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<h2> FALSE DAWN. </h2>
<p>To-night God knows what thing shall tide,<br/>
The Earth is racked and faint—<br/>
Expectant, sleepless, open-eyed;<br/>
And we, who from the Earth were made,<br/>
Thrill with our Mother's pain.<br/>
<br/>
In Durance.<br/></p>
<p>No man will ever know the exact truth of this story; though women may
sometimes whisper it to one another after a dance, when they are putting
up their hair for the night and comparing lists of victims. A man, of
course, cannot assist at these functions. So the tale must be told from
the outside—in the dark—all wrong.</p>
<p>Never praise a sister to a sister, in the hope of your compliments
reaching the proper ears, and so preparing the way for you later on.
Sisters are women first, and sisters afterwards; and you will find that
you do yourself harm.</p>
<p>Saumarez knew this when he made up his mind to propose to the elder Miss
Copleigh. Saumarez was a strange man, with few merits, so far as men could
see, though he was popular with women, and carried enough conceit to stock
a Viceroy's Council and leave a little over for the Commander-in-Chief's
Staff. He was a Civilian. Very many women took an interest in Saumarez,
perhaps, because his manner to them was offensive. If you hit a pony over
the nose at the outset of your acquaintance, he may not love you, but he
will take a deep interest in your movements ever afterwards. The elder
Miss Copleigh was nice, plump, winning and pretty. The younger was not so
pretty, and, from men disregarding the hint set forth above, her style was
repellant and unattractive. Both girls had, practically, the same figure,
and there was a strong likeness between them in look and voice; though no
one could doubt for an instant which was the nicer of the two.</p>
<p>Saumarez made up his mind, as soon as they came into the station from
Behar, to marry the elder one. At least, we all made sure that he would,
which comes to the same thing. She was two and twenty, and he was
thirty-three, with pay and allowances of nearly fourteen hundred rupees a
month. So the match, as we arranged it, was in every way a good one.
Saumarez was his name, and summary was his nature, as a man once said.
Having drafted his Resolution, he formed a Select Committee of One to sit
upon it, and resolved to take his time. In our unpleasant slang, the
Copleigh girls "hunted in couples." That is to say, you could do nothing
with one without the other. They were very loving sisters; but their
mutual affection was sometimes inconvenient. Saumarez held the
balance-hair true between them, and none but himself could have said to
which side his heart inclined; though every one guessed. He rode with them
a good deal and danced with them, but he never succeeded in detaching them
from each other for any length of time.</p>
<p>Women said that the two girls kept together through deep mistrust, each
fearing that the other would steal a march on her. But that has nothing to
do with a man. Saumarez was silent for good or bad, and as business-likely
attentive as he could be, having due regard to his work and his polo.
Beyond doubt both girls were fond of him.</p>
<p>As the hot weather drew nearer, and Saumarez made no sign, women said that
you could see their trouble in the eyes of the girls—that they were
looking strained, anxious, and irritable. Men are quite blind in these
matters unless they have more of the woman than the man in their
composition, in which case it does not matter what they say or think. I
maintain it was the hot April days that took the color out of the Copleigh
girls' cheeks. They should have been sent to the Hills early. No one—man
or woman—feels an angel when the hot weather is approaching. The
younger sister grew more cynical—not to say acid—in her ways;
and the winningness of the elder wore thin. There was more effort in it.</p>
<p>Now the Station wherein all these things happened was, though not a little
one, off the line of rail, and suffered through want of attention. There
were no gardens or bands or amusements worth speaking of, and it was
nearly a day's journey to come into Lahore for a dance. People were
grateful for small things to interest them.</p>
<p>About the beginning of May, and just before the final exodus of
Hill-goers, when the weather was very hot and there were not more than
twenty people in the Station, Saumarez gave a moonlight riding-picnic at
an old tomb, six miles away, near the bed of the river. It was a "Noah's
Ark" picnic; and there was to be the usual arrangement of quarter-mile
intervals between each couple, on account of the dust. Six couples came
altogether, including chaperons. Moonlight picnics are useful just at the
very end of the season, before all the girls go away to the Hills. They
lead to understandings, and should be encouraged by chaperones; especially
those whose girls look sweetish in riding habits. I knew a case once. But
that is another story. That picnic was called the "Great Pop Picnic,"
because every one knew Saumarez would propose then to the eldest Miss
Copleigh; and, beside his affair, there was another which might possibly
come to happiness. The social atmosphere was heavily charged and wanted
clearing.</p>
<p>We met at the parade-ground at ten: the night was fearfully hot. The
horses sweated even at walking-pace, but anything was better than sitting
still in our own dark houses. When we moved off under the full moon we
were four couples, one triplet, and Mr. Saumarez rode with the Copleigh
girls, and I loitered at the tail of the procession, wondering with whom
Saumarez would ride home. Every one was happy and contented; but we all
felt that things were going to happen. We rode slowly: and it was nearly
