Daring, passionate words thronged his brain; and through his inner

turmoil, he heard her answer lightly: "Don't ask me! Ask the

Banter-Wrangle. She knows to an inch the degrees of flagrance officially

permitted to the attached and the unattached! You see, in India, we're

allowed ... a certain latitude."

"Yes--I've noticed. It's a pity...." Words simply would not come, on

this theme of all others. Was she indirectly ... telling him ...?

"And you disapprove--tooth and nail?" she queried gently. "I hoped you

were different. You don't know _how_ tired we are of eternal disapproval

from people who simply know nothing--nothing----"

"But I don't disapprove," he blurted out vehemently. "It always strikes

me as a rather middle-class, puritanical attitude. I only think--it's a

thousand pities to take the bloom off ... the big thing--the real thing,

by playing at it (you can see they do) like lawn tennis, just to pass

the time----"

"Well, Heaven knows, we've _got_ to pass the time out here--_some_how!"

she retorted, with a sudden warmth that startled him: it was so unlike

her. "All very fine for people at home to turn up superior noses at us;

to say we live in blinkers, that we've no intellectual pursuits, no

interest in 'this wonderful country.' I confess, to some of us, India

and its people are holy terrors. As for art and music and

theatres--where _are_ they, except what we make for ourselves, in our

indefatigable, amateurish way. Can't _you_ see--you, with your

imaginative insight--that we have virtually nothing but each other? If

we spent our days bowing and scraping and dining and dancing with due

decorum, there'd be a boom in suicides and the people in clover at Home

would placidly wonder why----?"

"But do listen. I'm not blaming--any of you," he exclaimed, distracted

by her complete misreading of his mood.

"Well, you're criticising--in your heart. And your opinion's worth

something--to some of us. Even if we _do_ occasionally--play at being in

love, there's always the offchance it may turn out to be ... the real

thing." She drew an audible breath and added, in her lighter vein: "You

know, you're a very fair hand at it yourself--in your restrained,

fakirish fashion----"

"But I don't--I'm not----" he stammered desperately. "And why d'you call

me a fakir? It's not the first time. And it's not true. I believe in

life--and the fulness of life."

"I'm glad. I'm not keen on fakirs. But I only meant--one can't picture

you playing round, the way heaps of men do with girls ... who allow them

..."

"No. That's true. I never----"

"What--never? Or is it 'hardly ever'?"

She leaned a shade nearer, her beautiful pale face etherealised by

starshine. And that infinitesimal movement, her low tone, the sheer

magnetism of her, swept him from his moorings. Words low and passionate

came all in a rush.

"What _are_, you doing with me? Why d'you tantalise me. Whether you're

there or not there, your face haunts me--your voice. It may be play for

you--it isn't for me----"

"I've never said--I've never implied--it was play ... for _me_----"

This time perceptibly she leaned nearer, mute confession in her look,

her tone; and delicate fire ran in his veins....

Next moment his arms were round her; trembling, yet vehement; crushing

her against him almost roughly. No mistaking the response of her lips;

yet she never stirred; only the fingers of her right hand closed sharply

on his arm. Having hold of her at last, after all that inner tumult and

resistance, he could hardly let her go. Yet--strangely--even in the

white heat of fervour, some detached fragment, at the core of him,

seemed to be hating the whole thing, hating himself--and her----

Instantly he released her ... looked at her ... realised.... In those

few tempestuous moments he had burnt his boats indeed ...

She met his eyes now, found them too eloquent, and veiled her own.

"No. You are not altogether--a fakir," she said softly.

"I'd no business. I'm sorry ..." he began, answering his own swift

compunction, not her remark.

"_I'm_ not--unless you really mean--_you_ are?" Faint raillery gleamed

in her eyes. "You did rather overwhelmingly take things for granted.

But still ... after that...."

"Yes--after that ... if _you_ really mean it?"

"Well ... what do you think?"

"I simply _can't_ think," he confessed, with transparent honesty. "I

hardly know if I'm on my head or my heels. I only know you've bewitched

me. I'm infatuated--intoxicated with you. But ... if you _do_ care

enough ... to marry me----"

"My dear--Roy--can you doubt it?"

He had never heard her voice so charged with emotion. For all answer, he

held her close--with less assurance now--and kissed her again....

* * * * *

In course of time they remembered that a pause only lasts five minutes;

that there were other partners.

"If we're not to be too flagrant, even for India," she said, rising with

unperturbed deliberation, "I suggest we go in. Goodness knows where

they've got to by now!"

He stood up also. "It matters a good deal more ... where _we_'ve got to.

I'll come over to-morrow and see ... your people...."

"No. You'll come over--and see me! We'll descend from the dream ... to

the business; and have everything clear to our own satisfaction before

we let in all the others. I always vowed I wouldn't accept a proposal

after supper! If you're ... intoxicated, you might wake

sober--disillusioned!"

"But I--I've kissed you," he stammered, suddenly overcome with shyness.

"So you have--a few times! I'm afraid we didn't keep count! I'm not

really doubting either of us--Roy. But still.... Shall we say tea and a

ride?"

He hesitated. "Sorry--I'm booked. I promised Lance----"

"Very well--dinner? Mother has some bridge people. Only one table. We

can escape into the garden. Now--come along."

He drew a deep breath. More and more the detached part of him was

realising....

They walked back rather briskly, not speaking; nor did he touch her

again.

They found Lahore still dancing, sublimely unconcerned. Instinctively,

Roy looked round for Lance. No sign of him in the ballroom or the

card-room. And the crowded place seemed empty without him. It was queer.

Later on, he ran up against Barnard, who told him that Lance had gone

home.

CHAPTER VII

"Of the unspoken word thou art master. The spoken word is master of

thee."--_Arab Proverb_.

Roy drove home with Barnard in the small hours, still too overwrought

for clear thinking, and too exhausted all through to lie awake for five

minutes after his head touched the pillow. For the inner stress and

combat had been sharper than he knew.

He woke late to find Terry curled up against his legs, and the bungalow

empty of human sounds. The other three were up long since, and gone to

early parade. His head was throbbing. He felt limp, as if all the vigour

had been drained out of him. And suddenly ... he remembered....

Not in a lover's rush of exaltation, but with a sharp reaction almost

amounting to fear, the truth dawned on him that he was no longer his own

man. In a passionate impulse, he had virtually surrendered himself and

his future into the hands of a girl whom he scarcely knew. He still saw

the whole thing as mainly her doing--and it frightened him. Looking

backward over the past weeks, reviewing the steps by which he had

arrived at last night's involuntary culmination, he felt more frightened

than ever.

And yet--there sprang a vision of her, pale and gracious in the

starshine, when she leaned to him at parting....

She was wonderful and beautiful--and she was his. Any man worth his salt

would feel proud. And he did feel proud--in the intervals of feeling

horribly afraid of himself and her. Especially her. Girls were amazing

things. You seized hold of one and spoke mad words, and nearly crushed

the life out of her, and she took it almost as calmly as if you had

asked for an extra dance. Was it a protective layer of insensibility--or

super-normal self-control? Would she, Rose, have despised him had she

guessed that even at the height of his exultation he had felt ashamed of

having let himself go so completely; and that before there had been any

word of marriage--any clear desire of it even in the deep of his heart?

That was really the root of his trouble. The passing recoil from an

ardent avowal is no uncommon experience with the finer types of men.

But, to Roy, it seemed peculiarly unfitting that the son of his mother

should, as it were, stumble into marriage in a headlong impulse of

passion, on a superficial six weeks' acquaintance; and the shy,

spiritual side of him felt alarmed, restive, even a little repelled.

In a measure, Rose was right when she dubbed him fakir. Artist though he

was, and all too human, there lurked in him a nascent streak of the

ascetic, accentuated by his mother's bidding, and his own strong desire

to keep in touch with her and with things not seen.

And there, on his writing-table, stood her picture mutely reproaching

him. With a pang he realised how completely she had been crowded out of

his thoughts during those weeks of ferment. What would she think of it

all? The question--what would Rose think of her simply did not arise.

She was still supreme, she who had once said, "So long as you are

thinking first of me, you may be sure That Other has not yet arrived".

Was Rose Arden--for all her beauty and witchery--genuinely That Other?

Beguiled by her visible perfections, he had taken her spiritually for

granted. And he knew well enough that it is not through the senses a man

first approaches love--if he is capable of that high and complex

emotion; but rather through imagination and admiration, sympathy and

humour. As it was, he had not a glimmering idea how she would consort

with his very individual inner self. Yet matters were virtually

settled....

And suddenly, like a javelin, one word pierced his brain--Lance!

Whatever there was between them, he felt sure his news would not please

Lance, to say the least of it. And, as for their Kashmir plan...?

Why the devil was life such a confoundedly complex affair? By rights, he

ought to be 'all over himself', having won such a wife. Was it something

wrong with him? Or did all accepted lovers feel like this--the morning

after? A greater number, perhaps, than poets or novelists or lovers

themselves are ever likely to admit. Very certainly he would not admit

his present sensations to any living soul.

Springing out of bed, he shouted for _chota hazri_[28] and shaving

water; drank thirstily; ate hungrily; and had just cleared his face of

lather when Lance came in, booted and spurred, bringing with him his

magnetic atmosphere of vitality and vigour.

Standing behind Roy, he ran his left hand lightly up the back of his

hair, gripped the extra thickness at the top, and gave it a distinct

tug; friendly, but sharp enough to make Roy wince.

"Slacker! Waster! You ought to have been out riding off the effects. You

were jolly well going it last night. And you jolly well _look_ it this

morning. Good thing I'm free on the fifteenth to haul you away from all

this".

Perhaps because they had first met at an age when eighteen months seemed

an immense gap between them, Lance had never quite dropped the

elder-brotherly attitude of St Rupert days.

"Yes--a rare good thing----" Roy echoed, and stopped with a visible

jerk.

"Well, what's the hitch? Hit out, man. Don't mind me."

There was a flash of impatience, an undernote of foreknowledge, in his

tone, that made confession at once easier and harder for Roy.

"I suppose it was--pretty glaring", he admitted, twitching his head away

from those strong friendly fingers. "The fact is--we're ... as good as

engaged----"

Again he broke off, arrested by the mask-like stillness of Desmond's

face.

"Congrats, old man", he said at last, in a level tone. "I got the

impression ... a few weeks ago, you were not ready for the plunge. But

you've done it--in record time." A pause. Roy sat there

tongue-tied--unreasonably angry with himself and Rose. "Why 'as good

as...?' Is it to be ... not official?"

"Only till to-morrow. You see, it all came ... rather in a rush. She

thought ... we thought ... better talk things over first between

ourselves. After all...."

"Yes--after all," Lance took him up. "You do know a precious lot about

each other! How much ... does _she_ know ... about _you_?"

"Oh, my dancing and riding, my temperament and the colour of my

eyes--four very important items!" said Roy, affecting a lightness he was

far from feeling.

Lance ignored his untimely flippancy. "Have you ever ... happened to

mention ... your mother?"

"Not yet. Why----?" The question startled him.

"It occurred to me. I merely wondered----"

"Well, of course, I shall--to-night."

Lance nodded, pensively fingered his riding-crop, and remarked, "D'you

imagine now she's going to let you bury yourself up Gilgit way--with me?

Besides--you'll hardly care ... shall we call it 'off'?"

"Well you _are_----! Of course I'll care. I'm damned if we call it

'off.'"

At that the mask vanished from Desmond's face. His hand closed

vigorously on Roy's shoulder. "Good man," he said in his normal voice.

"I'll count on you. That's a bargain." Their eyes met in the glass, and

a look of understanding passed between them. "Feeling a bit above

yourself, are you?"

Roy drew a great breath. "It's amazing. I don't yet seem to take it in."

"Oh--you _will_." The hand closed again on his shoulder. "Now I'll clear

out. Time you were clothed and in your right mind."

And they had not so much as mentioned her name!

