Idiot--what
are you doing?" she asked briskly, because the music was creeping down her spine. "Talking to yourself?"
"More or less."
"Well--give over. I'm here. And it's a bad habit."
He shook his head, and went wandering on. "In this form I find it soothing and companionable."
"Well, you oughtn't to be needing either at Christmas time under
my roof, with Roy here and all--if he'd only behave. Sometimes I want to shake him----"
"Why--what's the matter with Roy?"--That innocent query checked her rush of protest in mid career. Had he not even noticed? Men were the queerest, dearest things!----"He looks awfully fit. Better all round. He's pulling up.
You never saw him--you don't realise----"
"But, my dear boy, do
you realise that he's getting rather badly bitten with all this--Indian problems and Indian cousins----"
Lance nodded. "I've been afraid of that. But one can't say much."
"I can't. I was counting on you as the God-given antidote. And there he is, still fooling round with Dyan, when
you've come all this way ... It makes me wild. It isn't
fair----"
Her genuine distress moved Lance to cease strumming and bestow a friendly pat on her hand. "Don't be giving yourself headaches and heartaches over Roy and me, darlint. We're going strong, thanks very much! It would take an earthquake to throw us out of step. If he chose to chuck his boots at me, I wouldn't trouble--except to return the trees if they were handy! Strikes me women don't yet begin to understand the noble art of friendship----"
"
Which is a libel--but let that pass! Besides--hasn't it struck you? Aruna----"
"My God!" His hands dropped with a crash on the keyboard. Then, in a low swift rush: "Thea, you don't
mean it--you're pulling my leg."
"Bible-oath I'm not. It's too safely tucked under the piano!"
"My God!" he repeated softly, ignoring her incurable frivolity. "Has he
said anything?"
"No. But it's plain they're both smitten more or less."
"Smitten be damned."
"Lance! I won't have Aruna insulted. Let me tell you she's charming and cultivated; much better company than Floss. And I love her like a daughter----"
"Would you have her marry
Roy?" he flung out wrathfully.
"Of course not. But still----"
"
Me--perhaps?" he queried with such fine scorn that she burst out laughing.
"You priceless gem! You are
the unadulterated Anglo-Indian!"
"Well--what
else would I be? What else are you, by the same token?"
"Not adulterated," she denied stoutly. "Perhaps a wee bit less 'prejudiced.' The awful result, I suppose, of failing to keep myself scrupulously detached from my surroundings. Besides, you couldn't be married twenty years to that Vinx and not widen out a bit. Of course I'm quite aware that widening out has its insidious dangers and limitation its heroic virtues--Hush! Don't fly into a rage.
You're not limited, old boy. You loved--Lady Sinclair."
"I adored her," Lance said very low; and his fingers strayed over the keys again. "
But--she was an accomplished fact. And--she was one in many thousands. She's gone now, though. And there's poor Sir Nevil----"
He rose abruptly and strode over to the fireplace. "Tell you what, Thea. If the bee in Roy's bonnet is buzzing to
that tune, some one's got to stop it----"
"That's my point!" She swung round confronting him. "Why not whisk him back to the Punjab? It does seem the only way----"
Lance nodded again. "Now you talk sense. Mind, I don't believe he'll come. Roy's a tougher customer than he looks to the naked eye. But I'll have a shot at it to-night. If needs must, I'll tell him why. I can swallow half a regiment of his Dyans; but not--the other thing. I hope you find us intact in the morning!"
She flew to him and kissed him with fervour; and she was still in his arms, when Roy strolled casually into the room.
* * * * *
There were only three outsiders that night: the State Engineer and two British officers in the Maharajah's employ. But they sat down sixteen to dinner; and, very shortly after, came three others in the persons of Dyan and Sir Lakshman Singh, with his distinguished friend Mahomed Inayat Khan, from Hyderabad. Nothing Thea enjoyed better than getting a mixed batch of men together and hearing them talk--especially shop; for then she knew their hearts were in it. They were happy.
