"The deepest thing in our nature is this dumb region of the heart,
where we dwell alone with our willingnesses and unwillingnesses,
our faiths and our fears."--WILLIAM JAMES.
Not least among the joys of Arúna's return to the freer life of the
Residency was her very own verandah balcony. Here, secure from
intrusion, she could devote the first and last hours of her day to
meditation or prayer. Oxford studies had confused a little, but not
killed, the faith of her fathers. The real trouble was that too often,
nowadays, that exigent heart of hers would intrude upon her sacred
devotions, transforming them into day-dreams, haloed with a hope the
more frankly formulated because she was of the East.
For Thea had guessed aright. Roy was the key to her waverings, her
refusals, her eager acceptance of the emergency plan:--welcome in
itself; still more welcome because it permitted her simply to await his
coming.
They had been very wonderful, those five years in England; in spite of
anxieties and disappointed hopes. But when Dyán departed and
Mesopotamia engulfed Roy, India had won the day.
How unforgettable that exalted moment of decision, one drenched and
dismal winter evening; the sudden craving for sights and sounds and
smells of her own land. How slow the swiftest steamer to the speed of
her racing thoughts! How bitter, beyond belief, the--how first faint
chill of disappointment; the pang of realising reluctantly--that, within
herself, she belonged whole-heartedly to neither world.
She had returned qualified for medical work, by experience in a College
hospital at Oxford; yet hampered by innate shrinking from the sick and
maimed, who had been too much with her in those years of war. Not less
innate was the urge of her whole being to fulfil her womanhood through
marriage rather than through work. And in the light of that discovery,
she saw her dilemma plain. Either she must hope to marry an Englishman
and break with India, like Aunt Lilámani; or accept, at the hands of the
matchmaker, an enlightened bridegroom, unseen, unknown, whose family
would overlook--at a price--her advanced age and English adventures.
Against the last, all that England and Oxford had given her rose up in
revolt ... But the discarded, subconscious Arúna was centuries older
than the half-fledged being who hovered on the rim of the nest,
distrustful of her untried wings and the pathless sky. That Arúna had,
for ally, the spirit of the ages; more formidable, if less assertive,
than the transient spirit of the age. And the fledgling Arúna knew
perfectly well that the Englishman of her alternative was,
confessedly--Roy. His mother being Indian, she innocently supposed there
would be no trouble of prejudice; no stupid talk of the gulf that she
and Dyán had set out to bridge. The fact that Dyán had failed only made
her the more anxious to succeed....
Soon after arriving, she had taken up hospital work in the women's ward,
because Miss Hammond was kind; and her educated self had need of
occupation. Her other self--deeply loving her grandfather--had urged her
to try and live at home,--so far as her unregenerate state would permit.
As out-of-caste, she had been exempt from kitchen work; debarred from
touching any food except the portion set aside for her meals, that were
eaten apart in Sir Lakshman's room--her haven of refuge. In the Inside,
she was at the mercy of women's tongues and the petty tyranny of Mátaji;
antagonistic as ever; sharpened and narrowed with age, even as her
grandfather had mellowed and grown beautiful, with the unearthly beauty
of the old, whose spirit shines visibly through the attenuated veil of
flesh. Arúna, watching him, with clearer understanding, marvelled how he
had preserved his serenity of soul through a lifetime of Mátaji's
dominion.
And the other women--relations in various degrees--took their tone from
her, if only for the sake of peace:--the widowed sister-in-law, suavely
satirical; a great-aunt, whose tongue clacked like a rice-husker; two
cousins, correctly betrothed to unseen bridegrooms, entitled to look
askance at the abandoned one, who was neither wife nor mother; and two
children of a poor relation--embryo women, who echoed the jeers of their
elders at her English friends, her obstinacy in the matter of caste and
the inevitable husband. _Hai! hai!_ At her age, what did she fear? Had
the English bewitched her with lies? Thus Peru, aged nine, jocosely
proceeding to enlighten her; egged on by giggles and high-pitched
laughter from the prospective brides. For in the zenana reticence is
not, even before children. Arúna herself had heard such talk; but for
years her early knowledge had lain dormant; while fastidiousness had
been engendered by English studies and contact with English youth.
Useless to answer. It simply meant tears or losing her temper; in which
case, Mátaji would retaliate by doctoring her food with red pepper to
sweeten her tongue.
Meanwhile, sharpened pressure in the matter of caste rites and rumours
of an actually maturing husband, had brought her very near the end of
her tether. Again Thea was right. Her brave impulse of the heart had
only been just in time. And hard upon that unbelievable good fortune
followed the news that Roy was coming.
Tremulously at first, then with quickening confidence, her happy nature
rose like a sea-bird out of troubled waters, on the wings of a secret
hope....