* * * * *

But even when clothed, Roy did not feel altogether in his right mind. He

was downright thankful to be helping Lance with some sports for the men,

designed to counteract the infectious state of ferment prevailing in the

city, on account of to-morrow's deferred _hartal_. For the voice of

Mahatma Ghandi--saint, fanatic, revolutionary, which you will--had gone

forth, proclaiming the sixth of April a day of universal mourning and

non-co-operation, by way of protest against the Rowlatt Act. For that

sane measure--framed to safeguard India from her wilder elements--had

been twisted, by skilled weavers of words, into a plot against the

liberty of the individual. And Ghandi must be obeyed.

Flamboyant posters in the city bewailed 'the mountain of calamity about

to fall on the Motherland', and consigned their souls to hell who

failed, that day, to close their business and keep a fast. To spiritual

threats were added terrorism and coercion, that paralysis of the city

might be complete.

It was understood that, so long there was no disorder, the authorities

would make no move. But, by Saturday, all emergency plans were complete:

the Fort garrison strengthened; cavalry and armoured cars told off to be

available.

Roy had no notion of being a mere onlooker, if things happened; and he

felt sure they would. Directly he was dressed he waited on the Colonel,

and had the honour to offer his services in case of need;

further--unofficially--to beg that he might be attached, as extra

officer, to Lance's squadron. The Colonel--also unofficially--expressed

his keen appreciation; and Roy might rest assured the matter would be

arranged.

So he went off in high feather to report himself to Lance, and discuss

the afternoon's programme.

Lance was full of a thorough good fellow he had stumbled on, a Sikh--and

a sometime revolutionary--whose eyes had been opened by three years'

polite detention in Germany. The man had been speaking all over the

place, showing up the Home Rule crowd, with a courage none too common in

these days of intimidation. After the sports, he would address the men;

talk to them, encourage them to ask questions.

It occurred to Roy that he had heard something of the sort in a former

life; and--arrived on the ground--he recognised the very same man who

had been howled down at Delhi.

He greeted him warmly; spoke of the meeting; listened with unmoved

countenance to lurid speculations about the disappearance of

Chandranath; spoke, himself, to the men, who gave him an ovation; and,

by the time it was over, had almost forgotten the astounding fact that

he was virtually engaged to be married....

* * * * *

Driving out five miles to Lahore, he had leisure to remember, to realise

how innately he shrank from speaking to Rose of his mother. Though in

effect his promised wife, she was still almost a stranger; and the

sacredness of the subject--the uncertainty of her attitude--intensified

his shrinking to a painful degree.

She had asked him to come early, that they might have a few minutes to

themselves; and for once he was not unpunctual. He found her alone; and,

at first sight, painful shyness overwhelmed him.

She was wearing the cream-and-gold frock of the evening that had turned

the scale; and she came forward a trifle eagerly, holding out her hands.

"Wonderful! It's not a dream?"

He took her hands and kissed her, almost awkwardly. "It still feels

rather like a dream," was all he could find to say--and fancied he

caught a flicker of amusement in her eyes. Was she thinking him an odd

kind of lover? Even last night, he had not achieved a single term of

endearment, or spoken her name.

With a graceful gesture, she indicated the sofa--and they sat down.

"Well, what have you been doing with yourself--Roy?" she asked, palpably

to put him at ease. "It's a delightful name--Royal?"

"No--Le Roy. Some Norman ancestor."

"The King!" She saluted, sitting upright, laughter and tenderness in

her eyes.

At that, he slipped an arm round her, and pressed her close. Then he

plunged into fluent talk about the afternoon's events, and his accepted

offer of service, till Mrs Elton, resplendent in flame-coloured brocade,

surged into the room.

It was a purely civil dinner; not Hayes, to Roy's relief. Directly it

was over the bridge players disappeared; Mr Elton was called away--an

Indian gentleman to see him on urgent business; and they two, left alone

again, wandered out into the verandah.

By now, her beauty and his possessive instinct had more or less righted

things; and her nearness, in the rose-scented dark, rekindled his

fervour of last night.

Without a word he turned and took her in his arms, kissing her again and

again. "'Rose of all roses! Rose of all the world!'" he said in her ear.

Whereat, she kissed him of her own accord, at the same time lightly

pressing him back.

"Have mercy--a little! If you crush roses too hard their petals drop

off!"

"Darling--I'm sorry!" The great word was out at last; and he felt

quaintly relieved.

"You needn't be! It's only--you're such a vehement lover. And vehemence

is said--not to last!"

The words startled him. "You try me."

"How? An extra long engagement?"

"N-no. I wasn't thinking of that."

"Well, we've got to think, haven't we? To talk practical politics!"

"Rather not. I bar politics--practical or Utopian."

She laughed. There was happiness in her laugh, and tenderness and an

undernote of triumph.

"You're delicious! So ardent, yet so absurdly detached from the dull

plodding things that make up common life. Come--let's stroll. The

verandah breathes heat like a benevolent dragon!"

They strolled in the cool darkness under drooping boughs, through which

a star flickered here and there. He refrained from putting an arm round

her, and was rewarded by her slipping a hand under his elbow.

"Shall it be--a Simla wedding?" she asked in her caressing voice. "About

the middle of the season? June?"

"June? Yes. When I get back from Gilgit?"

"But--my dear! You're not going to disappear for two whole months?"

"I'm afraid so. I'm awfully sorry. But I can't go back on Lance."

"Oh--Lance!"

He heard her teeth click on the word. Perhaps she had merely echoed it.

"Yes; a very old engagement. And--frankly--I'm keen."

"Oh--very well". Her hand slipped from his arm. "And when you've

fulfilled your _prior_ engagement, you can perhaps find time--to marry

me?"

"Darling--don't take it that way," he pleaded.

"Well, I _did_ suppose I was going to be a shade more important to you

than--your Lance. But we won't spoil things by squabbling."

Impulsively he drew her forward and kissed her; and this time he kept an

arm round her as they moved on. He must speak--soon. But he wanted a

natural opening, not to drag it in by the hair.

"And after the honeymoon--Home?" she asked, following up her

all-absorbing train of thought.

"Yes--I think so. It's about time."

She let out a small sigh of satisfaction. "I'm glad it's not India. And

yet--the life out here gets a hold, like dram-drinking. One feels as if

perpetual, unadulterated England might be just a trifle--dull. But, of

course, I know nothing about your home, Roy, except a vague rumour that

your father is a Baronet with a lovely place in Sussex."

"No--Surrey," said Roy, and his throat contracted. Clearly the moment

had come. "My father's not only a Baronet. He's a rather famous

artist--Sir Nevil Sinclair. Perhaps you've heard the name?"

She wrinkled her brows. "N-no.--You see, we do live in blinkers! What's

his line?"

"Mostly Indian subjects----"

"Oh, the Ramayána man? I remember--I _did_ see a lovely thing of his

before I came out here. But then----?" She stood still and drew away

from him. "One heard he had married...."

"Yes. He married a beautiful high-caste Indian girl," said Roy, low and

steadily. "My mother----"

"Your--_mother_----?"

He could scarcely see her face; but he felt all through him the shock of

the disclosure; realised, with a sudden furious resentment, that she was

seeing his adored mother simply as a stumbling-block....

It was as if a chasm had opened between them--a chasm as wide as the

East is from the West.

Those few seconds of eloquent silence seemed interminable. It was she

who spoke.

"Didn't it strike you that I had--the right to know this ... before...?"

The implied reproach smote him sharply; but how could he confess to

her--standing there in her queenly assurance--the impromptu nature of

last night's proceedings?

"Well I--I'm telling you now," he stammered. "Last night I

simply--didn't think. And before ... the fact is ... I _can't_ talk of

her, except to those who knew her ... who understand...."

"You mean--is she--not alive?"

"No. The War killed her--instead of killing _me_."

Her hand closed on his with a mute assurance of sympathy. If they could

only leave it so! But--her people...?

"You must try and talk of her--to me, Roy," she urged, gently but

inexorably. "Was it--out here?"

"No. In France. They came out for a visit, when I was six. I've known

nothing of India till now--except through her."

"But--since you came out ... hasn't it struck you that ... Anglo-Indians

feel rather strongly...?"

"I don't know--and I didn't care a rap what they felt," he flung out

with sudden warmth. "Now, of course--I do care. But ... to suppose _she_

could ... stand in my way, seems an insult to her. If _you_'re one of

the people who feel strongly, of course ... there's an end of it. You're

free."

"_Free?_ Roy--don't you realise ... I care. You've made me care."

"I--made you?"

"Yes; simply by being what you are--so gifted, so detached ... so

different from the others ... the service pattern...."

"Oh yes--in a way ... I'm different."--Strange, how little it moved him,

just then, her frank avowal, her praise.--"And now you know--why. I'm

sorry if it upsets you. But I can't have ... that side of me accepted

... on sufferance----"

To his greater amazement, she leaned forward and kissed him,

deliberately, on the mouth.

"Will _that_ stop you--saying such things?" There was repressed passion

in her low tone, "I'm not accepting ... any of you on sufferance. And,

really, you're not a bit like ... not the same...."

"_No!_" She smiled at the fierce monosyllable. "All that lot--the poor

devils you despise--are mostly made from the wrong sort of both

races--in point of breeding, I mean. And that's a supreme point, in

spite of the twaddle that's talked about equality. Women of good family,

East or West, don't intermarry much. And quite right too. I'm proud of

my share of India. But I think, on principle, it's a great mistake...."

"Yes--yes. That's how _I_ feel. I'm not rabid. It's not my way. But ...

I suppose you know, Roy, that ... on this subject, many Anglo-Indians

are."

"You mean--your people?"

"Well--I don't know about Pater. He's built on large lines, outside and

in. But mother's only large to the naked eye; and she's Anglo-Indian to

the bone."

"You think ... she'll raise objections?"

"She won't get the chance. It's my affair--not hers. There'd be

arguments, at the very least. She tramples tactlessly. And it's plain

you're abnormally sensitive; and rather fierce under your

gentleness----!"

"But, Rose--I must speak. I refuse to treat--my mother as if she was--a

family skeleton----"

"No--not that," she soothed him with voice and gesture. "Of course they

shall know--later on. It's only ... I couldn't bear any jar at the

start. You might, Roy--out of consideration for me. It would be quite

simple. You need only say, just now, that your father is a widower. It

isn't as if--she was alive----"

The words staggered him like a blow. With an incoherent exclamation, he

swung round and walked quickly away from her towards the house, his

blood tingling in a manner altogether different from last night. Had she

not been a woman, he could have knocked her down.

Dismayed and startled, she hurried after him. "Roy, my dear--dearest,"

she called softly. But he did not heed.

She overtook him, however, and caught his arm with both hands, forcing

him to stop.

"Darling--forgive me," she murmured, her face appealingly close to his.

"I didn't mean--I was only trying to ease things for you, a little--you

quiver-full of sensibilities."

He had been a fakir, past saving, could he have withstood her in that

vein. Her nearness, her tenderness, revived the mood of sheer

bewitchment, when he could think of nothing, desire nothing but her. She

had a genius for inducing that mood in men; and Roy's virginal passion,

once roused, was stronger than he knew. With his arms round her, his

heart against hers, it was humanly impossible to wish her other than she

was--other than his own.

Words failed. He simply clung to her, in a kind of dumb desperation to

which she had not the key.

"To-morrow," he said at last, "I'll tell you more--show you her

picture."

And, unlike Arúna, she had no inkling of all that those few words

implied.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: Early tea.]

CHAPTER VIII.

"The patience of the British is as long as a summer's day; but the

arm of the British is as long as a winter's night."--_Pathan

Saying._

They parted on the understanding that Roy would come in to tiffin on

Sunday. Instead, to his shameless relief, he found the squadron detailed

to bivouac all day in the Gol Bagh, and be available at short notice.

