"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 Dyán 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 Dyán, when he presented Arúna's
'_prasád_,' consecrated by her touch. In silence Dyán set it on the
table; and reverently touched, with his finger-tips, first the small
parcel, then his own forehead.
"Arúna--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--Dyán 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 Dyán Singh; and the
fate of Arúna virtually hung on the issue.
Should he succeed, Chandranath would doubtless guess at his share in
Dyán'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 Dyán? And again--how much did he know of
Chandranath's designs on Arúna?
Roy decided to spring the truth on him next time--and note the effect.
Dyán 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.
Dyán, detecting him, stopped dead, with a pained, puzzled look that went
to Roy's heart. For he loved the real Dyán, 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."
Dyán 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 Arúna."
"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 Dyán 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!" Dyán 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."
Dyán faced him squarely. "You seem very intimate with our affairs. Who
told you this?"
"Arúna--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."
Dyán 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 Dyán 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."
Dyán 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.
"Dyán, tell me straight--_do_ you admire him? Would you have Arúna 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, Dyán, even with your Bande Mátaram. 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. Arúna'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.
Dyán'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, Dyán 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?"
Dyán 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 Dyán 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 Dyán. 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 Arúna 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 Dyán,
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 Arúna; 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 Dyán appeared.
On Monday morning--still no word: but news, so tremendous, flashed half
across the world, that Dyán 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 Dyán; 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 Dyán 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 Dyán.
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
Dyán'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 Dyán 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.
Dyán 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." Dyán 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?"
Dyán 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. Arúna's Dyán--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,
Dyán. I've risked something to get it."
Dyán 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; Arúna'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.
Dyán started. "But--how----! I never said...." he stammered, visibly
shaken.
"It didn't need saying. Arúna 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 Dyán, 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."
Dyán 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--Arúna?"
Dyán 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?"
Dyán 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 Dyán 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 Dyán 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?"
Dyán 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; Arúna 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 Dyán 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 Dyán along with him--unresisting, exalted, amazed----
The farewell letter was written; and Dyán'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
Dyán 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 Dyán, under his breath.
Next instant, from the alcove, a shot rang out: and it was Dyán 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." Dyán'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 Dyán. If he suspected Roy's
identity, he would suspect his influence....
He frankly spoke his thought to Dyán; 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.]