And to-night, her chance assortment was amazingly varied, even for India:--Army, 'Political,' Civil; P.W.D. and Native States; New India, in the person of Dyan; and not least, the 'medical mish' pair; an element rich in mute inglorious heroism, as the villagers and 'depressed classes' of India know. She took keen delight in the racial interplay of thought and argument, with Roy, as it were, for bridge-builder between. How he would relish the idea! He seemed very much in the vein this evening, especially since his grandfather arrived. He was clearly making an impression on Mr Mayne and Inayat Khan; and a needle-prick of remorse touched her heart. For Aruna, annexed by Captain Martin's subaltern, was watching him too, when she fancied no one was looking; and Lance, attentively silent, was probably laying deep plans for his capture. A wicked shame--but still...!
As a matter of fact, Lance, too, was troubled with faint compunction. He had never seen Roy in this kind of company, nor in this particular vein. And, reluctantly, he admitted that it did seem rather a waste of his mentally reviving vigour hauling him back to the common round of tennis and dances and polo--yes, even sacred polo--when he was so dead keen on this infernal agitation business, and seemed to know such a deuce of a lot about it all.
Lance himself knew far too little; and was anxious to hear more, for the intimate, practical reason that he was not quite happy about his Sikh troop. The Pathan lot were all right. But the Sikhs--his pride and joy--were being 'got at' by those devils in the City. And, if these men could be believed, 'things' were going to be very much worse; not only 'down country,' but also in the Punjab, India's sure shield against the invader. To a Desmond, the mere suggestion of the Punjab turning traitor was as if one impugned the courage of his father or the honour of his mother; so curiously personal is India's hold upon the hearts of Englishmen who come under her spell.
So Lance listened intently, if a little anxiously, to all that Thea's 'mixed biscuits' had to say on that absorbing subject. For to-night shop held the field: if that could be called shop, which vitally concerned the fate of England and India, and of British dominion in the East.
Agitation against the sane measures embodied in the Rowlatt Bills was already astir, like bubbles round a pot before it boils. And Inayat Khan had come straight from Bombay, where the National Congress had rejected with scorn the latest palliative from Home; had demanded the release of all revolutionaries, and wholesale repeal of laws against sedition. Here was shop sufficiently ominous to overshadow all other topics: and there was no
gene, no constraint. The Englishmen could talk freely in the presence of cultured Indians who stood for Jaipur and Hyderabad, since both States were loyal to the core.
Dyan, like Lance, spoke little and pondered much on the talk of these men, whose straight speech and thoughts were refreshing as their own sea breezes after the fumes of rhetoric, the fog of false values that had bemused his brain these three years. Strange how all the ugliness and pain of hate had shrivelled away; how he could even shake hands, untroubled, with that 'imperialistic bureaucrat' the Commissioner of Delhi, whom he might have been told off, any day, to 'remove from this mortal coil.' Strange to sit there, over against him, while he puffed his cigar and talked, without fear, of increasing antagonism, increasing danger to himself and his kind.
"There's no sense in disguising the unpalatable truth that New India hates us," said he in his gruff, deliberate voice. "Present company excepted, I hope!"
He gravely inclined his head towards Dyan, who responded mutely with a flutter at his heart. Impossible! The man could not suspect----?
And the man, looking him frankly in the eyes, added: "The spirit of the Mutiny's not extinct--and we know it, those of us that count."
Dyan simply sat dumfounded. It was Sir Lakshman who said, in his guarded tone: "Nevertheless, sir, the bulk of our people are loyal and peaceable. Only I fear there are some in England who do not count that fact to their credit."
"If they ever become anything else, it won't be to
our credit," put in Roy. "If we can't stand up to bluster and sedition with that moral force at our backs, we shall deserve to go under."
"Well spoken, Roy," said his grandfather still more quietly. "Let us hope it is not yet too late. Sadi says, 'The fountain-head of a spring can be blocked with a stick; but in full flood, it cannot be crossed, even on an elephant.'"
They exchanged a glance that stirred Roy's pulses and gave him confidence to go on: "I don't believe it is too late. But what bothers me is this--are we treating our moral force as it deserves? Are we giving them loyalty in return for theirs--the sort they can understand? With a dumb executive and voluble 'patriots,' persuading or intimidating, the poor beggars haven't a dog's chance, unless we openly stand by them; openly smite our enemies--and theirs."
He boldly addressed himself to Mayne, the sole symbol of authority present; and the Commissioner listened, with a gleam of amused approval in his eye.