It gave him a curious thrill to open his camphor-drenched uniform

case--left behind with Lance--and unearth the familiar khaki of Kohat

and Mespot days; to ride out with his men in the cool of early morning

to the gardens at the far end of Lahore. The familiar words of commands,

the rhythmic clatter of hoofs, were music in his ears. A thousand pities

he was not free to join the Indian Army. But, in any case, there was

Rose. There would always be Rose now. And he had an inkling that their

angle of vision was by no means identical....

The voice of Lance, shouting an order, dispelled his brown study; and

Rose--beautiful, desirable, but profoundly disturbing--did not intrude

again.

Arrived in the gardens, they picketed the horses, and disposed

themselves under the trees to await events. The heat increased and the

flies, and the eternal clamour of crows; and it was nearing noon before

their ears caught a far-off sound--an unmistakable hum rising to a roar.

"Thought so," said Lance, and flung a word of command to his men.

A clatter of hoofs heralded arrivals--Elton and the Superintendent of

Police with orders for an immediate advance. A huge mob, headed by

students, was pouring along the Circular Road. The police were powerless

to hold them; and at all costs they must be prevented from debouching

on to the Mall. It was brisk work; but the squadron reached the critical

corner just in time.

A sight to catch the breath and quicken the pulses--that surging sea of

black heads, uncovered in token of mourning; that forest of arms beating

the air to a deafening chorus of orthodox lamentation; while a portrait

of Ghandi, on a black banner, swayed uncertainly in the midst.

A handful of police, shouting and struggling with the foremost ranks,

were being swept resistlessly back towards the Mall--the main artery of

Lahore; and a British police officer on horseback was sharing the same

fate. Clearly nothing would check them save that formidable barrier of

cavalry and armoured cars.

At sight of it they halted; but disperse and return they would not. They

haggled; they imposed impossible conditions; they drowned official

parleyings in shouts and yells.

For close on two hours, in the blazing sun, Lance Desmond and his men

sat patiently in their saddles--machine-guns ready in the cars behind

them--while the Civil Arm, derided and defied, peacefully persuaded

those passively resisting thousands that the Mall was not deemed a

suitable promenade for Lahore citizens in a highly processional mood.

For two hours the human tide swayed to and fro; the clamour rose and

fell; till a local leader, after much vain speaking, begged the loan of

a horse, and headed them off to a mass meeting at the Bradlaugh Hall.

The cavalry, dismissed, trotted back to the gardens, to remain at hand

in case of need.

What the Indian officers and men thought of it all, who shall guess?

What Lance Desmond thought, he frankly imparted to Roy.

"A fine exhibition of the masterly inactivity touch!" said he, with a

twitch of his humorous lips. "But not exactly an edifying show for our

men. Wonder what my old Dad would think of it all? You bet there'll be a

holy rumpus in the city to-night."

"And then----?" mused Roy, his imagination leaping ahead. "This isn't

the last of it."

"The last of it--will be bullets, not buckshot," said Lance in his

soldierly wisdom. "It's the only argument for crowds. The soft-sawder

lot may howl 'militarism.' But they're jolly grateful for a dash of it

when their skins are touched. It takes a soldier of the right sort to

know just when a dash of cruelty is kindness--and the reverse--in

dealing with backward peoples; and crowds, of any colour, are the

backwardest peoples going! It would be just as well to get the women

safely off the scene."

He looked very straight at Roy, whose sensitive soul winced, at the

impact of his thought. Since their brief talk, the fact of the

engagement had been tacitly accepted--tacitly ignored. Lance had a

positive genius for that sort of thing; and in this case it was a

godsend to Roy.

"Quite so," he agreed, returning the look.

"Well--you're in a position to suggest it."

"I'm not sure if it would be exactly appreciated. But I'll have a shot

at it to-morrow."

* * * * *

The city, that night, duly enjoyed its 'holy rumpus.' But on Monday

morning shops were open again; everything as normal as you please; and

the cheerful prophets congratulated themselves that the explosion had

proved a damp squib after all.

Foremost among these was Mr Talbot Hayes, whose ineffable air of being

in the confidence of the Almighty--not to mention the whole Hindu

Pantheon--was balm to Mrs Elton at this terrifying juncture. For her

mountain of flesh hid a mouse of a soul, and her childhood had been

shadowed by tales of Mutiny horrors. With her it was almost an

obsession. The least unusual uproar at a railway station, or holiday

excitement in the bazaar, sufficed to convince her that the hour had

struck for which, subconsciously, she had been waiting all her life.

So, throughout Sunday morning, she had been a quivering jelly of fear;

positively annoyed with Rose for her serene assurance that 'the Pater

would pull it off all right.' She had never quite fathomed her

daughter's faith in the shy, undistinguished man for whom she cherished

an affection secretly tinged with contempt. In this case it was

justified. He had returned to tiffin quite unruffled; had vouchsafed no

details; simply assured her she need not worry. Thank God, they had a

strong L.G. That was all.

But authority, in the person of Talbot Hayes, was more communicative--in

a flatteringly confidential undertone. A long talk with him had cheered

her considerably; and on Monday she was still further cheered by a piece

of news her daughter casually let fall at breakfast, between the poached

eggs and the marmalade.

Rose--at last! And even Gladys' achievement thrown into the shade! Here

was compensation for all she had suffered from the girl's distracting

habit of going just so far with the wrong man as to give her

palpitations. She had felt downright nervous about Major Desmond. For

Rose never gave one her confidence. And she had suffered qualms about

this new unknown young man. But what matter now? To your right-minded

mother, all's well that ends in the Wedding March--and Debrett! Most

satisfactory to find that the father _was_ a Baronet; and Mr Sinclair

_was_ the eldest son! Could anything be more gratifying to her maternal

pride in this beautiful, difficult daughter of hers?

Consequently, when the eldest son came in to report himself, all that

inner complacency welled up and flowed over him in a volume of maternal

effusion, trying enough in any case; and to Roy intolerable, almost, in

view of that enforced reservation that might altogether change her tone.

After nearly an hour of it, he felt so battered internally that he

reached the haven of his own room feeling thoroughly out of tune with

the whole affair. Yet--there it was. And no man could lightly break with

a girl of that quality. Besides, his feeling for her--infatuation

apart--had received a distinct stimulus from their talk about his mother

and the impression made on her by the photograph he had brought with

him, as promised. And if Mrs Elton was a Brobdingnagian thorn on the

stem of his Rose, the D.C.'s patent pleasure and affectionate allusions

to the girl atoned for a good deal.

So, instead of executing a 'wobble' of the first magnitude, he proceeded

to clinch matters by writing first to his father, then to a Calcutta

firm of jewellers for a selection of rings.

But he wavered badly over facing the ordeal of wholesale

congratulations--the chaff of the men, the reiterate inanities of the

women.

On Tuesday, Rose warned him that her mother was dying to give a dinner,

to invite certain rival mothers, and announce her news with due éclat.

"Hand us round, in fact," she added serenely, "with the chocs and Elvas

plums!--No! Don't flare up!" Her fingers caressed the back of his hand.

"In mercy to you, I diplomatically sat down upon the idea, and remained

seated till it was extinct. So you're saved--by your affianced wife,

whom you don't seem in a frantic hurry to acknowledge...!"

He caught her to him, and kissed her passionately. "You _know_ it's not

that----"

"Yes, _I_ know ... you're just terror-struck of all those women. But if

you will do these things, you must stand up to the consequences--like a

man."

He jerked up his head. "No fear. We'll say to-morrow, or Thursday."

"I'll be merciful, and say Thursday. It's to be announced this

afternoon. Have you mentioned it--to any one?"

"Only to Lance."

A small sound between her teeth made him turn quickly.

"Anything hurt you?"

"You've quick ears! Only a pin-prick." She explored her blouse for the

offending pin. "Do you tell each other everything--you two?"

"Pretty well--as men go."

"You're a wonderful pair."

She sighed and was silent a moment. Then, "Shall it be a ride on

Thursday?" she asked, giving his arm a small squeeze.

"Rather. There are Brigade Sports; but I could cry off. We'll take our

tea out to Shadera, have a peaceful time there, and finish up at the

Hall."

So it was arranged, and so it befell, though not exactly according to

design.

* * * * *

On Thursday they rode leisurely out through the heat and dusty haze,

away from bungalows and the watered Mall, through a village alive with

shrill women, naked babies, and officious pariahs, who kept Terry

furiously occupied: on past the city, over the bridge of boats that

spans the Ravi, till they came to the green secluded garden where the

Emperor Jehangir sleeps, heedless of infidels who, generation after

generation, have picnicked and made love in the sacred precincts of his

tomb.

Arrived at the gardens, they tethered the horses, drank thermos tea and

ate sugared cakes, sitting on the wide wall that looked across the river

and the plain to the dim huddled city beyond. And Roy talked of

Bramleigh Beeches in April, till he felt home-sick for primroses and the

cuckoo and the smell of mown grass; while, before his actual eyes, the

terrible sun of India hung suspended in the haze, like a platter of

molten brass, till the turning earth, settling to sleep, shouldered it

almost out of sight.

That brought them back to realities.

"We must scoot," said Roy. "It'll be dark, and there's only a slip of a

moon."

"It's been delicious!" she sighed; and they kissed mutually--a lingering

kiss.

Then they were off, racing the swift-footed dusk....

Skirting the city, they noticed scurrying groups of figures, shouting to

each other as they ran; and the next instant, Roy's ear caught the

ominous hum of Sunday morning.

"Good God! They're out again. Hi--You! What's the _tamasha_?" he called

to the nearest group.

They responded with wild gestures, and fled on. But one lagged a little,

being fat and scant of breath; and Roy shouted again. This time the note

of command took effect.

"Where are you all running? Is there trouble?" he asked.

"Big trouble, Sahib--Amritsar," answered the fleshly one, wiping the

dusty sweat from his forehead, and shaking it unceremoniously from his

finger-tips. "Word comes that our leaders are taken. Mahatma Ghandi,

also. The people are burning and looting; Bank-_ghar_,[29] Town

Hall-_ghar_; killing many Sahibs and one Mem-sahib. _Hai! hai_! Now

there will be _hartal_ again; Committee _ki ráj_. No food; no work.

_Hai! hai!_[30] Ghandi _ki jai_!"

"Confound the man!" muttered Roy, not referring to the woebegone one.

"Look here, Rose, if they're wedged up near Anarkali, we must change our

route. I expect the squadron's out; and I ought to be with it----"

"Thank God, you're _not_. It's quite bad enough----" She set her teeth.

"Oh, _come_ on."

Back they sped, at a hand-gallop, past the Fort and the Badshahi Mosque;

then, neck and neck down the long straight road, that vibrant roar

growing louder with every stride.

Near the Church they slackened speed. The noise had become terrific,

like a hundred electric engines; and there was more than excitement in

it--there was fury.

"Sunday was a treat to this," remarked Roy. "We shan't get on to the

Mall."

"We can go through Mozung," said Rose coolly. "But I want to _see_--as

far as one can. The Pater's bound to be there."

Roy, while admiring her coolness, detected beneath it a repressed

intensity, very unlike her. But his own urgent sensations left no room

for curiosity; and round the next swerve they drew rein in full view of

a sight that neither would forget while they lived.

The wide road, stretching away to the Lahori gate, was thronged with a

shouting, gesticulating human barrier; bobbing heads and lifted arms,

hurling any missile that came to hand--stones, bricks, lumps of

refuse--at the courageous few who held them in check.

Cavalry and police, as on Sunday, blocked the turning into the Mall; and

Roy instantly recognised the silhouette of Lance, sitting erect and

rigid, doubtless thinking unutterable things.

Low roofs of buildings, near the road, were alive with shadowy figures,

running, yelling, hurling bricks and mud from a half-demolished shop

near by. Two mounted police officers made abortive attempts to get a

hearing; and a solitary Indian, perched on an electric standard, well

above the congested mass, vainly harangued and fluttered a white scarf

as signal of pacific intentions. Doubtless one of their 'leaders,' again

making frantic, belated efforts to stem the torrent that he and his kind

had let loose.