* * * * *
And now he was here, under this friendly roof that sheltered her from
the tender mercies of her own kind. There were almost daily meetings,
however brief, and the after-glow of them when past; all the
well-remembered tricks of speech and manner; and the twinkle of fun in
his eyes. Lapped in an ecstasy of content, hope scarcely stirred a wing.
Enough that he was there----
Great was her joy when Mrs Leigh--after scolding him in the kindest way
over the girl mother and two more starving children, picked up
afterwards--had given her leave to take special charge of them and
lodged them with the dhobi's wife. This also brought her nearer to Roy.
And what could she ask more?
But with the approach of the Dewáli, thoughts of the future came
flocking like birds at sundown. Because, on Dewáli night, all tried
their luck in some fashion; and Mai Lakshmi's answer failed not. The men
tossed coin or dice. The maidens, at sunset, when the little wind of
evening stirred the waters, carried each her chirágh--lamp of her
life--and set it afloat on tank or stream, praying Mai Lakshmi to guide
it safe across. If the prayer was heard, omens were favourable. If the
lamp should sink, or be shattered, omens were evil. And the
centuries-old Arúna--still at the mercy of dastúr--had secretly bought
her little chirágh; secretly resolved to try her fate on the night of
nights. If the answer were unfavourable--and courage failed her--there
was always one way of escape. The water that put out her lamp would as
carelessly put out the flame of her life--in a little moment--without
pain....
A small shiver convulsed her--kneeling there in her balcony; her bare
arms resting on the balustrade. The new Arúna shrank from thought of
death. She craved the fulness of life and love--kisses and rapture and
the clinging arms of little children....
For, as she knelt in the moonlight, nominally she was invoking Mai
Lakshmi; actually she was dreaming of Roy; chiding herself for the
foolishness that had kept her from appearing at dinner; hoping he might
wonder, and perhaps think of her a little--wishing her there. And all
the while, perhaps he was simply not noticing--not caring one little
bit----!
Stung by the thought, she clenched her hands and lifted her bowed head.
Then she started--and caught her breath----
Could it be he, down there among the shadows--wandering, dreaming,
thinking of her, or making poems? She knew most of his slim volume by
heart.
More likely, he was framing bold plans to find Dyán--now the answer to
her letter had come. It was a strange unsatisfying answer; full of
affection, but too full of windy phrases that she was shrewd enough to
recognise as mere echoes from those others, who had ensnared him in a
web of words.
"Fear not for me, sister of my heart," he wrote. "Rejoice because I am
dedicated to service of the Mother, that she may be released from
political bondage and shine again in her ancient glory--no longer
exploited by foreigners, who imagine that with bricks and stones they
can lock up Veda--eternal truth! The gods have spoken. It is time. Kali
rises in the East, with her necklet of skulls--Giants of evil she has
slain. It is she who speaks through the voice of the patriot: 'Do not
wall up your vision, like frogs in a well.... Rise above the Penal Code
to the rarefied atmosphere of the Gita and consider the actions of
heroic men.'
"You ask if I still love Roy? Why not? He is of our own blood and a very
fine fellow. But I don't write now because he would not understand my
fervour of soul. So don't you take all his opinions for gospel; like my
grandfather's, they are well meant, but obsolete. If only you had
courage, Arúna-ji, to accept the enlightened husband, who might not keep
you in strict purdah, then we could work together for liberation of the
Mother. Sing _Bande Mátaram_,[11] forty thousand brothers! That is our
battle-cry. And one of those is your own fond brother--Dyán Singh."
Arúna had read and re-read that bewildering effusion till tears fell and
blotted the words. Could this be the same Dyán who had known and loved
England even as she did? His eloquence somehow failed to carry
conviction. To her, the soul of new India seemed like a book, full of
contradictions, written in many strange languages, hard to read. But
behind that tangle of words beat the heart of Dyán--the brother who was
her all.
Still no address was given. But Roy had declared the Delhi postmark
sufficient clue. Directly Dewáli was over, he would go. And, by every
right impulse, she ought to be more glad than sad. But the heart, like
the tongue, can no man tame. And sometimes his eagerness to go hurt her
a little. Was he thinking of Delhi down there--or of her----?
The shadow had turned and was moving towards her. There was a white
splash of shirt-front, the glow of a cigarette.
Suddenly his pace quickened. He had seen her. Next moment he was
standing under her balcony. His low-pitched voice came distinctly to her
ears.
"Good evening--Juliet! Quit your dreaming. Come and be sociable down
here."
Delicious tremors ran through her. Much too bold, going down in the
dark. But how to resist?
"I think--better not," she faltered, incipient surrender in her tone.