midnight before we reached the old tomb, facing the ruined tank, in the
decayed gardens where we were going to eat and drink. I was late in coming
up; and before I went into the garden, I saw that the horizon to the north
carried a faint, dun-colored feather. But no one would have thanked me for
spoiling so well-managed an entertainment as this picnic—and a
dust-storm, more or less, does no great harm.</p>
<p>We gathered by the tank. Some one had brought out a banjo—which is a
most sentimental instrument—and three or four of us sang. You must
not laugh at this. Our amusements in out-of-the-way Stations are very few
indeed. Then we talked in groups or together, lying under the trees, with
the sun-baked roses dropping their petals on our feet, until supper was
ready. It was a beautiful supper, as cold and as iced as you could wish;
and we stayed long over it.</p>
<p>I had felt that the air was growing hotter and hotter; but nobody seemed
to notice it until the moon went out and a burning hot wind began lashing
the orange-trees with a sound like the noise of the sea. Before we knew
where we were, the dust-storm was on us, and everything was roaring,
whirling darkness. The supper-table was blown bodily into the tank. We
were afraid of staying anywhere near the old tomb for fear it might be
blown down. So we felt our way to the orange-trees where the horses were
picketed and waited for the storm to blow over. Then the little light that
was left vanished, and you could not see your hand before your face. The
air was heavy with dust and sand from the bed of the river, that filled
boots and pockets and drifted down necks and coated eyebrows and
moustaches. It was one of the worst dust-storms of the year. We were all
huddled together close to the trembling horses, with the thunder
clattering overhead, and the lightning spurting like water from a sluice,
all ways at once. There was no danger, of course, unless the horses broke
loose. I was standing with my head downward and my hands over my mouth,
hearing the trees thrashing each other. I could not see who was next me
till the flashes came. Then I found that I was packed near Saumarez and
the eldest Miss Copleigh, with my own horse just in front of me. I
recognized the eldest Miss Copleigh, because she had a pagri round her
helmet, and the younger had not. All the electricity in the air had gone
into my body and I was quivering and tingling from head to foot—exactly
as a corn shoots and tingles before rain. It was a grand storm. The wind
seemed to be picking up the earth and pitching it to leeward in great
heaps; and the heat beat up from the ground like the heat of the Day of
Judgment.</p>
<p>The storm lulled slightly after the first half-hour, and I heard a
despairing little voice close to my ear, saying to itself, quietly and
softly, as if some lost soul were flying about with the wind: "O my God!"
Then the younger Miss Copleigh stumbled into my arms, saying: "Where is my
horse? Get my horse. I want to go home. I WANT to go home. Take me home."</p>
<p>I thought that the lightning and the black darkness had frightened her; so
I said there was no danger, but she must wait till the storm blew over.
She answered: "It is not THAT! It is not THAT! I want to go home! O take
me away from here!"</p>
<p>I said that she could not go till the light came; but I felt her brush
past me and go away. It was too dark to see where. Then the whole sky was
split open with one tremendous flash, as if the end of the world were
coming, and all the women shrieked.</p>
<p>Almost directly after this, I felt a man's hand on my shoulder and heard
Saumarez bellowing in my ear. Through the rattling of the trees and
howling of the wind, I did not catch his words at once, but at last I
heard him say: "I've proposed to the wrong one! What shall I do?" Saumarez
had no occasion to make this confidence to me. I was never a friend of
his, nor am I now; but I fancy neither of us were ourselves just then. He
was shaking as he stood with excitement, and I was feeling queer all over
with the electricity. I could not think of anything to say except:—"More
fool you for proposing in a dust-storm." But I did not see how that would
improve the mistake.</p>
<p>Then he shouted: "Where's Edith—Edith Copleigh?" Edith was the
youngest sister. I answered out of my astonishment:—"What do you
want with HER?" Would you believe it, for the next two minutes, he and I
were shouting at each other like maniacs—he vowing that it was the
youngest sister he had meant to propose to all along, and I telling him
till my throat was hoarse that he must have made a mistake! I can't
account for this except, again, by the fact that we were neither of us
ourselves. Everything seemed to me like a bad dream—from the
stamping of the horses in the darkness to Saumarez telling me the story of
his loving Edith Copleigh since the first. He was still clawing my
shoulder and begging me to tell him where Edith Copleigh was, when another
lull came and brought light with it, and we saw the dust-cloud forming on
the plain in front of us. So we knew the worst was over. The moon was low
down, and there was just the glimmer of the false dawn that comes about an
hour before the real one. But the light was very faint, and the dun cloud
roared like a bull. I wondered where Edith Copleigh had gone; and as I was
wondering I saw three things together: First Maud Copleigh's face come
smiling out of the darkness and move towards Saumarez, who was standing by
me. I heard the girl whisper, "George," and slide her arm through the arm
that was not clawing my shoulder, and I saw that look on her face which
only comes once or twice in a lifetime-when a woman is perfectly happy and
the air is full of trumpets and gorgeous-colored fire and the Earth turns
