Far to Seek. Diver Maud

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СКАЧАТЬ try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray.

      "I seek what I cannot get; I get what I do not seek."

      To that shining fragment of truth and beauty, his audience paid the fitting tribute of silence; and his gaze—returning to earth—caught, in Tara's eyes, a reflection of his exalted mood. Dyán saw it also; and once more that red-hot wire pierced his heart.

      It passed in a second; and Roy was speaking again—not to Tara, but to her mother.

      "Is there any poet, East or West, who can quite so exquisitely capture the essence of a mood, hold it lightly, like a fluttering bird, and as lightly let it go?"

      Lady Despard smiled approval at the simile. "In that one," she said, "he has captured more than a mood—the very essence of life.—Have you met him?"

      "Yes, once—after a lecture. We had a talk—I'll never forget. There's wonderful stuff in the new volume. I know most of it by heart."

      "Spare us, good Lord," muttered Cuthbert—neither prejudiced nor perverse, but British to the core. "If you start again, I'll retaliate with Job and the Psalms!"

      Roy retorted with the stump of an extinct cigarette. It smote the offender between the eyebrows, leaving a caste-mark of warm ash to attest the accuracy of his aim.

      "Bull's eye!" Tara scored softly; and Roy, turning on his elbow, appealed to Broome. "Jeffers, please extinguish him!" ("Jeffers" being a corruption of G.F., alias Godfather).

      Broome laughed. "I had a hazy notion he was your show candidate for the Indian Civil!"

      "He's supposed to be. That's the scandal of it. A mighty lot of interest he's cultivating in the people and the country he aspires to administer."

      "High art and sloppy sentiment are not in the bond," Cuthbert retorted, with a wink at Dyán Singh.

      That roused Lady Despard. "Insight and sympathy must be in the bond, unless England and India are to drift apart altogether. The Indian Civilian should be caught early, like the sailor, and trained on the spot. Exams make character a side issue. And one might almost say there's no other issue in the Indian services."

      Cuthbert nodded. "Glorious farce, isn't it? They simply cram us like Christmas turkeys. Efficiency's the war-cry, these enlightened days."

      "Too much efficiency," Dyán struck in, with a kindling eye. "Already turning our ancient cities into nightmares like Manchester and Birmingham, killing the true sense of beauty, giving us instead the poison of money and luxury worship. And what result? Just now, when the West at last begins to notice our genius of colour and design—even to learn from it—we find it slipping out of our own fingers. Nearly all the homes of the English educated are like caricatures of your villas—the worst kind. Yet there are still many on both sides who wish to make life—not so ugly, to escape a little from gross superstition of facts——"

      "Hear, hear!" Broome applauded him. "But I'm afraid, my dear boy, the Time Spirit is out to make tradesmen and politicians of us all. Thank God, the soul of a race lives in its books, its philosophy and art."

      "Very well then"—Roy was the speaker—"the obvious remedy lies in getting the souls of both races into closer touch—philosophy, art, and all that—eh, Jeffers? That's what we're after—Dyán and I—on the lines of that society Dad belongs to."

      Broome looked thoughtfully from one to the other. "A tall order," said he.

      "A vision splendid!" said Lady Despard.

      Roy leaned eagerly towards her. "You don't sneer at dreams, Aunt Helen."

      "Nor do I, my son. Dreamers are our strictly unpaid torch-bearers. They light the path for us; and we murmur 'Poor fools!' with a kind of sneaking self-satisfaction, when they come a cropper."

      "'Which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me!'" quoted Roy, cheered by Lady Despard's approval. "Anyway, we're keen to speed up the better understanding move—on the principle that Art unites and politics divide."

      "Very pithy—and approximately true! May I be allowed to proffer a sound working maxim for youth on the war-path? 'Freedom and courage in thought—obedience in act.' When I say obedience, I don't mean slavish conformity. When I say freedom, I don't mean licence. Only the bond are free."

      "Jeffers, you're a Daniel! I'll pinch that pearl of wisdom! But what about democracy—Cuthers' pet panacea? Isn't it making for disobedience in act—rebellion; and enslavement in thought—every man reared on the same catch-words, minted with the same hall-mark?"

      That roused the much-enduring British Lion—in the person of Cuthbert Gordon.

      "Confound you, Roy! This is a picnic, not a bally Union debate. You can't argue for nuts; and when you start spouting you're the limit. But two can play at that game!" He flourished a half-empty syphon of lemonade, threatening the handle with a very square thumb.

      "Fire away, old bean." Roy opened his mouth by way of invitation. Cuthbert promptly pressed the trigger—and missed his mark.

      There was a small shriek from Tara and from the girls on the bank: then the opponents proceeded to deal with one another in earnest. …

      Dyán soon lost interest when India was not the theme; and, as the elders fell into an undercurrent of talk, his eyes sought Tara's face. Her answering smile spurred him to a bold move; and he leaned towards her, over the edge of the boat. "Miss Despard," he said under his breath, "won't you come for a stroll in the field?—Do."

      She shook her head. "I'm too lazy! We've had enough exercise. And there's the walk home."

      Her refusal jarred him; but desire overruled pride. "You couldn't call it exercise. Do come."

      "Truly—I'm tired," she insisted gently, looking away from him towards her mother.

      It was Lady Despard's boast that she could listen to three conversations at once; but even Tara was surprised when she casually put out a hand and patted her knee. "Wise child. Better keep quiet till we start home."

      The hand was not removed. Tara covered it with her own, and further maddened the discomfited Dyán by saying, with her very kindest smile: "I'm so sorry. Don't be vexed."

      Vexed! The bloodless word was insult piled on injury. All the pride and passion of his race flamed in him. Without answering her smile or her plea, he drew abruptly away from her; stepped out of the punt and went for his stroll alone.

CHAPTER II.

       Table of Contents

"Who knows what days I answer for to-day … ?

Thoughts yet unripe in me, I bend one way. … "

—Alice Meynell.

      While Broome and Lady Despard were concerned over indications of a critical corner for Roy, there was none—save perhaps Arúna—to be concerned for the dilemma of Dyán Singh, Rajput—half savage, СКАЧАТЬ