Far to Seek. Diver Maud

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Despard, with her Indian name and her pearl-white English skin and the benign sunshine of England in her hair.

      It is the danger-point for the young Indian overseas, unused to free intercourse with women other than his own; saddled, very often, with a girl-wife in the background—the last by no means a matter of course in these enlightened days. In Dyán Singh's case the safeguard was lacking. His mother being dead, he had held his own against a rigidly conventional grandmother, and insisted on delaying the inevitable till his education was complete. Waxing bolder still, he had demanded the same respite for Arúna; a far more serious affair. For months they had waged a battle of tongues and temper and tears, with Mátaji—high-priestess of the Inside—with the family matchmaker and the family guru, whom to offend was the unforgiveable sin. Had he not power to call down upon an entire household the curse of the gods?

      More than once Arúna had been goaded to the brink of surrender; till her brother grew impatient and spurned her as a weakling. Yet her ordeal had been sharper than his own. For him, mere moral suasion and threats of ostracism. For her, the immemorial methods of the Inside; forbidden by Sir Lakshman, but secretly applied, when flagrant obstinacy demanded drastic measures. So neither Dyán nor his grandfather had suspected that Arúna, for days together, had suffered the torment of Tantalus—food set before her so mercilessly peppered that a morsel would raise blisters on her lips and tongue; water steeped in salt; the touch of the 'fire-stick' applied where her skin was tenderest; not to mention the more subtle torment of jibes and threats and vile insinuations that suffused her with shame and rage. A word to the menfolk, threatened Mátaji, and worse would befall. If men cared nothing for family honour, the women must vindicate it in their own fashion. For the two were doing their duty, up to their lights. Only the knowledge that Dyán was fighting her battle, as well as his own, had kept the girl unbroken in spirit, even when her body cried out for respite at any price. …

      All this she had confided to him when, at last, they were safe on the great ship, with miles of turbulent water between them and the ruthless dominion of dastúr. That confession—with its unconscious revealing of the Rajput spirit hidden in her laughter-loving heart—had drawn them into closest union and filled Dyán with self-reproach. Small wonder if Oxford seemed to both a paradise of knowledge and of friendly freedom. Small wonder if they believed that, in one bold leap, they had bridged the gulf between East and West.

      At Bramleigh Beeches, Lilámani—who knew all without telling—had welcomed them with open arms: and Lady Despard no less. It was here that Dyán met Tara, who had 'no use' for colleges—and, in the course of a few vacation visits, the damage had been done.

      At first he had felt startled, even a little dismayed. English education and delayed marriage had involved no dream of a possible English wife. With the Indian Civil in view, he had hoped to meet some girl student of his own race, sufficiently advanced to remain outside purdah and to realise that a modern Indian husband might crave companionship from his wife no less than motherhood, worship, and service.

      And now … this——!

      Striding across the field, in the glimmer of a moon just beginning to take colour, he alternately raged at her light rebuff, and applauded her maidenly hesitation. As a Hindu and a man of breeding, his natural instinct had been to approach her parents; but he knew enough of modern youth, by now, to realise that English parents were a side issue in these little affairs. For himself, the primitive lover flamed in him. He wanted to kneel and worship her. In the same breath, he wanted simply to possess her, would she or no. …

      And in saner moods, uncertainty racked him. What did they amount to, her smiles and flashes of sympathy, her kind, cousinly ways? What did Roy's cousinly kindness amount to, with Arúna? If in India they suffered from too much restriction, it dawned on him that in England trouble might arise from too much freedom. Always, by some cause, there would be suffering. The gods would see to it. But not through loss of her—he mutely implored them. Any way but that!

      Everything hung on the walk home. Those two must have finished their sparring match by now. …

      They had. Roy was on the bank, helping Arúna pack the basket; and Cuthbert in possession of Tara—not for long.

      He was called upon to punt back; and at the boat-house, where a taxi removed the elders and the picnic impedimenta, he essayed a futile manœuvre to recapture Tara and saddle Dyán with the solid Emily. Failing, he consoled himself by keeping in touch with Arúna and Roy.

      Dyán patently delayed starting, patently lagged behind. Unskilled and desperately in earnest, he could not lead up to his moment. He was laboriously framing the essential words when Tara scattered them with a light remark, rallying him on his snail's pace.

      "You would go for that stroll; and you strolled so violently——!"

      "Because my heart in me was raging—aching, violently!" he blurted out with such unexpected vehemence, that she started and stepped back a pace.

      "Of course I knew—there must be difficulties—so I have been waiting and hoping … " An idiotic catch in his throat brought a sudden hot wave of self-consciousness. He flung out both hands. "Tara——!"

      Instinctively, she drew her own out of reach. A ghost of a shiver ran through her. "No—no. I don't … I never have. … If I've misled you, I'm ever so sorry."

      "If you are sorry—give me hope," his voice, his eyes implored her. "You come so near—then you draw back; like offering a thirsty man a cup of water he must not drink. Give me only a little time—a little chance——"

      She shook her head. "Please believe me. I'm not the wavering kind. I'm keen to go on being friends—because of Roy. But, truthfully, it's no use hoping for anything more—ever."

      Her patent sincerity, the sweet seriousness of her face, carried conviction. And conviction turned his ardour to bitterness.

      "Why no use—ever?" he flung out, maddened by her emphasis on the word.

      "I suppose—because I know my own mind."

      "No. Because—I am Indian." His voice was changed and harsh. "We are all British subjects—oh yes—when convenient! But the door is opened only—so far. If we make bold to ask for the best, it is slammed in our faces."

      "Dyán Singh, if I have hurt you, it was quite unintentional. You know that. But now, with intention, you are hurting me." Her dignity and gentleness, the justice of her reproof, smote him silent; and she went on: "You forget, it is the same among your own people. Aunt Lila was cast out—for always. With an English girl that could never be."

      Too distraught for argument, he harked back to the personal issue. "With you there would be no need. I would live altogether like an Englishman——"

      "Oh, stop!" she broke out desperately. "Don't start all over again——"

      "Look alive, you two slackers," shouted Roy, from the far corner of the road. "I'm responsible for keeping the team together."

      "Coming!" called Tara, and turned on Dyán a final glance of appeal. "I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart. I can't say more."—And setting the pace, she hurried forward.

      For the fraction of a second, he hesitated. An overmastering impulse seized him to walk off in the opposite direction. His eager love for them all had suddenly turned to gall. But pride forbade. He would not for the world have them guess at his rebuff—not even Arúna. …

      He СКАЧАТЬ