into cloud because she loves and is loved. At the same time, I saw
Saumarez's face as he heard Maud Copleigh's voice, and fifty yards away
from the clump of orange-trees I saw a brown holland habit getting upon a
horse.</p>
<p>It must have been my state of over-excitement that made me so quick to
meddle with what did not concern me. Saumarez was moving off to the habit;
but I pushed him back and said:—"Stop here and explain. I'll fetch
her back!" and I ran out to get at my own horse. I had a perfectly
unnecessary notion that everything must be done decently and in order, and
that Saumarez's first care was to wipe the happy look out of Maud
Copleigh's face. All the time I was linking up the curb-chain I wondered
how he would do it.</p>
<p>I cantered after Edith Copleigh, thinking to bring her back slowly on some
pretence or another. But she galloped away as soon as she saw me, and I
was forced to ride after her in earnest. She called back over her shoulder—"Go
away! I'm going home. Oh, go away!" two or three times; but my business
was to catch her first, and argue later. The ride just fitted in with the
rest of the evil dream. The ground was very bad, and now and again we
rushed through the whirling, choking "dust-devils" in the skirts of the
flying storm. There was a burning hot wind blowing that brought up a
stench of stale brick-kilns with it; and through the half light and
through the dust-devils, across that desolate plain, flickered the brown
holland habit on the gray horse. She headed for the Station at first. Then
she wheeled round and set off for the river through beds of burnt down
jungle-grass, bad even to ride a pig over. In cold blood I should never
have dreamed of going over such a country at night, but it seemed quite
right and natural with the lightning crackling overhead, and a reek like
the smell of the Pit in my nostrils. I rode and shouted, and she bent
forward and lashed her horse, and the aftermath of the dust-storm came up
and caught us both, and drove us downwind like pieces of paper.</p>
<p>I don't know how far we rode; but the drumming of the horse-hoofs and the
roar of the wind and the race of the faint blood-red moon through the
yellow mist seemed to have gone on for years and years, and I was
literally drenched with sweat from my helmet to my gaiters when the gray
stumbled, recovered himself, and pulled up dead lame. My brute was used up
altogether. Edith Copleigh was in a sad state, plastered with dust, her
helmet off, and crying bitterly. "Why can't you let me alone?" she said.
"I only wanted to get away and go home. Oh, PLEASE let me go!"</p>
<p>"You have got to come back with me, Miss Copleigh. Saumarez has something
to say to you."</p>
<p>It was a foolish way of putting it; but I hardly knew Miss Copleigh; and,
though I was playing Providence at the cost of my horse, I could not tell
her in as many words what Saumarez had told me. I thought he could do that
better himself. All her pretence about being tired and wanting to go home
broke down, and she rocked herself to and fro in the saddle as she sobbed,
and the hot wind blew her black hair to leeward. I am not going to repeat
what she said, because she was utterly unstrung.</p>
<p>This, if you please, was the cynical Miss Copleigh. Here was I, almost an
utter stranger to her, trying to tell her that Saumarez loved her and she
was to come back to hear him say so! I believe I made myself understood,
for she gathered the gray together and made him hobble somehow, and we set
off for the tomb, while the storm went thundering down to Umballa and a
few big drops of warm rain fell. I found out that she had been standing
close to Saumarez when he proposed to her sister and had wanted to go home
and cry in peace, as an English girl should. She dabbled her eyes with her
pocket-handkerchief as we went along, and babbled to me out of sheer
lightness of heart and hysteria. That was perfectly unnatural; and yet, it
seemed all right at the time and in the place. All the world was only the
two Copleigh girls, Saumarez and I, ringed in with the lightning and the
dark; and the guidance of this misguided world seemed to lie in my hands.</p>
<p>When we returned to the tomb in the deep, dead stillness that followed the
storm, the dawn was just breaking and nobody had gone away. They were
waiting for our return. Saumarez most of all. His face was white and
drawn. As Miss Copleigh and I limped up, he came forward to meet us, and,
when he helped her down from her saddle, he kissed her before all the
picnic. It was like a scene in a theatre, and the likeness was heightened
by all the dust-white, ghostly-looking men and women under the
orange-trees, clapping their hands, as if they were watching a play—at
Saumarez's choice. I never knew anything so un-English in my life.</p>
<p>Lastly, Saumarez said we must all go home or the Station would come out to
look for us, and WOULD I be good enough to ride home with Maud Copleigh?
Nothing would give me greater pleasure, I said.</p>
<p>So, we formed up, six couples in all, and went back two by two; Saumarez
walking at the side of Edith Copleigh, who was riding his horse.</p>
<p>The air was cleared; and little by little, as the sun rose, I felt we were
all dropping back again into ordinary men and women and that the "Great
Pop Picnic" was a thing altogether apart and out of the world—never
to happen again. It had gone with the dust-storm and the tingle in the hot
air.</p>
<p>I felt tired and limp, and a good deal ashamed of myself as I went in for
a bath and some sleep.</p>
<p>There is a woman's version of this story, but it will never be written....
unless Maud Copleigh cares to try.</p>
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