And the nightmare effect of the scene was intensified by the oncoming

dusk, by the flare of a single torch hoisted on a pole. It waved

purposefully; and its objective was clear to Roy--the electric supply

wires.

"That brute there's trying to cut off the light!" he exclaimed, turning

sharply in the saddle, only to find that Rose had not even heard him.

She sat stone-still, her face set and strained, as he had seen it after

the tournament. "_There_ he is," she murmured--the words a mere movement

of her lips.

He hated to see her look like that; and putting out a hand, he touched

her arm.

"I don't see him," he said, answering her murmur. "He'll be coming,

though. Not nervous, are you?"

She started at his touch--shrank from it almost; or so he fancied.

"Nervous? No--furious!" Her low tone was as tense as her whole attitude.

"Mud and stones! Good heavens! Why don't they _shoot_?"

"They will--at a pinch," Roy assured her, feeling oddly rebuffed, and as

if he were addressing a stranger. "Stay here. Don't stir. I'll glean a

few details from one of our outlying sowars."

The nearest man available happened to be a Pathan. Recognising Roy, he

saluted, a fighting gleam in his eyes.

"_Wah, wah!_ Sahib! This is not man's work, to sit staring while these

throw words to a pack of mad jackals. On the Border we say, _páili láth;

pechi bhát_.[31] That would soon make an end of this devil's noise."

"True talk," said Roy, secretly approving the man's rough wisdom. "How

long has it been going on?"

"We came late, Sahib, because of the sports; but these have been nearly

one hour. Once the police-_lóg_ gave buckshot to those on the roofs. How

much use--the Sahib can see. Now they have sent a sowar for the Dep'ty

Sahib. But these would not hear the Lát Sahib himself. One match will

light such a bonfire; but a hundred buckets will not put it out."

Roy assented, ruefully enough. "Is it true there has been big trouble at

Amritsar--burning and killing?"

"_Wah, wah! Shurrum ki bhát._[32] Because he who made all the trouble

may not come into the Punjab, Sahibs who have no concern--are

killed----"

An intensified uproar drew their eyes back to the mob.

It was swaying ominously forward, with yellings and prancings, with

renewed showers of bricks and stones.

"Thus they welcome the Dep'ty Sahib," remarked Sher Khan with grim

irony.

It was true. No mistaking the bulky figure on horseback, alone in the

forefront of the throng, trying vainly to make himself heard. Still he

pressed forward, urging, commanding; missiles hurtling round him.

Luckily the aim was poor; and only one took effect.

A voice shouted, "You had better come back, sir."

He halted. There was a fierce forward rush. Large groups of people sat

down in flat defiance.

Again Rose broke out with her repressed intensity, "It's madness! Why on

_earth_ don't they shoot?"

"The notion is--to give the beggars every chance," urged Roy. "After

all, they've been artificially worked up. It's the men behind--pulling

the strings--who are to blame----"

"I don't care _who's_ to blame. They're as dangerous as wild beasts."

She did not even look at him. Her eyes, her mind were centred on that

weird, unforgettable scene. "And _our_ people simply sitting there being

pelted with bricks and stones ... the Pater ... Lance...."

She drew in her lip. Roy gave her a quick look. That was the second

time; and she did not even seem aware of it.

"Yes. It's a detestable position, but it's not of their making," he

agreed; adding briskly: "Come along, now, Rose. It's getting dark; and I

ought to be in Cantonments. There'll be pickets all over the

place--after this. I'll see you safe to the Hall, then gallop on."

Her lips twitched in a half-smile. "Shirking congrats again?"

"Oh, drop it! I'd clean forgotten. I'll conduct you _right in_--and

chance congrats. But they'll be too full of other things to-night.

Scared to death, some of them."

"Mother, for one. I never thought of her. We must hurry."

For new-made lovers, their tone and bearing was oddly detached, almost

brusque. They had gone some distance before they heard shots behind

them.

"Thank goodness! At last! I hope it hurt some of them badly," Rose broke

out with unusual warmth. She was rather unusual altogether this evening.

"Really, it would serve them right--as Mr Hayes says--if we _did_ clear

out, lock, stock, and barrel, and leave their precious country to be

scrambled for by others of a very different _ját_[33] from the stupid,

splendid British. I'm glad _I'm_ going, anyway. I've never felt in

sympathy. And now, after all this ... and Amritsar ... I simply

couldn't...."

She broke off in mid-career, flicked her pony's flanks, and set off at a

brisk canter.

Pause and action could have but one meaning. "She's realising," thought

Roy, cantering after, pain and anger mingled in his heart. At such a

moment, he admitted, her outburst was not unnatural. But to him it was,

none the less, intolerable. The trouble was, he could say nothing, lest

he say too much.

At the Lawrence Hall they found half a company of British soldiers on

guard,--producing, by their mere presence, that sense of security which

radiates from the policeman and the soldier when the solid ground fails

underfoot.

Within doors, the atmosphere was electrical with excitement and

uncertainty. Orders had been received that, in case of matters taking a

serious turn, the hundred or so of English women and children gathered

at the Club would be removed under escort to Government House. No one

was dancing. Every one was talking. The wildest rumours were current.

At a crisis the curtains of convention are rent and the inner self peers

through, sometimes revealing the face of a stranger. While the imposing

Mrs Elton quivered inwardly, Mrs Ranyard--for all her 'creeps' and her

fluffiness--knew no flicker of fear. In any case, there were few who

would confess to it, though it gnawed at their vitals; and Roy's quick

eye noted that, among the women, as a whole, the light-hearted courage

of Anglo-India prevailed. It gave him a sharp inner tweak to look at

them all and remember that nightmare of seething, yelling rebels at

Anarkalli. He wished to God Rose had not seen it too. It was the kind of

thing that would stick in the memory.

On their appearance in the Hall, Mrs Elton deserted a voluble group and

bore down upon them, flustered and perspiring.

"My darling girl--thank God! I've been in a fever!" she cried, and would

have engulfed her stately daughter before them all, but that Rose put

out a deterring hand.

"I was afraid you'd be upset--so we hurried," she said serenely; not the

Rose of Anarkalli, by any means. "But we were all right along the Mozung

road."

That 'we,' and a possessive glance--the merest--at her lover, brought

down upon the pair a small shower of congratulations. Every one had

foreseen it, of course, but it was so delightful to _know_....

After the sixth infliction, Roy whispered in her ear, "I say, I can't

stand any more. And it's high time I was off."

"Poor dear! 'When duty calls...?'" Her cool tone was not unsympathetic.

"I'll let you off the rest."

She came out with him, and they stood together a moment in the darkness

under the portico.

"I shall dream to-night, Roy," she said gravely. "And we may not even

see the Pater. He's taken up his abode in the Telegraph Office. Mother

will want to bolt. I can see it in her eye!"

"Well, she's right. You ought all to be cleared out of this, instanter."

"Are you--so keen?"

"Of course not." His tone was more impatient than loverly. "I'm only

keen to feel--you're safe."

"Oh--safe!" she sighed. "_Is_ one--anywhere--ever?"

"No," he countered with unexpected vigour, "or life wouldn't be worth

living. There are degrees of unsafeness, that's all. It's natural--isn't

it, darling?--I should want to feel you're out of reach of that crowd.

If it had pushed on here, and to Government House, Amritsar doings would

have been thrown into the shade."

She shivered. "It's horrible--incredible! I suppose one has to be a

lifelong Anglo-Indian to realise quite _how_ incredible it feels--to

us."

He put his arms round her, as if to shield her from the memory of it

all.

"I'll see you to-morrow?" she asked.

"Of course. If I can square it. But we shall be snowed under with

emergency orders. I'll send a note in any case."

"Take care of yourself--on my account," she commanded softly; and they

kissed.

But--whether fancy or fact--Roy had an under sense of mutual constraint.

It was not the same thing at all as that last kiss at Shadara.

There they had come closer, in spirit, than ever yet. Now--not two hours

later--the thin end of an unseen wedge seemed to be stealthily pressing

them apart.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 29: House.]

[Footnote 30: Alas, alas!]

[Footnote 31: First a blow, then a word.]

[Footnote 32: True talk. Shameful talk.]

[Footnote 33: Caste.]

CHAPTER IX.

"It has long been a grave question whether any Government not too

strong for the liberties of the people, can be strong enough to

maintain its existence in great emergencies."--ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Back in Cantonments, Roy found strong detachments being rushed to all

vital points, and Brigade Headquarters moving into Lahore.

It was late before Lance returned, tired and monosyllabic. He admitted

they had mopped things up a bit--outside; and left a detachment, in

support of the police, guarding the Mall. But--the city was in open

rebellion. No white man could safely show his face there. The

anti-British poison, instilled without let or hindrance, was taking

violent effect. He'd seen enough of it for one day. He wanted things to

eat and drink--especially drink. 'Things' were produced; and

afterwards--alone with Roy in their bungalow--he talked more freely, in

no optimistic vein, sworn foe of pessimism though he was.

"Sporadic trouble? Not a bit of it! Look at the way they're going for

lines of communication. And look at these choice fragments from one of

their posters I pinched off a police inspector. 'The English are the

worst lot and are like monkeys, whose deceit and cunning are obvious to

high and low.... Do not lose courage, but try your utmost to turn these

men away from your holy country.' Pretty sentiments--eh? Fact is, we're

up against organised rebellion."

Roy nodded. "I had that from Dyán, long ago. Paralysis of movement and

Government is their game. We may have a job to regain control of the

city."

"Not if we declare Martial Law," said the son of Theo Desmond with a

kindling eye. "Of course, I'm only a soldier--and proud of it! But I've

more than a nodding acquaintance with the Punjabi. He's no word-monger;

handier with his _láthi_ than his tongue. If you stir him up, he hits

out. And I don't blame him. The voluble gentlemen from the South don't

realise the inflammable stuff they're playing with----"

"Perhaps they do," hazarded Roy.

"M-yes--perhaps. But the one on the electric standard this evening

didn't exactly achieve a star turn!--You saw him, eh?" He looked very

straight at Roy. "I noticed you--hanging round on the edge of things.

You ought to have gone straight on."

Roy winced. "We'd heard wild rumours. She was anxious about the D.C."

Lance nodded, staring at the bowl of his pipe. "When does--Mrs Elton

make a move?"

"The first possible instant I should say, from the look of her."

"Good. She's on the right tack, for once! The D.C. deserves a

first-class Birthday Honour--and may possibly wangle an O.B.E.! I'm told

that he and the D.I.G., with a handful of police, pretty well saved the

station before we came on the scene. It's been a nearer shave than one

cares to think about. And it's not over."

They sat up till after midnight discussing the general situation, that

looked blacker every hour. And, till long after midnight, an uproarious

mob raged through the city and Anarkalli, only kept from breaking all

bounds by the tact and good-humour of a handful of cavalry and police;

men of their own race, unshaken by open or covert attempts to suborn

their loyalty--a minor detail worth putting on record.

* * * * *

Friday was a day of rumours. While the city continued furiously to rage,

reports of fresh trouble flowed in from all sides: further terrible

details from Amritsar; rumours that the Army and the police were being

tampered with and expected to join the mob; serious trouble at Ahmedabad

and Lyallpur, where seventy British women and children were herded, in

one bungalow, till they could safely be removed. Everywhere the same

tale: stations burned, railways wrecked, wires cut. Fresh stories

constantly to hand; some true, some wildly exaggerated; anger in the

blood of the men; terror in the hearts of the women, longing to get

away, yet suddenly afraid of trains packed with natives, manned by

natives, who might be perfectly harmless; but, on the other hand, might

not....

