[Footnote 7: Victory to thee, Maharaj!]

[Footnote 8: Loin-cloth.]

[Footnote 9: Melted b.u.t.ter.]

CHAPTER VI.

"G.o.d has a few of us, whom He whispers in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome...."

--BROWNING.

"Living still, and the more beautiful for our longing."

The house of Sir Lakshman Singh, C.S.I.--like many others in advancing India--was a house divided against itself. And the cleavage cut deep.

The furnishing of the two rooms, in which he mainly lived, was not more sharply sundered from that of the Inside, than was the atmosphere of his large and vigorous mind from the twilight of ignorance and superst.i.tion that shrouded the mind and soul of his wife. More than fifty years ago--when young India ardently admired the West and all its works--he had dreamed of educating his spirited girl-bride, so that the way of companionship might gladden the way of marriage.

But too soon the spirited girl had hardened into the narrow, tyrannical woman; her conception of the wifely state limited to the traditional duties of motherhood and household service. Happily for Sir Lakshman, his unusual gifts had gained him wide recognition and high service in the State. He had schooled himself, long since, to forget his early dreams: and if marriage had failed, fatherhood had made royal amends.

Above all, in Lilamani, daughter of flesh and spirit, he had found--had in a measure created--the intimate companionship he craved; a woman skilled in the fine art of loving--finest and least studied of all the arts that enrich and beautify human life. But the G.o.ds, it seemed, were jealous of a relation too nearly perfect for mortal man. So Rama, eldest son, and Lilamani, beloved daughter, had been taken, while the estranged wife was left. Remained the grandchildren, in whom centred all his hope and pride. So far as the dividing miles and years would permit, he had managed to keep in close touch with Roy. But the fact remained that England had first claim on Lilamani's children; and Rama's were tossed on the troubled waters of transition.

As for India herself--sacred Mother-land--her distraught soul seemed more and more at the mercy of the voluble, the half-baked, the disruptive, at home and abroad.

Himself, steeped in the threefold culture of his country--Vedantic, Islamic, and European--he came very near the prevailing ideal of composite Indian nationality. Yet was he not deceived. In seventy years of life, he had seen intellectual India pa.s.s through many phases, from ardent admiration of the West and all its works, to no less ardent denunciation. And in these days he saw too clearly how those same intellectuals--with catchwords, meaningless to nine-tenths of her people--were breaking down, stone by stone, their mighty safeguard of British administration. Useless to protest. Having ears, they heard not.

Having eyes, they saw not. The spirit of destruction seemed abroad in all the earth. After Germany--Russia. Would it be India next? He knew her peoples well enough to fear. He also knew them well enough to hope.

But of late, increasingly, fear had prevailed. His shrewd eye discerned, in every direction, fresh portents of disaster--a weakened executive, divided counsels, and violence that is the offspring of both. His own Maharaja, he thanked G.o.d, was of the old school, loyal and conservative: his face set like a flint against the sedition-monger in print or person. And as concessions multiplied and extremists waxed bolder, so the need for vigilance waxed in proportion....

But to-day his mind had room for one thought only--the advent of Roy; legacy of her, his vanished Jewel of Delight.

A message from the Residency had told of the boy's arrival, of his hope to announce himself in person that evening; and now, on a low divan, the old man sat awaiting him with a more profound emotion at his heart than the mere impatience of youth. But the impa.s.sive face under the flesh-pink turban betrayed no sign of disturbance within. The strongly-marked nose and eyebones might have been carved in old ivory.

The snowy beard, parted in the middle, was swept up over his ears; and the eyes were veiled. An open book lay on his knee. But he was not reading. He was listening for the sound of hoofs, the sound of a voice....

The two had not met for five years: and in those years the boy had proved the warrior blood in his veins; had pa.s.sed through the searching test of a bitter loss. Together, they could speak of her--gone from them; yet alive in their hearts for evermore. Seen or unseen, she was the link that kept them all united, the pivot on which their lives still turned. There had been none with whom he could talk of her since she went....

Over his writing-table hung the original Antibes portrait--life-size; Nevil's payment for the high privilege of painting her; a privilege how reluctantly accorded none but himself had ever known. And behold his reward: her ever-visible presence--the girl-child who had been altogether his own.