"You see--not coming down to dinner ... Mrs Leigh ..."
"Bother Mrs Leigh. I've got a ripping inspiration about Delhi---- Hurry
up. I'll be by the steps."
Then he _had_ been thinking of Delhi. But he wanted her now; and the
note of command extinguished hesitation. Slipping on a cloak, she
reached the verandah without meeting a soul. He put out a hand. Purely
on impulse she gave him her left one; and he conducted her down the
steps with mock ceremony, as if leading her out to tread a measure to
unheard strains of the viola and spinet.
Happiness ran like wine in her veins: and catching his mood she swept
him a curtsey, English fashion.
"Fit for the Queen's Drawing-room!" he applauded; and she smiled up at
him under her straight lashes. "Why didn't you appear at dinner? Is it a
whim--hiding your light under a bushel? Or do you get headaches and
heartaches working in the ward, and feel out of tune with our frivol?"
The solicitude in his tone was worth many headaches and heartaches to
hear again. But with him she could not pretend.
"No--not that!" she said, treading the grass beside him, as if it were a
moonlit cloud. "Only sometimes ... I am foolish--not inclined for so
many faces; and all the lights and the talk."
He nodded. "I know the feeling. The same strain in us, I suppose. But,
look here, about Dyán. It suddenly struck me I'd have ten times better
chance if I went as an Indian. I can talk the language to admiration.
What d'you think?"
She caught her breath. A vision of him so transformed seemed to bring
him surprisingly nearer. "How exciting! How bold!"
"Yes--but not impossible. And no end of a lark. If I could lodge with
some one who knew, I believe I could pull it through. Grandfather might
arrange that. It would give me a chance to get in among Dyán's set and
hear things. Don't breathe a word to any one. I must talk it all over
with Grandfather."
"Oh! I would love to see you turned into a Rajput," she breathed.
"You _shall_ see me. I'll come and make my salaams and ask your blessing
on my venture."
"And I will make _prasád_ for your journey!" Her unveiled eyes met his
frankly now. "A portion for Dyán too. It may speak to his heart clearer
than words."
"_Prasad_? What's that?"
"Food prepared and consecrated by touch of mother or sister or--or
nearest woman relation. And by absence of those others ... it is ... my
privilege----"
"_My_ privilege. I would not forgo it for a kingdom," Roy interposed,
such patent sincerity in the reverend quiet of his tone that she was
speechless....
For less than half an hour they strolled on that moon-enchanted lawn.
Nothing was said by either that the rest might not have heard. Yet it
was a transfigured Arúna who approached the verandah, where Thea stood
awaiting them; having come out to look for Roy and found the clue to his
prolonged meditations.
"What have you been plotting, you two?" she asked lightly when they
reached her. To Roy her eyes said: "D'you call _this_ being discreet?"
To Arúna her lips said: "Graceless one! I thought you were _purdah
nashin_ this evening!"
"So she was," Roy answered for her. "I'm the culprit. I insisted. Some
details about my Delhi trip, I wanted to talk over."
Thea wrinkled her forehead. "Roy--you mustn't. It's a crazy plan----"
"Pardon me--an inspired plan!" He drew himself up half an inch the
better to look down on her. "Nothing on earth can put me off it--except
Grandfather. And I know he'll back me up."
"In that case, I won't waste valuable verbal ammunition on you! Come
along in--We're going to have music."
But as Roy moved forward, Arúna drew back. "Please--I would rather go
to bed now. And--please, forgive, little Mother," she murmured
caressingly. For this great-hearted English woman seemed mother indeed
to her now.
For answer, Thea took her by the shoulders and kissed her on both
cheeks. "Not guilty this time, _piári_.[12] But don't do it again!"
Roy's hand closed hard on hers, but he said not a word. And she was
glad.
Alone again on her balcony, gladness rioted through all her being.
Yet--nothing had really happened. Nothing had been said.
Only--everything felt different inside. Of such are life's supreme
moments. They come without flourish of trumpets; touch the heart or the
lips with fire, and pass on....
While undressing, an impulse seized her to break her chirágh and
treasure the pieces--in memory of to-night. Why trouble Mai Lakshmi with
a question already half answered? But, lost in happy thoughts--inwoven
with delicate threads of sound from Thea's violin--she forgot all about
it, till the warmth of her cheek nestled against the cool pillow. Too
lazy and comfortable to stir, she told her foolish heart that to-morrow
morning would do quite as well.
But the light of morning dimmed, a little, her mood of exalted
assurance. Habit and superstition prevailed over that so arrogant
impulse, and the mystic chirágh of destiny was saved--for another fate.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 11: Hail, Mother.]
[Footnote 12: Darling.]