It was as Rose had said; to realise the significance of these things,

one needed to have spent half a lifetime in that other India, in the

good days when peaceful loyal masses had not been galvanised into

disaffection; when an Englishwoman, of average nerve, thought nothing of

travelling alone up and down the country, or spending a week alone in

camp--if needs must--secure in the knowledge that--even in a disturbed

Frontier district--no woman would ever be touched or treated with other

than unfailing respect.

Yet a good many were preparing to flit: and to the men their departure

would spell relief; not least, to Roy--the new-made lover. Parting would

be a wrench; but at this critical moment--for England and India--the tug

two ways was distinctly a strain; and the less she saw of it all, the

better for their future chance of happiness. He felt by no means sure it

had not been imperilled already.

But the exigencies of the hour left no room for vague forebodings.

Emergency orders, that morning, detailed Lance with a detachment for the

Railway Workshops, where passive resisters were actively on the

war-path. Roy, after early stables, was dispatched with another party,

to strengthen a cavalry picket near the Badshahi Mosque, on the

outskirts of the city, where things might be lively in the course of the

day.

Passing through Lahore, he sent his _sais_ with a note to Rose; and, on

reaching the Mosque, he found things lively enough already. The iron

railings, round the main gate of the Fort, were besieged by a hooting,

roaring mob, belabouring the air with _láthis_ and axes on bamboo poles;

rending it with shouts of abuse and one reiterate cry, "Kill the white

pigs, brothers! Kill! Kill!"

Again and again they stormed the railings, frantically trying to bear

them down by sheer weight of numbers--yelling ceaselessly the while.

"How the devil can they keep it up?" thought Roy; and sickened to think

how few of his own kind there were to stand between the English women

and children in Lahore and those hostile thousands. Thank God, there

remained loyal Indians, hundreds of them--as in Mutiny days; but surely

a few rounds from the Fort just then would have heartened them and been

distinctly comforting into the bargain.

The walls were manned with rifles and Lewis guns, and at times things

looked distinctly alarming; but not a shot was fired. The mob was left

to exhaust itself with its own fury. Part melted away, and part was

drawn away by the attraction of a mass meeting in the Mosque, where

thirty-five thousand citizens were gathered to hear Hindu agitators

preaching open rebellion from Mahommedan pulpits; and a handful of

British police officers--present on duty--were being hissed and hooted,

amid shouts of "_Hindu-Mussalman ki jai!_"

From the city all police pickets had been withdrawn, since their

presence would only provoke disturbance and bloodshed. And the bazaar

people were parading the streets, headed by an impromptu army of young

hotheads, carrying _láthis_, crying their eternal '_Hai!_' and '_Jai!_'

with extra special '_Jai's_' for the 'King of Germany' and the Afghan

Amir.

Portraits of Their Majesties were battered down and trampled in the mud;

and over the fragments the crowd swept on, shouting: '_Hai! hai! Jarge

Margya!_'[34] And the air was full of the craziest rumours, passed on,

with embellishments, from mouth to mouth....

Roy, on reaching Cantonments, was relieved to find that the decision had

already been taken to regain control of the city by a military

demonstration in force; eight hundred troops and police, under the

officer commanding Lahore civil area. Desmond's squadron was included;

and, sitting down straightway, Roy dashed off a note to Rose.

"MY DARLING,--

"I'm sorry, but it looks like 'no go' to-morrow. You'll hear all

from the Pater. I might look in for tiffin, if things go smoothly,

and if _you_'ll put up with me all dusty and dishevelled from the

fray! From what I saw and heard to-day, we're not likely to be

greeted with marigold wreaths and benedictions! Of course hundreds

will be thankful to see us. But I doubt if they'll dare betray the

fact. I needn't tell you to keep cool. You're simply splendid.

"Your loving and admiring,

ROY."

It was after ten next morning, the heat already intense, when that mixed

force, British and Indian, and the four aeroplanes acting in concert

with them, halted outside the Delhi Gate of Lahore City, while an order

was read out to the assembled leaders that, if shots were fired or bombs

flung, those aeroplanes would make things unpleasant. Then--at last they

were on the move; through the Gate, inside the City, aeroplanes flying

low, cavalry bringing up the rear.

Here normal life and activity were completely suspended--hence more than

half the trouble. Groups of idlers, sauntering about, stared, spat, or

shook clenched fists, shouting, "Give us Ghandi--and we will open!"

"Repeal Rowlatt Bill and we will open."

And, at every turn, posters exhorted true patriots--in terms often as

ludicrous as they were hostile--to leave off all dealings with the

'English monkeys,' to 'kill and be killed.'

And as they advanced, leaving pickets at stated points--pausing that Mr

Elton might exhort the people to resume work--mere groups swelled to

crowds, increasing in number and virulence; their cries and contortions

more savage than anything Roy had yet seen.

But it was not till they reached the Hira Mundi vegetable market,

fronting the plain and river, that the real trouble began. Here were

large excited crowds streaming to and fro between the Mosque and the

Mundi--material inflammable as gunpowder. Here, too, were the hotheads

armed with leaded sticks, hostile and defiant, shouting their eternal

cries. And to-day, as yesterday, the Badshahi Mosque was clearly the

centre of trouble. Exhortations to disperse peacefully were unheeded or

unheard. All over the open space they swarmed like locusts. Their

wearisome clamour ceased not for a moment. And the mosque acted as a

stronghold. Crowds packed away in there could neither be dealt with nor

dispersed. So an order was given that it should be cleared and the doors

guarded.

Meantime, to loosen the congested mass, it was cavalry to the

front--thankful for movement at last.

There was a rush and a scuffle. Scattered groups bolted into the city.

Others broke away and streamed down from the high ground into the open

plain, sowars in pursuit; rounding them up, shepherding them back to

their by-lanes and rabbit-warrens.

"How does it feel to be a sheep-dog?" Lance asked Roy, as he cantered

up, dusty and perspiring. "A word from the aeroplanes would do the

trick. Good God! _Look_ at them----!"

Roy looked--and swore under his breath. For the half-dispersed thousands

were flowing together again like quicksilver. The whole Hira Mundi

region was packed with a seething dangerous mob, completely out of hand,

amenable to nothing but force.

And now from the doors of the Mosque fresh thousands, inflamed by

fanatical speeches, were swarming across the open plain to join them,

flourishing their _láthis_ with threatening gestures and cries....

It was a sight to shake the stoutest heart. Armed, they were not; but

the _láthi_ is a deadly weapon at close quarters; and their mere numbers

were overwhelming. Roy, by this time, was sick of their everlasting

yells; their distorted faces full of hate and fury; their senseless

abuse of 'tyrants,' who were exercising a patience almost superhuman.

An order was shouted for the troops to turn and hold them. Carnegie, of

the police, dashed off to the head of the column that was nearing the

gate of exit; and the cavalry lined up in support of Mr Elton, who still

exhorted, still tried to make himself heard by those who were determined

not to hear.

Directly they moved forward, there was a fierce, concerted rush;

_láthis_ in the forefront, bricks and stones hurtling, as at Anarkalli,

but with fiercer intent.

A large stone whizzed past the ear of an impassive Sikh Ressaldar; half

a brick caught Roy on the shoulder; another struck Suráj on the flank

and slightly disturbed his equanimity.

While Roy was soothing him, came a renewed rush, the crowd pushing

boldly in on all sides with evident intent to cut them off from the

rest.

The line broke. There was a moment of sickening confusion. A howling

man, brandishing a _láthi_, made a dash at Roy, a grab at his charger's

rein....

One instant his heart stood still; the next, Lance dashed in between,

riding-crop lifted, unceremoniously hustling Roy, and nearly oversetting

his assailant--but not quite----

Down came the leaded stick on the back of his bridle hand, cutting it

open, grazing and bruising the flesh. With an oath he dropped the reins

and seized them in his right hand.

"Rather neatly done!" he remarked, smiling at the dismay in Roy's eyes.

"Ought to have floored him, though--the murdering brute!"

"Lance, you'd no business----"

"Oh, drop it. This isn't polo. It's a game of Aunt Sally. No charge for

a shy----!" As he spoke, a sharp fragment of brick struck his cheek and

drew blood. "Damn them. Getting above themselves. If it rested with me

I'd charge. We can hold 'em, though. Straighten the line."

"But your hand----"

"My hand can wait. I've got another." And he rode on leaving Roy with a

burning inner sense as of actual coals of fire heaped on his unworthy

self.

But urgent need for action left no leisure for thought. Somehow the line

was straightened; somehow they extricated themselves from the

embarrassing attentions of the mob. Carnegie returned with armed police;

and four files were lined up in front of the troops; the warning clearly

given; the response--fresh uproar, fresh showers of stones....

Then eight shots rang out--and it sufficed.

At the voice of the rifle, the sting of buckshot, valour and fury

evaporated like smoke. And directly the crowd broke, firing ceased. A

few were wounded; one was killed--and carried off with loud

lamentations. An ordered advance, with fixed bayonets, completed the

effect that nothing else on earth could have produced:--and the Grand

Processional was over.

It emerged from the Báthi Gate a shadow of itself, having left more than

half its numbers on guard at vital points along the route.

"Scotched--not killed," was Lance's pithy verdict on the proceedings.

"As a bit of mere police work--excellent. As to the result--we shall

see. The C.O. must have been thankful his force wasn't a shade weaker."

This, unofficially, to Roy, who had secured leave off for tiffin at the

Eltons', and had ridden forward to report his departure and inquire

after the damaged hand, that concerned him more than anything else just

then--not even excepting Rose.

It had been roughly wrapped in a silk handkerchief; and Lance

pooh-poohed concern.

"Hurts a bit, of course. But it's no harm. I'll have it scientifically

cleaned up by Collins. Don't look pathetic about nothing, old man. My

silly fault for failing to ride the beggar down. Just as well it isn't

your hand, you know. Unpleasant--for the women."

"Oh, it's all very well," Roy muttered awkwardly. Lance in that vein had

him at a disadvantage, always.

"Don't be too late," he added, as Roy turned to go. "We may be needed.

Those operatic performers in the City aren't going to sit twiddling

their thumbs by the look of them. When's ... the departure?"

"To-morrow or next day, I think."

"Good job." A pause. "Give them my regards. And don't make a tale over

my hand."

"I shall tell the truth," said Roy with decision. "And I'll be back

about six."

He saluted and rode off; the prospective thrill of making love to Rose

damped by the fact that he had not been able to look Lance in the eyes.

Things couldn't go on like this. And yet...? Impossible to ask Rose

outright whether there had been anything definite between them. If she

said "No," he would not believe her:--detestable, but true. If she--well

... if in any way he found she had treated Lance shabbily, he might find

it hard to control himself--or forgive her: equally detestable and

equally true. But uncertainty was more intolerable still....

He found the household ready for immediate flitting, and Mrs Elton in a

fluster of wrath and palpitation over startling news from Kasur.

"The station burnt and looted. The Ferozepur train held up! Two of our

officers wounded and two warrant officers _beaten_ to _death_ with those

horrible láthis!" She poured it all out in a breathless rush before Roy

could even get near Rose. "It's official. Mr Haynes has just been

telling us. An English woman and three tiny children--miraculously saved

by two N.C.O.'s and a friendly native Inspector. Did you _ever_----! And

I hear they poured kerosene over the buildings they burnt, and the

bodies of those poor men at Amritsar. So _now_ we know why the price ran

up and why 'none was coming into the country!' Yet they say this isn't

another Mutiny,--don't tell _me_! I was so thankful to be getting away;

and now I'm terrified to stir. Fancy if it happened to _us_--to-morrow!"

"My dear Mother, it won't happen to us." Her daughter's cool tones had a

tinge of contempt. "They're guarding the trains. And Fakir Ali wouldn't

let any one lay a finger on us."

Mrs Elton's sigh had the effect of a small cyclone. "Well, _I_ don't

believe we shall reach Simla without having our throats cut--or worse,"

she declared with settled conviction.