"You're young, Mr Sinclair--which doesn't mean you're wrong! Most of us, in our limited fashion, are trying to do what we can on those lines. But, after spending half a lifetime in this climate, doing our utmost to give the peasant--
and the devil--his due, we're apt to grow cynical----"
"Not to mention suicidal!" grunted the slave of work and whisky. "We Canal coolies--hardly visible to the naked eye--are adding something like an Egypt a year to the Empire. But, bless you, England takes no notice. Only let some underbred planter or raw subaltern bundle an Indian out of his carriage, or a drunken Tommy kick his servant in the spleen, and the whole British Constitution comes down about our ears!"
"Very true, sir--very true!" Inayat Khan leaned forward. His teeth gleamed in the dark of his beard. His large firm-featured face abounded in good sense and good humour. "How shall a man see justly if he holds the telescope wrong way round, as too many do over there. It also remains true, however, that the manners of certain Anglo-Indians create a lot of bad feeling. Your so-called reforms do not interest the masses or touch their imagination. But the boot of the low-class European touches their backs and their pride and hardens their hearts. That is only human nature. In the East a few gold grains of courtesy touch the heart more than a
khillat[18] of political hotch-potch. I myself--though it is getting dangerous to say so!--am frankly opposed to this uncontrolled passion for reform. When all have done their duty in this great struggle, why such undignified clamour for rewards, which are now being flung back in the giver's teeth. It has become a vicious circle. It was British policy in the first place--not so?--that stirred up this superficial ferment; and now it grows alarming, it is doctored with larger doses of the same medicine. We Indians who know how little the bulk of India has really changed, could laugh at the tamasha of Western fancy-dress, in small matters; but time for laughing has gone by. Time has come for saying firmly--all rights and aspirations will be granted, stopping
short of actual government--otherwise----!"
He flung up his hands, looked round at the listening faces, and realised how completely he had let himself go. "Forgive me, Colonel. I fear I am talking too much," he said in a changed tone.
"Indeed no," Colonel Leigh assured him warmly. "In these difficult days, loyal and courageous friends like yourself are worth their weight in gold mohurs!"
Visibly flattered, the Moslem surveyed his own bulky person with a twinkle of amusement. "If value should go by weight, Inayat Khan would be worth a king's ransom! But I assure you, Colonel, your country has many hundreds of friends like myself all over India, if only she would seek them out and give them encouragement--as Mr Sinclair said--instead of wasting it on volubles, who will never cease making trouble till India is in a blaze."
As the man's patent sincerity had warmed the hearts of his hearers, so the pointed truth of that last pricked them sharply and probed deep. For they knew themselves powerless; mere atoms of the whirling dust-cloud, raised, in passing, by the chariot-wheels of Progress--or perdition?
The younger men rose briskly, as if to shake off some physical discomfort. Dyan--very much aware of Aruna and the subaltern--approached them with a friendly remark. Roy and Lance said, "Play up, Thea! Your innings," almost in a breath--and crooked little fingers.
Thea needed no second bidding. While the men talked, an insidious depression had stolen over her spirit--and brooded there, light and formless as a river mist. Half an hour with her fiddle, and Lance at his best, completely charmed it away. But the creepiness of it had been very real: and the memory remained.
* * * * *
When all the others had dispersed, she lingered over the fire with Roy, while Lance, at the piano, with diplomatic intent, drifted into his friend's favourite Nocturne--the Twelfth; that inimitable rendering of a mood, hushed yet exalted, soaring yet brooding, 'the sky and the nest as well.' The two near the fire knew every bar by heart, but as the liquid notes stole out into the room, their fitful talk stopped dead.
Lance was playing superbly, giving every note its true value; the cadence rising and falling like waves of a still sea; softer and softer; till the last note faded away, ghostlike--a sigh rather than a sound.
Roy remained motionless, one elbow on the mantelpiece. Thea's lashes were wet with the tears of rarefied emotion--tears that neither prick nor burn. The silence itself seemed part of the music; a silence it were desecration to break. Without a word to Roy, she crossed the room; kissed Lance good-night; clung a moment to his hands that had woven the spell, smiling her thanks, her praise; and slipped away, leaving the two together.
Roy subsided into a chair. Lance came over to the fire and stood there warming his hands.
It was a minute or two before Roy looked up and nodded his acknowledgments.
"You're a magician, old chap. You play that thing a damn sight too well."