Hoofs at last--and the remembered voice; deeper, more commanding; the embroidered curtain pushed aside. Then--Roy himself, broader, browner; his father's smile in his eyes; and, permeating all, the spirit of his mother, clearly discernible to the man who had given it life.

He was on his feet now, an imposing figure, in loose white raiment and purple choga. In India, he wisely discarded English dress, deeming it as unsuitable to the country as English political machinery. Silent, he held out his arms and folded Roy in a close embrace: then--still silent--stood away and considered him afresh. Their mutual emotion affected them sensibly, like the presence of a third person, making them shy of each other, shy of themselves.

It was Sir Lakshman who spoke first. "Roy, son of my Heart's Delight, I have waited many years for this day. It was the hidden wish of her heart. And her spirit, though withdrawn, still works in our lives. It is only so with those who love greatly, without base mixture of jealousy or greed. They pa.s.s on--yet they remain; untouched by death, like the lotus, that blooms in the water, but opens beyond its reach."

Words and tone so stirred Roy that sudden tears filled his eyes. And through the mist of his grief, dawned a vision of his mother's face.

Blurred and tremulous, it hovered before him with a startling illusion of life; then--he knew....

Without a word, he went over to the picture and stood before it, drowned fathoms deep....

A slight movement behind roused him; and with an effort he turned away.

"I've not seen a big one since--since my last time at home," he said simply. "I've only two small ones out here."

The carven face was not impa.s.sive now. "After all, Dilkusha,[10] what matter pictures when you have--herself?"

Roy started. "It's true. I _have_--herself. How could you know?"

Five minutes later, he was sitting beside his grandfather on the deep divan, telling him all.

Before setting out, he would not have believed it possible. But instinctively he knew himself in touch with a quality of love that matched his own; and the mere telling revived the marvel, the thrill of that strange and beautiful experience at Chitor....

Sir Lakshman had neither moved nor spoken throughout. Now their eyes met in a look of deep understanding.

"I am very proud you told me, Roy. It is not easy."

"No. I've not told any one else. I couldn't. But just now--something seemed to draw it all out of me. I suppose--something in you----"

"Or perhaps--herself! It almost seemed--she was here with us, while you talked."

"Perhaps--she is here still."

Their voices were lowered, as in the presence of sacred things. Never, till now, had Roy so keenly felt his individual link with this wonderful old man, whose blood ran in his veins.

"Grandfather," he asked after a pause, "I suppose it doesn't often happen--that sort of thing? I suppose most common-sense people would dismiss it all as--sheer delusion?"

The young simplicity of the question lit a smile in Sir Lakshman's eyes.

"Quite possible. All that is most beautiful in life, most real to saints and lovers, must seem delusion to those whose hearts and spirits are merely va.s.sals to the body and the brain. But those who say of the soul, 'It is not,' have still to _prove_ it is not to those who have felt and known. Also I grant--the other way about. But they speak in different languages. Kabir says, 'I disclose my soul in what is hidden.' And again, 'The bird is beyond seeking, yet it is most clearly visible.' For us, that is living truth. For those others, a mere tangle of words."

"I see." Roy's gaze was riveted on the picture above the writing-table.

"You can't explain colours to the colour-blind. And I suppose experiences like mine only come to those for whom words like that are--living truth?"

"Yes--like yours. But there are other kinds; not always true. Because, in this so sacred matter, clever people, without scruple, have made capital out of the heart's natural longing; and the dividing line is dim where falsehood ends and truth begins. So it has all come into suspicion and contempt. Accept what is freely given, Roy. Do not be tempted to try and s.n.a.t.c.h more."

"No--no. I wouldn't if I could." A pause. "_You_ believe it is time ...

what I feel? That she is often--very near me?"

Sir Lakshman gravely inclined his head. "As I believe in Brahma, Lord of all."

And for both the silence that fell seemed pulsating with her unseen presence....

When they spoke again it was of mundane things. Roy vividly described his sensations, riding through the City; the culminating incident, and his recognition of the offender.

"The queerest thing, running into the beggar again like that! He looks as sulky and shifty as ever. That's how I knew."

"Sulky and shifty--and wearing English clothes?" Sir Lakshman's brows contracted sharply. "What name did you say?"

"Chandranath, we called him."

"And you don't know his whereabouts?"