"You'll be almost disappointed if we do!" Rose quizzed her cruelly, but

sweetly. "And now _perhaps_ I may get at Roy, who's probably tired and

thirsty after all those hours in the sun."

The Jeremiad revived, at intervals, throughout tiffin; but directly it

was over Rose carried Roy off to her boudoir--her own corner; its

atmosphere as cool and restful as the girl herself, after all the strife

and heat and noise of the city.

They spent a peaceful two hours together. Roy detected no shadow of

constraint in her; and hoped the effect of Thursday had passed off. For

himself--all inner perturbations were charmed away by her tender concern

for the bruised shoulder--a big bruise; she could feel it under his

coat--and the look in her eyes while he told the story of Lance; not

colouring it up, because of what he had said; yet not concealing its

effect on himself.

"He's quite a splendid sort of person," she said, with a little tug at

the string of her circular fan. "But _you_ know all about that."

"Rather."

She drew in her lip and was silent. If he could speak now. In this mood,

he might believe her--might even forgive her....

But it was she who spoke.

"What about--the Kashmir plan?"

"God knows. It's all in abeyance. The Colonel's wedding too."

"Will you be _allowed_--I wonder--to pay me a little visit first?" Her

smile and the manner of her request were irresistible.

"It's just possible!" he returned, in the same vein. "I fancy Lance

would understand."

"Oh--he _would_. And to-morrow--the night train? Can you be there?"

He looked doubtful. "It depends--how things go. And--I rather bar

station partings."

"So do I. But still ... Mother's been clamouring for you to come up with

us and guard the hairs of our heads! But I deftly squashed the idea."

"Bless you, darling!" He drew her close, and she leaned her cheek

against him with a sigh, in which present content and prospective

sadness were strangely mingled. It was in these gentle, pensive moods

that Roy came near to loving her as he had dreamed of loving the girl he

would make his wife.

"I'm still jealous of the Gilgit plan," she murmured. "And, of course, I

wish you were coming up to-morrow--even more than Mother does! But at

least I've the grace to be glad you're not--which is rather an advance

for me!"

Their parting, if less passionate, was more tender than usual; and Roy

rode away with a distinct ache in his heart at thought of losing her; a

nascent reluctance to make mountains out of molehills in respect of her

and Lance....

Riding back along the Mall, he noticed absently an approaching

horsewoman, and recognised--too late for escape--Mrs Hunter-Ranyard. By

timely flight on Thursday, he had evaded her congratulations. Intuition

told him she would say things that jarred. Now he flicked Suráj with

the base intent of merely greeting her as he passed.

But she was a woman of experience and resource. She beckoned him airily

with her riding-crop.

"Mr Sinclair? What luck! I'm dying to hear how the 'March Past' went

off. Did you get thunders of applause?"

"Oh, thunders. The Monsoon variety!"

"I saw you all in the distance, coming in from my early ride. You looked

very imposing with your attendant aeroplanes!--May I?" She turned her

pony's head without awaiting permission, and rode beside him at a foot's

pace, clamouring for details.

He supplied them fluently, in the hope of heading her off personalities.

A vain hope: for personalities were her daily bread.

She took advantage of the first pause to ask, with an ineffable look:

"Are you still feeling _very_ shy of being engaged? You bolted on

Thursday. I hadn't a chance. And I'm rather _specially_ interested." The

look became almost caressing. "Did it ever occur to your exquisite

modesty, I wonder, that I rather wanted, you for _my_ cavalier. You

seemed so young--in experience, that I thought a little innocuous

education might be an advantage before you plunged. But she

snatched--oh, she did!--without seeming to lift an eyebrow, in her

inimitable way. Very clever. In fact, she's been distinctly clever all

round. She's eluded her 'coming man' on one side; and ructions over her

soldier man on the other----"

"Look here--I'm engaged to her," Roy protested, trying not to be aware

of a sick sensation inside. "And you know I hate that sort of talk----"

"I ought to, by this time!" She made tenderly apologetic eyes at him.

"But I'm afraid I'm incurable. Don't be angry, Sir Galahad! You've won

the Kohinoor; and although you seem to live in the clouds, you've had

the sense to make things _pukka_ straightaway. 'Understandings' and

private engagements are the root of all evil!"

"I'm blest if I know what you're driving at!" he flashed out, his temper

rising.

But she only laughed her tinkling laugh and shook her riding-whip at

him.

"_Souvent femme varie!_ Have you ever heard that, you blessed innocent?

And the general impression is--there's already been one private

engagement--if not more. I was trying to tell you that afternoon to save

your poor fingers----"

"It's all rot--spiteful rot!" The pain of increasing conviction made Roy

careless of his manners. "The women are jealous of her beauty, so they

invent any tale that's likely to be swallowed----"

"Possibly, my dear boy. But I can't tell my neighbours to their faces

that they lie! After all, if you win a beautiful girl of six-and-twenty

you've got to swallow the fact, with a good grace, that there must have

been others; and thank God you're IT--if not the only IT that ever was

on land or sea!--After that maternal homily, allow me to congratulate

you. I've already congratulated her, _de mon plein coeur_!"

"Thanks very much. More than I deserve!" said Roy, only half mollified.

"But I'm afraid I must hurry on now. Desmond asked me not to be late."

"Confound the women!" was his ungallant reflection, as he rode away.

Mrs Ranyard's tongue had virtually undone the effect of his peaceful two

hours with Rose. After that--clash or no clash--he must have the thing

out with Lance, at the first available moment.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 34: "Hai! Hai! George is dead."]

CHAPTER X.

"In you I most discern, in your brave spirit,

Erect and certain, flashing deeds of light,

A pure jet from the fountain of all Being;

A scripture clearer than all else to read."

--J.C. SQUIRE.

Roy returned to an empty bungalow.

On inquiry, he learnt that the Major Sahib had gone over to see the

Colonel Sahib; and Wazir Khan--Desmond's bearer--abused, in lurid terms,

the bastard son of a pig who had dared to assault the first Sahib in

creation.

Roy, sitting down at his table, pushed aside a half-written page of his

novel, and his pen raced over the paper in a headlong letter to

Jeffers:--an outlet, merely, for his pent-up sensations; and a salve to

his conscience. He had neglected Jeffers lately, as well as his novel.

He had been demoralised, utterly, these last few weeks: and to-day, by

way of crowning demoralisation, he felt by no means certain what the end

would be--for himself; still less, for India.

The damaged Major Sahib--untroubled by animosity--appeared only just in

time to change for Mess; his cheek unbecomingly plastered, his hand in a

sling.

"Beastly nuisance; _Hukm hai_,"[35] he explained in response to Roy's

glance of inquiry. "Collins says it's a bit inflamed. I've been

confabbing with Paul over the deferred wedding. But, of course, there's

no chance of things settling down, unless we declare martial law. The

police are played out; and as for the impression we made this

morning--the D.C.'s just telephoned in for a hundred British troops and

armoured cars to picket and patrol bungalows in Lahore. Seems he's

received an authentic report that the city people are planning to rush

civil lines, loot the bungalows, and assault our women--damn them. So,

by way of precaution, he has very wisely asked for troops.--Are they

off--those two?"

"To-morrow night," said Roy, feeling so horribly constrained that the

influx of Barnard and Meredith was, for once, almost a relief.

Then there was Mess; fresh speculations, fresh tales, and a certain

amount of chaff over Desmond having 'stopped a brick'; Barnard, in

satirical vein, regretting to report a bloody encounter: one casualty:

enemy sprinkled with buckshot, retired according to plan.

Before the meal was over, Roy fancied he detected a change in Lance; his

talk and laughter seemed a trifle strained; his lips set, now and then,

as if he were in pain.

Later on he came up and remarked casually: "I'm not feeling very bright.

I think I'll turn in. Perhaps the sun touched me up a bit." Clearly

Roy's face betrayed him; for Lance added in an imperative undertone:

"_Don't_ look at me like that. I'm going to slip off quietly--not to

worry Paul."

"Well, I'm going to slip off too," Roy retorted with decision. "I feel

used up; and my beast of a bruise hurts like blazes."

"Drive me home, then," said Lance; and his changed tone, no less than

the surprising request, told Roy he would be glad of his company.

They said little during the drive; Roy, because he felt vaguely anxious,

and knew it would annoy Lance if he betrayed concern, or inquired after

symptoms. It seemed a shame to worry the poor fellow in this state; but

silence had now become impossible.

"Are you for bed, old man?" he asked when they got in.

"Rather not. I just felt a bit queer. Wanted to get away from them all

and be quiet."

His normal manner eased Roy's anxiety a little. Without more ado, they

settled into long veranda chairs and called for 'pegs.' The night was

utterly still. A red distorted moon hung just above the tree-tops.

Yelling and spitting crowds seemed to belong to another world.

Lance leaned back in the shadow, the tip of his cigar glowing like a

fierce planet. Roy sat forward, tense and purposeful: hating what he had

to say; yet goaded by the knowledge that he could have no peace of mind

till it was said.

He was silent a few moments, pulling at his cigar: then, "Look here,

Lance," he said. "I've got a question to ask. You won't like it. I don't

either. But the truth is ... I'm bothered to know what is ... or has

been ... between you and...."

"Drop it, Roy." There was pain and impatience in Desmond's tone. "I'm

not going to talk about _that_."

Flat opposition gave Roy precisely the spur he needed.

"I'm afraid _I_'ve got to, though." The statement was placable but

decisive. "I can't go on this way. It's getting on my nerves----"

"Devil take your nerves," said Lance politely. Then--with an obvious

effort--"Has she--said anything?"

"No."

"Then why the hell can't you let be!"

"I _shall_ let be--altogether, if this goes on;--this infernal

awkwardness between us; and the things she says--the way she looks ...

almost as if she cares."

"Well, I give you my oath--she doesn't. I suppose I ought to know?"

"That depends how things were before I came up. She's twice let your

name slip out, unawares. And at Anarkalli she was extraordinarily upset.

And to-day--about your hand. Then, riding home, I met Mrs Ranyard. And

she started talking ... hinting at a private engagement----"

"Mrs Ranyard deserves to have her tongue removed. She'd tell any lie

about another woman."

"Quito so. But is it a lie? It fits in too neatly with--the other

things----"

Lance gave him a sidelong look. Their faces were just visible in the

moonlight.

"Jealous--are you?"--His tone was almost tender.--"You damned lucky

devil--you've no cause to be."

That natural inference startlingly revealed to Roy that jealousy had

little or nothing to do with his trouble; and so great was the relief

of open speech between them, that instinctively he told truth.

"N-no. I'm bothered about _you_."

"Good God!" Desmond's abrupt laugh had no mirth in it. "_Me?_"

"Yes--naturally. If it amounted to ... an engagement, and I charged in

and upset everything ... I can't forgive myself ... or her----"

At that Desmond sat forward, obstructive no longer. "If you're going so

badly off the rails, you must have it straight. And ... confound you!...

it hurts----"

"I can see that. And it's more or less my doing----"

"On the contrary ... it was primarily _my_ doing ... as you justly

pointed out to me a week or two ago."

Roy groaned. The irony of the situation stung like a whip-lash. "_Did_

it amount to an engagement?" he persisted.

"There or thereabouts." Lance paused and took a long pull at his cigar.

"_But_--it was quite between ourselves--in fact, conditional on ... the

headway I could manage to make. She--cared, in a way. Not--as I do. That

was one hitch. The other was Oh 'Ell's antipathy to soldiers, as

husbands for her precious family. She--Rose--knew there would be

ructions; a downright tussle, in fact. Well--she'll go almost any length

to avoid ructions; specially with her mother. I don't blame her. The

woman's a caution. So--she shirked facing the music ... till she felt

quite sure of herself...."

"_Till_ she felt sure of herself, there should have been _no_

engagement," Roy decreed, amazed at his own rising anger. "Unfair on

you."

Desmond's smile was the ghost of its normal self. "You always were a bit

of a purist, Roy! Besides--it was my doing again. I pressed the point.

