Far to Seek - A Romance of England and India

Maud Diver

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• Publié par: kirim
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 42
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Far to Seek, by Maud Diver
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Title: Far to Seek
A Romance of England and India
Author: Maud Diver
Release Date: April 25, 2005 [EBook #15704]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAR TO SEEK ***
Produced by Michael Ciesielski, Beginners Projects and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
FAR TO SEEK
A Romance of England and India
BY
MAUD DIVER
AUTHOR OF 'CAPTAIN DESMOND, V.C.,' 'LILÁMANI,' 'DESMOND'S
DAUGHTER,' ETC.
"I am athirst for far-away things.
My soul goes out in longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance....
O Far-to-Seek! O the keen call of thy flute...!"
—Rabindranath Tagore.
"His hidden meaning dwells in our endeavours;
Our valours are our best gods."
—John Fletcher.
William Blackwood & Sons Ltd.Edinburgh and London
TO
MY BLUE BIRD,
BRINGER OF HAPPINESS TO MYSELF
AND OTHERS,
I DEDICATE THIS IDYLL OF
A MOTHER AND SON.
M.D.
"The dawn sleeps behind the shadowy hills,
The stars hold their breath, counting the hours....
There is only your own pair of wings and the pathless sky,
Bird, oh my Bird, listen to me—do not close your wings."
—Rabindranath Tagore.
AUTHOR'S NOTE.
As part of my book is set in Lahore, at the time of the outbreak, in April 1919, I
wish to state clearly that, while the main events are true to fact, the characters
concerned, both English and Indian, are purely imaginary. At the same time, the
opinions expressed by my Indian characters on the present outlook are all
based on the written or spoken opinions of actual Indians—loyal or disaffected,
as the case may be.
There were no serious British casualties in Lahore, though there were many
elsewhere. I have imagined one locally, for purposes of my story. In all other
respects I have kept close to recorded facts.
M.D.
CONTENTS.
PHASE I. THE GLORY AND THE DREAM 1
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
PHASE II. THE VISIONARY GLEAM 65
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII.
PHASE III. PISGAH HEIGHTS 135
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
PHASE IV. DUST OF THE ACTUAL 283
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
PHASE V. A STAR IN DARKNESS 417
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
PHASE I.
THE GLORY AND THE DREAM
CHAPTER I.
"Thou art the sky, and thou art the nest as well."
—Tagore.
By the shimmer of blue under the beeches Roy knew that summer—"really truly
summer!"—had come back at last. And summer meant picnics and strawberries
and out-of-door lessons, and the lovely hot smell of pine-needles in the pine-
wood, and the lovelier cool smell of moss cushions in the beech-wood—home
of squirrels and birds and bluebells; unfailing wonderland of discovery and
adventure.
Roy was an imaginative creature, isolated a little by the fact of being three and
a half years older than Christine, and "miles older" than Jerry and George, mere
babies, for whom the magic word adventure held no meaning at all.
Luckily, there was Tara, from the black-and-white house: Tara, who shared his
lessons and, in spite of the drawback of being a girl, had long ago won her way
into his private world of knight-errantry and romance. Tara was eight years and
five weeks old; quite a reasonable age in the eyes of Roy, whose full name was
Nevil Le Roy Sinclair, and who would be nine in June. With the exception of
grown-ups, who didn't count, there was no one older than nine in his immediate
neighbourhood. Tara came nearest: but she wouldn't be nine till next year; and
by that time, he would be ten. The point was, she couldn't catch him up if she
tried ever so.
It was Tara's mother, Lady Despard, who had the happy idea of sharing
lessons, that would otherwise be rather a lonely affair for both. But it was Roy's
mother who had the still happier idea of teaching them herself. Tara's mother
joined in now and then; but Roy's mother—who loved it beyond everything—
secured the lion's share. And Roy was old enough by now to be proudly aware
of his own good fortune. Most other children of his acquaintance were afflicted
with tiresome governesses, who wore ugly jackets and hats, who said "Don't
drink with your mouth full," and "Don't argue the point!"—Roy's favourite sin—and always told you to "Look in the dictionary" when you found a scrumptious
new word and wanted to hear all about it. The dictionary, indeed! Roy privately
regarded it as one of the many mean evasions to which grown-ups were
addicted.
His ripe experience on the subject was gleaned partly from neighbouring
families, partly from infrequent visits to "Aunt Jane"—whom he hated with a
deep unreasoned hate—and "Uncle George," who had a kind, stupid face, but
anyhow tried to be funny and made futile bids for favour with pen-knives and
half-crowns. Possibly it was these uncongenial visits that quickened in him very
early the consciousness that his own beautiful home was, in some special way,
different from other boys' homes, and his mother—in a still more special way—
different from other boys' mothers....
And that proud conviction was no mere myth born of his young adoration. In all
the County, perhaps in all the Kingdom, there could be found no mother in the
least like Lilámani Sinclair, descendant of Rajput chiefs and wife of an English
Baronet, who, in the face of formidable barriers, had dared to accept all risks
and follow the promptings of his heart. One of these days there would dawn on
Roy the knowledge that he was the child of a unique romance, of a mutual love
and courage that had run the gauntlet of prejudices and antagonisms, of
fightings without and fears within; yet, in the end, had triumphed as they triumph
who will not admit defeat. All this initial blending of ecstasy and pain, of
spiritual striving and mastery, had gone to the making of Roy, who in the
fulness of time would realise—perhaps with pride, perhaps with secret trouble
and misgiving—the high and complex heritage that was his.
Meanwhile he only knew that he was fearfully happy, especially in summer
time; that his father—who had smiling eyes and loved messing with paints like
a boy—was kinder than anyone else's, so long as you didn't tell bad fibs or
meddle with his brushes; that his idolised mother, in her soft coloured silks and
saris, her bangles and silver shoes, was the "very most beautiful" being in the
whole world. And Roy's response to the appeal of beauty was abnormally quick
and keen. It could hardly be otherwise with the son of these two. He loved, with
a fervour beyond his years, the clear pale oval of his mother's face; the coils of
her dark hair, seen always through a film of softest muslin—moon-yellow or
apple-blossom pink, or deep dark blue like the sky out of his window at night
spangled with stars. He loved the glimmer of her jewels, the sheen and feel of
her wonderful Indian silks, that seemed to smell like the big sandalwood box in
the drawing-room. And beyond everything he loved her smile and the touch of
her hand, and her voice that could charm away all nightmare terrors, all
questionings and rebellions, of his excitable brain.
Yet, in outward bearing, he was not a sentimental boy. The Sinclairs did not run
to sentiment; and the blood of two virile races—English and Rajput—was
mingled in his veins. Already his budding masculinity bade him keep the
feelings of 'that other Roy' locked in the most secret corner of his heart. Only his
mother, and sometimes Tara, caught a glimpse of him now and then. Lady
Sinclair, herself, never guessed that, in the vivid imaginations of both children,
she herself was the ever-varying incarnation of the fairy princesses and
Rajputni heroines of her own tales. Their appetite for these was insatiable; and
her store of them seemed never ending: folk tales of East and West; true tales
of Crusaders, of Arthur and his knights; of Rajput Kings and Queens, in the far-
off days when Rajasthán—a word like a trumpet call—was holding her desert
cities against hordes of invaders, and heroes scorned to die in their beds. Muchof it all was frankly beyond them; but the colour and the movement, the
atmosphere of heroism and high endeavour quickened imagination and fellow-
feeling, and left