CHAPTER VII

"Ce que nous quittons c'est une partie de nous meme. II faut mourir a une vie, pour entrer dans une autre."--ANATOLE FRANCE.

After all, human perversity decreed it should be Roy himself who shrank most acutely from the wrench of parting, when it loomed near enough to bring him down from Pisgah heights to the dust of the actual.

Dyan was overjoyed, of course, and untroubled by qualms. Towards the end of July, he and Aruna came for a brief visit. His excuses for its brevity struck Roy as a trifle 'thin'; but Dyan kept his secret and paid Tara Despard the compliment of taking her answer as final.

It was during his visit that Roy suffered the first incipient qualms; the first sharp contact with practical details:--date of sailing, details of outfit, the need for engaging a pa.s.sage betimes. As regards his destination, matters were simplified by the fact that the new Resident of Jaipur, Colonel Vincent Leigh, C.S.I., D.S.O., very considerately happened to be the husband of Desmond's delightful sister Thea. The schoolboy link between Lance and Roy had created a lasting friendship between their respective families; and it was General Sir Theo Desmond--now retired--who had invited Roy, in the name of his 'Twin,' to start with an unlimited visit to the Leighs; the sort of casual elastic visit that no one would dream of proposing outside India,--unless it were Ireland, of an earlier, happier day. The prospect was a secret consolation to Roy. It was also a secret jar to find he needed every ounce of consolation available.

Very carefully he hid his ignominious frame of mind--even from his mother; though she probably suspected it and would not fail to understand. What, precisely, would life be worth without that dear, daily intimacy--life uncoloured by the rainbow-tinted charm of her gentle, pa.s.sionate, humorous, delicately-poised personality? Relations of such rare quality exact their own pitiless price; and the woman influence would always be, for Roy--as for most men of genuine gifts and high purpose--his danger point or salvation. The dim and distant prospect of parting was thinkable--though perturbing. But all this talk of steamers and outfits startlingly illumined the fact that in October he was actually going--to the other end of the earth.

With Dyan's departure, realisation pounced upon his heart and brain.

Vaguely, and quite unjustly, he felt as if his cousin were in some way to blame; and for the moment, he was not sorry to be rid of him.

Partings over, he went off for a lone prowl--hatless, as usual--to quiet his jangling sensations and tell that inner, irresolute Roy not to be a treble-distilled fool....

Nothing like the open moor to clear away cobwebs. The sweeps of heady colour and blue distances could be trusted to revive the winged impulse that lured him irresistibly away from the tangible and a.s.sured. Is there no hidden link--he wondered--between the wander-instinct of the home-loving Scot and the vast s.p.a.ces of moor and sky that lie about him in his infancy...?

But first he must traverse the enchanted green gloom of his beech-wood, memory-haunted at every turn. Under his favourite tree, a wooden cross, carved by Tara and himself, marked the grave of Prince, dead these three years of sheer old age. And at sight of it there sprang to memory that unforgotten day of May,--the fight with Joe; Tara's bracelet, still treasured in his letter-case, even as Tara treasured the "broidered bodice," in a lavender-scented sachet, set apart from mere blouses and scarves....

And again that troublesome voice within urged--"What an utter fool you are--running away from them all."

To him had fallen the privilege of knowing family life at its best--the finest and happiest on earth; and he could not escape the price exacted, when the call comes to act and decide and suffer alone.

a.s.sociations that grow up with us are more or less taken for granted while their roots lie deep in the heart. Only when the threat of parting disturbs the delicate fibres, their depth and tenacity are revealed. And so it was with Roy. Hurrying through his wood of knightly adventures he felt besieged, in spirit, by the many loves that had hitherto simply been a part of his life; yet to-day pressed urgently, individually, upon his consciousness, his heart....

And over against them was the counter-pull of deep ancestral stirrings; large vague forces of the outer world; the sense of ferment everywhere; of storm-clouds on the greater horizon, big with dramas that might rock the spheres....

All these challenging forces seemed to dwarf his juvenile agitations; even to arraign his own beautiful surroundings as almost too peaceful, too perfect. Life could not be altogether made up of goodness and sweetness and poetry and philosophy. Somewhere--remote, unseen, implacable--there must lurk strong things, big things, perhaps inimical things, waiting to pounce on him, to be tackled and overcome. Anyhow there could be no question, after all his vapourings, of playing the fool and backing out----

He was on the ridge now; clear s.p.a.ce all about him, heather underfoot; his stride keeping pace with the march of his thoughts. Risks...? Of course there were risks. He recognised that more frankly now; and the talk with his mother had revealed a big one that had not so much as occurred to him. For Broome was right. Concentration on her had, in a sense, delayed his emotional development; had kept him--for all his artistry and his First in Greats--very much a boy at heart. Certainly, Aruna's grace and gaiety had struck him more consciously during this last visit. No denying, the Eastern element had its perilous fascination. And the Eastern element was barred. As for Tara--sister and friend and High Tower Princess in one--she was as much a part of home as his mother and Christine. He had simply not seen her yet as a budding woman. He had, in fact, been too deeply absorbed in Oxford and writing and his dream, and the general deliciousness of life, to challenge the future definitely, except in the matter of going to India, somewhen, somehow....