And I think ... she liked me ... loving her. She really seemed to be

coming my way--till _you_ turned up----" He clenched his hand and leaned

back again, drawing a deep breath. "I'm forcing myself to tell you all

this--since you've asked for it--because I won't have you blaming

_her_----"

Roy said nothing. Remembering how, throughout, the initiative had been

hers, how hard he had striven against being ensnared, he did blame her,

a good deal more than he could very well admit to this friend, whose

single-hearted devotion made his own mere mingling of infatuation and

passion seem artificial as gaslight in the blaze of dawn.--But knowing

so much, he must know all.

"How long--was it on?"

"Oh, about three weeks before you came. _I_ was on a long while. Before

Christmas."

"Since when has it been--off?"

Lance hesitated. "Well--things became shaky after Kapurthala. That

day--the wedding, you remember?--I spoke rather straight ... about you.

I saw you were getting keen. And I didn't want you to come a

cropper----"

"Why the devil didn't you tell me the _truth_?"

Lance set his lips. "Of course I wanted to. But--it was difficult. She

said--not any one. Made a point of it. Not even Paul. And I was keen for

her to feel quite free; no slur on her--if things fell through. So--as I

couldn't warn you, I spoke to her. Perhaps I was a fool. Women are

queer. You can never be sure ... and it seemed to have quite the wrong

effect. Then I saw she was really losing her head over you---- Natural

enough. So I simply stood by. If she really wanted _you_--not me, that

was another affair. And it's plain ... she did."

"But when--did she _make_ it plain?" Roy insisted, feeling more and more

as if the ground were giving way under his feet.

"Just before the Gym. That ... was why...." He looked full at Roy now.

His eyes darkened with pain. "I felt like murdering you that day, Roy.

Afterwards ... well--one managed to carry on somehow. One always can--at

a pinch ... _you_ know."

"My God! It's the bitterest, ironical tangle!" Roy burst out with a

smothered vehemence that told its own tale. "You _ought_ to have

insisted about me, Lance. I wouldn't for fifty worlds...."

"Of course you wouldn't. Don't fret, old man. And don't blame _her_."

"Blame or no, I can't pretend it doesn't alter things ... spoil things,

badly...."

He broke off, startled by the change in Desmond. His face was drawn. He

was shivering violently.

"Lance--_what_ is it? Fever? Have you been feeling bad?"

Desmond set his lips to steady them. "On and off--at Mess. Touch of the

sun, perhaps. I'll get to bed and souse myself with quinine."

But he was so obviously ill that Roy paid no heed. "Well, I'm going to

send for Collins instanter."

"Don't make an ass of yourself, Roy," Lance flashed out: but his hands

were shaking: his lips were shaking. He was no longer in command of

affairs....

While the message sped on its way, Roy got him to bed somehow; eased

things a little with hot bottles and brandy; nameless terrors knocking

at his heart....

In less than no time Collins appeared, with the Colonel; and their faces

told Roy that his terror was only too well founded....

Within an hour he knew the worst--acute blood-poisoning from the _láthi_

wound.

"Any hope----?" he asked the genial doctor, while Paul Desmond knelt by

the bed speaking to his brother in low tones.

"Too early to give an opinion," was the cautious answer. But the caution

and the man's whole manner told Roy the incredible, unbearable truth.

Something inside him seemed to snap. In that moment of bewildered agony,

he felt like a murderer....

* * * * *

Looking back afterwards, Roy marvelled how he had lived through the

waking nightmare of those two days--while the doctor did all that was

humanly possible, and Lance pitted all the clean strength of his manhood

against the swift deadly progress of the poison in his veins. It was

simply a question of hours; of fighting the devil to the last on

principle, rather than from any likelihood of victory. With heart and

hope broken, superhumanly they struggled on.

For Roy, the world outside that dim whitewashed bedroom ceased to exist.

The loss of his mother had been anguish unalloyed; but he had not _seen_

her go....

Now, he saw--and heard, which was worse than all.

For Lance, towards the end, was constantly delirious; and, in delirium,

he raved of Rose--always of Rose. He, the soul of reserve, poured out

incontinently his passion, his worship, his fury of jealousy--till Roy

grew almost to hate the sound of her name.

Worse--he was constrained to tell the Colonel the meaning of it all: to

see anger flash through the haunting pain in his eyes.

Only twice, during the final struggle, the real Lance emerged; and on

the second occasion they happened to be alone. Their eyes met in the old

intimate understanding. Lance flung out his undamaged hand, and grasped

Roy's with all the force still left him.

"Don't fret your heart out, Roy ... if I can't pull through," he said in

his normal voice. "Carry on. And--_don't_ blame Rose. It'll hurt her--a

bit. Don't hurt her more--because of me. And--look here, stand by Paul

for a time. He'll need you."

Roy's "Trust me, dear old man," applied, mentally, to the last. Even at

that supreme moment he was dimly thankful it came last.

Then the Colonel returned; and they could say no more; nor could Roy

find it in his heart to grudge him a moment of that brief blessed

interlude of real contact with the man they loved....

There could be no question of going to Lahore station on Sunday evening.

He was ill himself, though he did not know it; and his soul was centred

on Lance--the gallant spirit inwoven with almost every act and thought

and inspiration of his life. By comparison, Rose was nothing to him;

less than nothing; a mushroom growth--sudden and violent--with no deep

roots; only fibres.

So he sent her, by an orderly, a few hurried lines of explanation and

farewell.

"MY DEAR,--

"I'm sorry, but I _can't_ come to-night. We are all in dreadful

grief. Lance down with acute blood-poisoning. Collins evidently

fears the worst. I can't write of it. I do trust you get up safely.

I'll write again, when it's possible.

"Yours,

ROY."

Yes, he was still hers--so far. More than that he could not honestly

add. Beyond this awful hour he could not look. It was as if one stood on

the edge of a precipice, and the next step would be a drop into black

darkness....

* * * * *

By Monday night it was over. After forty-eight hours of fever and

struggle and pain, Lance Desmond lay at rest--serene and noble in death,

as he had been in life. And Roy--having achieved one long, slow climb

out of the depths--was flung back again, deeper than ever....

It was near midnight when the end came. Utterly weary and broken, he had

sunk into Lance's chair, leaning forward, his face hidden, his frame

shaken all through with hard dry sobs that would not be stilled.

Through the fog of his misery, he felt the Colonel's hand on his

shoulder; heard the familiar voice, deep and kindly: "My dear Roy, get

to bed. We can't have you on the sick-list. There's work to do; a great

gap to be filled--somehow. I'll stay--with him."

At that, he pulled himself together and stood up. "I'll do my best,

Colonel," was all he could say. The face he had so rarely seen perturbed

was haggard with grief. They looked straight at one another; and the

thought flashed on Roy, 'I must tell him.' Not easy; but it had to be

done.

"There's something, sir," he began, "I feel you ought to know. By

rights, it--it should have been _me_. That brute with the _láthi_ was

right on me; and he--Lance--dashed in between ... rode him off--and got

the knock intended for me. It--it haunts me."

Paul Desmond was silent a moment. Pain and exaltation contended

strangely in his tired eyes. Then: "I--don't wonder," he said slowly.

"It--was like him. Thank you for telling me. It will be--some small

comfort ... to all of them. Now--try and get a little sleep."

Roy shook his head. "Impossible.--Good-night, Colonel. It's a relief to

feel you know. For God's sake, let me do any mortal thing I can for any

of you."

There was another moment of silence, of palpable hesitation; then once

again Paul Desmond put his hand on Roy's shoulder.

"Look here, Roy," he said. "Drop calling me Colonel. You two--were like

brothers. And--as Thea's included, why should I be out of it. Let me--be

'Paul.'"

It was hard to do. It was inimitably done. It gave Roy the very lift he

needed in that hour when he felt as if they must almost hate him, and

never wish to set eyes on him again.

"I--I shall be proud," he said; and, turning away to hide his emotion,

went back to the bed that drew him like a magnet.

There he knelt a long while, in a torment of mute, passionate protest

against the power of so trivial an injury to rob the world of so much

gallantry and charm. Resignation was far from him. With all the

vehemence that was in him, he raged against his loss....

* * * * *

Next morning, they awoke, as from a prolonged and terrible dream, to

find Lahore practically isolated; all wires down, but one; the _hartal_

continuing in defiance of orders and exhortations; more stations

demolished; more trains derailed and looted; all available British

troops recalled from the Hills. But for five sets of wireless plant,

urgently asked for, isolation would have been complete.

By the fourteenth, the position was desperate. Civil authority flatly

defied; the police--lacking reserves--fairly played out; the temperature

chart of rebellion at its highest point. The inference was plain.

Organised revolt is amenable only to the ultimate argument of force.

Nothing, now, would serve but strong action, and the compelling power of

Martial Law.

Happily for India, the men who had striven their utmost to avoid both

did not falter in that critical hour.

At Amritsar strong action had already been taken; and the sobering

effect of it spread, in widening circles, bringing relief to thousands

of both races; not least to men whose nerve and resource had been

strained almost to the limit of endurance.

In Lahore, notices of Martial Law were issued. The suspended life of

the city tentatively revived. Law-abiding men of all ranks breathed more

freely; and for the moment it seemed the worst was over....

Roy, having slept off a measure of his utter fatigue, took up the dead

weight of life again, with the old sick sensation, of three years ago,

that nothing mattered in earth or heaven. But then, there had been Lance

to uphold and cheer him. Now there was only the hard unfailing mercy of

work to be pulled through somehow.

There was also Rose--and the problem of letting her know that he knew.

And--their marriage? All that seemed to have suffered shipwreck with the

rest of him. He was still too dazed and blinded with grief to see an

inch ahead. He only knew he could not bear to see her, who had made

Lance suffer so, till the first anguish had been dulled a little--on the

surface at least.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 35: It is an order.]

CHAPTER XI

"Why did'st thou promise such a beauteous day,

* * * * *

To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,

Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke!"

--SHAKSPERE.

And away up in Simla, Rose Arden was enduring her own minor form of

purgatory. The news of Lance Desmond's sudden death had startled and

saddened her; had pierced through her surface serenity to the deep

places of a nature that was not altogether shallow under its veneer of

egotism and coquetry.

On a morning, near the end of April, she sat alone in the garden under

deodar boughs tasselled with tips of young green. In a border, beyond

the lawn, spring flowers were awake; the bank was starred with white

violets and wild-strawberry blossoms; and through a gap in the ilex

trees beyond, she had a vision of far hills and flashing snow-peaks,

blue-white in the sun, cobalt in shadow. Overhead, among the higher

branches, a bird was trilling out an ecstatic love-song.

But the year's renewal, the familiar flutter of Simla's awakening,

sharpened, rather, that new ache at her heart; the haunting, incredible

thought that down there, in the stifling dusty plains, Lance Desmond lay

dead in the springtime of his splendid manhood; dead of his own generous

impulse to save Roy from hurt.

Since the news came, she had avoided sociabilities and, unobtrusively,

worn no colours. Foolish and fatuous, was it? Perhaps. She only knew

that--Lance being gone--she could not make _no_ difference in her daily

round, whatever others might think or say.

And the mere fact of his being gone seemed strangely to revive the

memory of his love for her, of her own genuine, if inadequate,

response. For she had been more nearly in love with him than with any of

his predecessors (and there had been several), who had been admitted to

the privileged intimacies of the half-accepted lover. More: he had

commanded her admiration; and she had not been woman could she have held

out indefinitely against his passionate, whole-hearted devotion.

After months of patient wooing--and he by nature impatient--he had

insisted that matters be settled, one way or the other, before he went

on leave; and she had almost reached the point of decision, when Roy,

with his careless charm and challenging detachment, appeared on the

scene....

And now--Lance was gone; Roy was hers; Bramleigh Beeches and a

prospective title were hers; but still....

