"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 Dyan 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," Dyan 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 superst.i.tion 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 G.o.d, 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--Dyan 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 _dis_obedience 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....

Dyan 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 Dyan 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 pa.s.sion 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.

"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 Aruna--to be concerned for the dilemma of Dyan Singh, Rajput--half savage, half chivalrous gentleman; idealist in the grain; lover of England and India; and now--fiercely, consumedly--lover of Tara 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 Dyan 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 Aruna; a far more serious affair. For months they had waged a battle of tongues and temper and tears, with Mataji--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 G.o.ds?

More than once Aruna 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 Dyan nor his grandfather had suspected that Aruna, 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 Mataji, 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 Dyan 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 _dastur_. That confession--with its unconscious revealing of the Rajput spirit hidden in her laughter-loving heart--had drawn them into closest union and filled Dyan 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, Lilamani--who knew all without telling--had welcomed them with open arms: and Lady Despard no less. It was here that Dyan 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 Aruna? 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 G.o.ds 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 Aruna 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 manoeuvre to recapture Tara and saddle Dyan with the solid Emily.

Failing, he consoled himself by keeping in touch with Aruna and Roy.

Dyan 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.