Lost in the swirl of his thoughts and the exhilaration of light and colour, he forgot all about tea-time....

It was after five when, at last, he swung round the yew hedge on to the long lawn; and there, at the far end, was Tara, evidently sent out to find him. She was wearing her delphinium frock and the big blue hat with its single La France rose. She walked pensively, her head bowed; and, in that moment, by some trick of sense or spirit, he saw her vividly, as she was. He saw the grace of her young slenderness, the wild-flower colouring, the delicate aquiline of her nose that revealed breeding and character; the mouth that even in repose seemed to quiver with sensibility. And he thought: "Good Lord! How lovely she is!"

Of course he had known it always--at the back of his mind. The odd thing was, he had never thought it, in so many words, before. And from the thought sprang an inspiration. If only _she_ could come out with them--for a time, at least. So imbued was he with a sense of their brother and sister relation, that the idea seemed as natural as if it had concerned Christine. He had certainly been aware, the last year or so, of a gossamer veil dropped between them. He attributed this to mere grown-up-ness; but it made him feel appreciably shy at thought of broaching his brilliant idea.

She raised her head at that point; saw him, and waved a commanding hand.

Impelled by eagerness, he condescended to hurry.

"Casual demon--what _have_ you been up to?" she greeted him with mock severity.

"Prowling on the ridge. It was gorgeous up there," he answered, noticing in detail the curve of her eyelid and thick dark lashes.

"Well, tea's half cold and most of it eaten; and Aunt Lila seemed wondering a little. So I offered to go and unearth you."

"How could you tell?"

A dimple dipped in one cheek. "I couldn't! I was going to the wood, on chance. Come along."

"No hurry. If tea's half cold, it can wait a bit longer." He drew a breath, nerving himself; then: "Tara--I've got a proposal to make."

"Roy!" Her lips quivered, just perceptibly, and were still.

"Well, it's this. Wouldn't it be splendid if _you_ came along out--with us three?"

"Roy!" It was a changed intonation. "That's _not_ a subject for a practical joke."

"But I'm in earnest. High Tower Princess, wouldn't you love to come?"

"Of course I would." Was it his fancy, or did the blood stir ever so little in her cheeks? "But it's utterly, crazily impossible. The sort of thing only _you_ would suggest. So please let be--and come along in."

"Not till you promise. I'm dead set on this. And I'm going to have it out with you."

"Well, you won't have _me_ out with you--if you talk till midnight."

"Why not?"

Her smile had its delicious tremulous quality. "Were you twenty-one last birthday--or twelve? If you think you'll be lonely, ask for Christine.

She's your sister--I'm not!"

The emphasis and faint inflection of the last words had their intended effect. Roy's face fell. "O-oh, I see. But you've always been my sort of sister. Thea would understand. And nowadays girls do all sorts of things."

"Yes--they do!" Tara agreed demurely. "They scratch faces and burn down beautiful harmless houses. But they don't happen to belong to mother.

Roy--it's what I said--crazily--utterly---- If it wasn't, d'you suppose I'd say No?"

Then Roy knew he was beaten. Also he knew she was right and that he had been an impulsive fool--depressing convictions both. For a moment he stood nonplussed while Tara fingered a long chain he had given her, and absently studied a daisy-plant that had dared to invade the oldest, loveliest lawn in that part of the country.

But Roy was little used to being thwarted--by home elements, at least: and when an idea seized him he could be pertinacious, even to the point of folly. He was determined Tara should come with him. And Tara wanted to come. Add her permanent dearness and her newly-found loveliness, and there sprang from the conjunction a second inspiration, even bolder than the first.

"Tara--dear," he ventured, in a changed tone that halted between tenderness and appeal. "I'm going to say--something tremendous."

She deserted the daisy and faced him, blue eyes wide; her tell-tale lower lip drawn in.

"Would it be--quite so 'crazily--utterly'--if ... well, if we were engaged?"

The tremendous word was out; and the effect on her was unmistakable.

Colour stirred visibly in her face. She straightened herself with an air that seemed physically to increase the distance between them.

"Really, Roy--have you _quite_ lost your senses to-day?"

He looked--and felt--crestfallen. "But, Tara," he urged, "it's such a supreme idea. Wouldn't you--think of it, ever? We'd fit like a pair of gloves. Mummy would love it--extravagantly. And we've been kind of--caring all these years. At least"--sudden doubt a.s.sailed him--"I suppose you _do_ care still--a little bit?"

"Silly boy! Of course I--care ... a lot."

That was more like the Tara he knew. "Very well. _Why_ accuse me of incipient lunacy? I care, too. Always have done. Think how topping it would be, you and I together, exploring all the wonderland of our Game and Mummy's tales--Udaipur, Amber, Chitor, perhaps the shrine of the real Tara----"