The shock of Roy's revelation had upset her a good deal more than she

dared let him guess. And the effect did not pass--in spite of determined

efforts to be unaware of it. She knew, now, that her vaunted tolerance

sprang chiefly from having ignored the whole subject. Half-castes she

instinctively despised. For India and the Indians she had little real

sympathy; and the rising tide of unrest, the increasing antagonism, had

sharpened her negative attitude to a positive dislike and distrust,

acutely intensified since that evening at Anarkalli, when the sight of

Lance and her stepfather, sitting there at the mercy of any chance-flung

missile, had stirred the slumbering passion in her to fury. For one

bewildering moment she had scarcely been able to endure Roy's touch or

look, because he was even remotely linked with those creatures, who

mouthed and yelled and would have murdered them all without compunction.

The impression of those few nerve-wracking days had struck deep. Yet, in

spite of all, Roy's hold on her was strong; the stronger perhaps because

she had been aware of his inner resistance, and had never felt quite

sure of him. She did not feel fundamentally sure of him, even now. His

letters had been few and brief; heart-broken, naturally; yet scarcely

the letters of an ardent lover. The longest of the four had given her a

poignant picture of Lance's funeral; almost as if he knew, and had

written with intent to hurt her. In addition to half the British

officers of the station, the cemetery had been thronged with the men of

his squadron, Sikhs and Pathans--a form of homage very rare in India.

Many of them had cried like children; and for himself, Roy confessed, it

had broken him all to bits. He hardly knew how to write of it; but he

felt she would care to know.

She cared so intensely that, for the moment, she had almost hated him

for probing so deep, for stamping on her memory a picture that would not

fade.

His next letter had been no more than half a sheet. That was three days

ago. Another was overdue; and the post was overdue also.

Ah--at last! A flash of scarlet in the verandah and Fazl Ali presenting

an envelope on a salver, as though she were a goddess and the letter an

offering at her shrine.

It was a shade thicker than usual. Well, it ought to be. She had been

very patient with his brevity. This time it seemed he had something to

say.

Her heart stirred perceptibly as she opened it and read:--

"DEAREST GIRL,--

"I'm afraid my letters have been very poor things. Part of the

reason you know and understand--as far as any one can. I'm still

dazed. Everything's out of perspective. I suppose I shall take it

in some day.

"But there's another reason--connected with _him_. Perhaps you can

guess. I've been puzzled all along about you two. And now I _know_.

I wonder--does that hurt you? It hurts me horribly. I need hardly

say _he_ didn't give you away. It was things you said--and Mrs

Ranyard. Anyhow, that last evening, I insisted on having the truth.

But I couldn't write about it sooner--for fear of saying things I'd

regret afterwards.

"Rose--what _possessed_ you? A man worth fifty of me! Of course, I

know loving doesn't go by merit. But to keep him on tenterhooks,

eating his heart out with jealousy, while you frankly encouraged

me--you _know_ you did. And I--never dreaming; only puzzled at the

way he sheered off after the first. Between us, we made his last

month of life a torment, though he never let me guess it. I don't

know how to forgive myself. And, to be honest, it's no easy job

forgiving you. If that makes you angry, if you think me a prig, I

can't help it. If _you'd_ heard him--all those hours of

delirium--you might understand.

"When he wasn't raving, he had only one thought--mustn't blame

_you_, or hurt you, on account of him. I'm trying not to. But if I

know you at all, _that_ will hurt more than anything _I_ could say.

And it's only right I should tell it you.

"My dearest Girl, you can't think how difficult--how strange it

feels writing to you like this. I meant to wait till I came up. But

I couldn't write naturally, and I was afraid you mightn't

understand.

"I'm coming, after all, sooner than I thought, for my fool of a

body has given out, and Collins won't let me hang on, though _I_

feel the work just keeps me going. It must be Kohat first, because

of Paul. Now things are calming down, he is getting away to be

married. The quietest possible affair, of course; but he's keen I

should be best man in place of Lance. And I needn't say how I value

the compliment.

"No more trouble here or Amritsar, thank God--and a few courageous

men. Martial Law arrangements are being carried through to

admiration. The Lahore C.O. seems to get the right side of every

one. He has a gift for the personal touch that is everything out

here; and in no time the poor deluded beggars in the City were

shouting 'Martial Law _ki jai_' as fervently as ever they shouted

for Ghandi and Co.

"One of my fellows said to me: 'Our people don't understand this

new talk of "Committee Ki Raj" and "Dyarchy Raj." Too many orders

make confusion. But they understand "_Hukm Ki raj_."'[36] In fact,

it's the general opinion that prompt action in the Punjab has

fairly well steadied India--for the present at least.

"Well, I won't write more. We'll meet soon; and I don't doubt

you'll explain a good deal that still puzzles and hurts me. If I

seem changed, you must make allowances. I can't yet see my way in

a world empty of Lance. But we must help each other, Rose--not pull

two ways. Don't bother to write long explanations. Things will be

easier face to face.

"Yours ever,

ROY."

"Yours ever," ... Did he mean that? He certainly meant the rest. Her

hands dropped in her lap; and she sat there, staring before

her--startled, angry, more profoundly disturbed and unsure of herself

than she had felt in all her days. Though Roy had tried to write with

moderation, there were sentences that struck at her vanity, her

conscience, her heart. Her first overwhelming impulse was to write back

at once telling him he need not trouble to come up, as the engagement

was off. Accustomed to unquestioning homage, she took criticism badly;

also--undeniably--she was jealous of his absorption in Lance. The

impulse to dismiss him was mere hurt vanity.

And the queer thing was, that deep down under the vanity and the

jealousy, her old feeling for Lance seemed again to be stirring in its

sleep.

The love of such a man leaves no light impress on any woman; and Lance

had unwittingly achieved two master-strokes calculated to deepen that

impress on one of her nature. In the first place, he had fronted

squarely the shock of her defection--patently on account of Roy. She

could see him now--standing near her mantelpiece, his eyes sombre with

passion and pain; no word of reproach or pleading, though there

smouldered beneath his silence the fire of his formidable temper. And

just because he had neither pleaded nor stormed, she had come perilously

near to an ignominious _volte-face_, from which she had only been saved

by something in him, not in herself. If she did not know it then, she

knew it now. In the second place, he had died gallantly--again on

account of Roy. Snatched utterly out of reach, out of sight, his value

was enhanced tenfold; and now, to crown all, came Roy's revelation of

his amazing magnanimity....

Strange, what a complicated affair it was, for some people, this simple

natural business of getting married. Was it part of the price one had

to pay for being beautiful? Half the girls one knew slipped into it with

much the same sort of thrill as they slipped into a new frock. But those

were mostly the nice plain little things, who subsided gratefully into

the first pair of arms held out to them. And probably they had their

reward.

In chastened moods, Rose did not quite care to remember how many times

she had succumbed, experimentally, to that supreme temptation. Good

heavens! What would her precious pair think of her--if they knew! At

least, she had the grace to feel proud that the tale of her conquests

included two such men.

But Lance was gone--on account of Roy--where no spell of hers could

touch him any more; and Roy--was he going too ... on account of

Lance...? Not if she could prevent him; and yet ... goodness knew!

The sigh that shivered through her sprang from a deeper source than mere

self-pity.

Rattle of rickshaw wheels, puffing and grunting of _jhampannis_,

heralded the return of her mother, who had been out paying a round of

preliminary calls. It took eight stalwart men and a rickshaw of special

dimensions to convey her formidable bulk up and down Simla roads; and

affectionate friends hinted that the men demanded extra pay for extra

weight!

A glance at her florid face warned Rose there was trouble in the air.

"Oh, Rose--_there_ you are. I've had the shock of my life!" Waving away

her _jhampannis_, she sank into an adjacent cane chair that creaked and

swayed ominously under the assault. "It was at Mrs Tait's. My

dear--would you _believe_ it? That fine fiancé of yours--after worming

himself into our good graces--turns out to be practically a

_half-caste_. A superior one, it seems. But still--the deceitfulness of

the man! Going about looking like everybody else too! And grey-blue eyes

into the bargain!"

At that Rose fatally smiled--in spite of genuine dismay.

"I can't see anything _funny_ in it!" snapped her mother. "I thought

you'd be furious. Did you ever notice----? Had you the least suspicion?"

"Not the least," Rose answered, with unruffled calm. "I knew."

"You _knew_? Yet you were fool enough to accept him--and wilfully

deceive your own mother! I suppose he insisted, and you----"

"No. _I_ insisted. I knew my own mind. And I wasn't going to have him

upset----"

"But if _I'm_ upset it doesn't matter a brass farthing?"

"It does matter. I'm very sorry you've had such a jar." Rose had some

ado to maintain her coolness; but she knew it for her one unfailing

weapon. "Of course, I meant to tell you later; in fact, as soon as he

came up to settle things finally----"

"Most con_sider_ate of you! And when he _does_ come up, _I_ propose to

settle things finally----" She choked, gulped, and glared. She was

realising.... "The _position_ you've put me in! It's detestable!"

Rose sighed. It struck her that her own position was not exactly

enviable. "I've said I'm sorry. And really--it didn't seem the least

likely.... Who _was_ the officious instrument of Fate?"

"Young Joe Bradley, of the Forests. We were talking of the riots and

poor Major Desmond, and Mrs Tait happened to mention Roy Sinclair. Mr

Bradley asked--was he the artist's son; and told how he once went to tea

there--when his mother was staying with Lady Despard--and had a stand-up

fight with Roy. He said Roy's mother was rather a swell native woman--a

_pucca_ native; and Roy went for him like a wild thing, because he

called her an ayah----"

Again Rose smiled in spite of herself. "He would!"

"Would he, indeed! That's all _you_ think of--though you know I've got a

weak heart. And I nearly fainted--if _that's_ any interest to you! The

Bradley boy doesn't know--about us. But Mrs Tait's a perfect little

sieve. It'll be all over Simla to-morrow. And I was so pleased and

proud----" Her voice shook. Tears threatened. "And it's so awkward--so

undignified ... backing out----"

"My dear mother, I've no intention whatever of backing out."

"And I've no intention what_ever_ of having a half-caste for a

son-in-law."

Rose winced at that, and drew in a steadying breath. For now, at last,

the cards were on the table. She was committed to flat opposition or

retreat--an impasse she had skilfully avoided hitherto. But for Roy's

sake she stood her ground.

"It was--rather a jar when he told me," she admitted, by way of

concession. "But truly, he _is_ different--if you'll only listen,

without fuming! His mother's a Rajput of the highest caste. Her father

educated her almost like an English girl. She was only seventeen when

she married Sir Nevil; and she lived altogether in England after that.

In everything but being her son, Roy is practically an Englishman. You

can't class him with the kind of people we associate with--the other

word out here----"

Very patiently and tactfully she put forward every redeeming argument in

his favour--without avail. Mrs Elton--broadly--had the right on her

side; and the gods had denied her the gift of discrimination. She saw

India as a vast, confused jumble of Rajahs and _bunnias_ and servants

and coolies--all steeped in varying depths of dirt and dishonesty, greed

and shameless ingratitude. It did not occur to her that sharp

distinctions of character, tradition, and culture underlay the more or

less uniform tint of skin. And beneath her instinctive antipathy, burned

furious anger with Roy for placing her, by his deceitfulness (it _must_

have been his) in the ironic position of having to repudiate the

engagement she had announced with such éclat only three weeks ago....

The moment she had recovered her breath, she returned unshaken to the

charge.

"That's very fine talk, my dear, for two people in love. But Roy's a

half-caste: that's flat. You can't wriggle away from the damning fact by

splitting hairs about education and breeding. Besides--_you_ only think

of the man. But are you prepared for your precious first baby to be as

dark as a native? It's more than likely. I know it for a fact----"

"Really, Mother! You're a trifle previous." Rose was cool no longer; a

slow, unwilling blush flooded her face. Her mother had struck at her

more shrewdly than she knew.