He did not add that his friend's music had called up a vision of the Home drawing-room, clear in every detail; Lance at the piano--his last week-end from Sandhurst--playing the 'thing' by request; himself lounging on the hearthrug, his head against his mother's knee; the very feel of her silk skirt against his cheek, of her fingers on his hair.... Nor did he add that the vision had spurred his reluctant spirit to a resolve.
The more practical soul of Lance Desmond had already dropped back to earth, as a lark drops after pouring out its heart in the blue. In spite of concern for Roy, he was thinking again of his Sikhs.
"I suppose one can take it," he remarked thoughtfully, "that Vinx and Mayne and that good old Moslem johnny know what they're talking about?"
Roy smiled--having jumped at the connection. "I'm afraid," he said, "one can."
"You think big trouble is coming--organised trouble?"
"I do. That is, unless some 'strong silent man' has the pluck to put his foot down in time, and chance the consequences to himself. Thank God, we've another John Lawrence in the Punjab."
"And it's the Punjab that matters----"
"Especially a certain P.C. Regiment--eh?"
Lance was in arms at once:--that meant he had touched the spot. "No flies on the Regiment. Trust Paul. It's only--I get bothered about a Sikh here and there."
"Quite so. The blighters have taken particular pains with the Sikhs. Realising that they'll need some fighting stuff. And Lahore's a bad place. I expect they sneak off to meetings in the City."
"Devil a doubt of it. Mind you, I trust them implicitly. But, outside their own line, they're credulous as children--
you know."
"Rather. In Delhi, I had a fair sample of it."
Another pause. It suddenly occurred to Lance that his precious Sikhs were not supposed to be the topic of the evening. "You're quite fit again, Roy. And those blooming fools chucked you like a cast horse----" he broke out in a spurt of vexation. "I wish to God you were back with your old Squadron."
And Roy said from his heart, "I wish to God I was."
"Paul misses you, though he never says much. The new lot from home are good chaps. Full of brains and theories. But no knowledge. Can't get at the men. You could still help unofficially in all sorts of ways.--Why not come along back with me? Haven't you been pottering round here long enough?"
Roy shook his head. "Thanks all the same, for the invite. Of course I'd love it. But--I've things to do. There's a novel taking shape--and other oddments. I've done precious little writing here. Too much entangled with human destinies. I
must bury myself somewhere and get a move on. April it is. I won't fail you."
Lance kicked an unoffending log. "Confound your old novel!"--A portentous silence. "See here, Roy, I don't want to badger you. But--well--if I'm to go back in moderate peace of mind, I want--certain guarantees."
Roy lifted his eyes. Lance frankly encountered them; and there ensued one of those intimate pauses in which the unspeakable is said.
Roy looked away. "Aruna?" He let fall the word barely above his breath.
"Just that."
"You're frightened--both of you? Oh yes--I've seen----" He fell silent, staring into the fire. When he spoke again, it was in the same low, detached tone. "You two needn't worry. The guarantee you're after was given ... in July 1914 ... under the beeches ... at Home.
She foresaw--understood. But she couldn't foresee ... the harder tug--now she's gone. The ... association ... and all that."
"Is it--only that?"
"It's mostly that."
To Lance Desmond, very much a man, it seemed the queerest state of things; and he knew only a fragment of the truth.
"Look here, Roy," he urged again. "Wouldn't the Punjab really be best? Aren't you plunging a bit too deep----? Does your father realise? Thea feels----"
"Yes. Thea feels, bless her! But there's a thing or two she doesn't
know!" He lifted his head and spoke in an easier voice. "One queer thing--it may interest you. Those few weeks of living as an Indian among Indians--amazingly intensified all the other side of me. I never felt keener on the Sinclair heritage and all it stands for. I never felt keener on you two than all this time while I've been concentrating every faculty on--the other two. Sounds odd. But it's a fact."
"Good. And does--your cousin know ... about the guarantee?"
"N--no. That's still to come."
"
When----? "
Roy straightly returned his friend's challenging gaze. "Damn you!" he said softly. Then, in a graver tone: "You're right. I've been shirking it. Seemed a shame to spoil Christmas. Remains--the New Year. I fixed it up--while you were playing that thing, to be exact."
"Did I--contribute?"
"You did--if that gives you any satisfaction!" He rose, stretched himself and yawned ostentatiously. "My God, I wish it was over."
Desmond said nothing. If Roy loved him more for one quality than another, it was for his admirable gift of silence.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 18: Dress of honour.] _