“But turn a little, Huzoor,” Ahmed whispered in his ear, and led him back. “Look! There is the Bibigarh where the women were imprisoned. That is the house. Through that opening Sirdar Khan and his four companions went — and shut the door behind them. In that room the women of Mecca knelt and prayed for mercy. Come away, Huzoor. We have seen. Those were days when there were men upon the plains of India.”
And Shere Ali broke out with a fierce oath.
“Amongst the hills, at all events, there are men today. There is no sacred ground for them in Chiltistan.”
“Not even the Road?” asked Ahmed Ismail; and Shere Ali stopped dead, and stared at his companion with startled eyes. He walked away in silence after that; and for the rest of that day he said little to Ahmed Ismail, who watched him anxiously. At night, however, Ahmed was justified of his policy. For Shere Ali appeared before him in the white robes of a Mohammedan. Up till then he had retained the English dress. Now he had discarded it. Ahmed Ismail fell at his feet, and bowed himself to the ground.
“My Lord! My Lord!” he cried, and there was no simulation in his outburst of joy. “Would that your people could behold you now! But we have much to see first. To-morrow we go to Lucknow.”
Accordingly the two men travelled the next day to Lucknow. Shere Ali was led up under the broken archway by Evans’s Battery into the grounds of the Residency. He walked with Ahmed Ismail at his elbow on the green lawns where the golden-crested hoopoes flashed in the sunlight and the ruined buildings stood agape to the air. They looked peaceful enough, as they strolled from one battery to another, but all the while Ahmed Ismail preached his sermon into Shere Ali’s ears. There Lawrence had died; here at the top of the narrow lane had stood Johannes’s house whence Nebo the Nailer had watched day after day with his rifle in his hand. Hardly a man, be he never so swift, could cross that little lane from one quarter of the Residency to another, so long as daylight lasted and so long as Nebo the Nailer stood behind the shutters of Johannes’s house. Shere Ali was fired by the story of that siege. By so little was the garrison saved. Ahmed Ismail led him down to a corner of the grounds and once more a sentry barred the way.
“This is the graveyard,” said Ahmed Ismail, and Shere Ali, looking up, stepped back with a look upon his face which Ahmed Ismail did not understand.
“Huzoor!” he said anxiously, and Shere Ali turned upon him with an imperious word.
“Silence, dog!” he cried. “Stand apart. I wish to be alone.”
His eyes were on the little church with the trees and the wall girding it in. At the side a green meadow with high trees, had the look of a playing-ground — the playing-ground of some great public school in England. Shere Ali’s eyes took in the whole picture, and then saw it but dimly through a mist. For the little church, though he had never seen it before, was familiar and most moving. It was a model of the Royal Chapel at Eton, and, in spite of himself, as he gazed the tears filled his eyes and the memory of his schooldays ached at his heart. He yearned to be back once more in the shadow of that chapel with his comrades and his friends. Not yet had he wholly forgotten; he was softened out of his bitterness; the burden of his jealousy and his anger fell for awhile from his shoulders. When he rejoined Ahmed Ismail, he bade him follow and speak no word. He drove back to the town, and then only he spoke to Ahmed Ismail.
“We will go from Lucknow to-day,” he said. “I will not sleep in this town.”
“As your Highness wills,” said Ahmed Ismail humbly, and he went into the station and bought tickets for Delhi. It was on a Thursday morning that the pair reached that town; and that day Ahmed Ismail had an unreceptive listener for his sermons. The monument before the Post Office, the tablets on the arch of the arsenal, even the barracks in the gardens of the Moghul Palace fired no antagonism in the Prince, who so short a time ago had been a boy at Eton. The memories evoked by the little church at Lucknow had borne him company all night and still clung to him that day. He was homesick for his school. Only twice was he really roused.
The first instance took place when he was driving along the Chandni Chauk, the straight broad tree-fringed street which runs from the Lahore Gate to the Fort. Ahmed Ismail sat opposite to him, and, leaning forward, he pointed to a tree and to a tall house in front of the tree.
“My Lord,” said he, “could that tree speak, what groans would one hear!”
“Why?” said Shere Ali listlessly.
“Listen, your Highness,” said Ahmed Ismail. Like the rest of his countrymen, he had a keen love for a story. And the love was the keener when he himself had the telling of it. He sat up alertly. “In that house lived an Englishman of high authority. He escaped when Delhi was seized by the faithful. He came back when Delhi was recaptured by the infidels. And there he sat with an English officer, at his window, every morning from eight to nine. And every morning from eight to nine every native who passed his door was stopped and hanged upon that tree, while he looked on. Huzoor, there was no inquiry. It might be some peaceable merchant, some poor man from the countryside. What did it matter? There was a lesson to be taught to this city. And so whoever walked down the Chandni Chauk during that hour dangled from those branches. Huzoor, for a week this went on — for a whole week.”
The story was current in Delhi. Ahmed Ismail found it to his hand, and Shere Ali did not question it. He sat up erect, and something of the fire which this last day had been extinct kindled again in his sombre eyes. Later on he drove along the sinuous road on the top of the ridge, and as he looked over Delhi, hidden amongst its foliage, he saw the great white dome of the Jumma Musjid rising above the tree-tops, like a balloon. “The Mosque,” he said, standing up in his carriage. “To-morrow we will worship there.”
Before noon the next day he mounted the steep broad flight of steps and passed under the red sandstone arch into the vast enclosure. He performed his ablutions at the fountain, and, kneeling upon the marble tiles, waited for the priest to ascend the ladder on to the wooden platform. He knelt with Ahmed Ismail at his side, in the open, amongst the lowliest. In front of him rows of worshippers knelt and bowed their foreheads to the tiles — rows and rows covering the enclosure up to the arches of the mosque itself. There were others too — rows and rows within the arches, in the dusk of the mosque itself, and from man to man emotion passed like a spark upon the wind. The crowd grew denser, there came a suspense, a tension. It gained upon all, it laid its clutch upon Shere Ali. He ceased to think, even upon his injuries, he was possessed with expectancy. And then a man kneeling beside him interrupted his prayers and began to curse fiercely beneath his breath.
“May they burn, they and their fathers and their children, to the last generation!” And he added epithets of a surprising ingenuity. The while he looked backwards over his shoulder.
Shere Ali followed his example. He saw at the back of the enclosure, in the galleries which surmounted the archway and the wall, English men and English women waiting. Shere Ali’s blood boiled at the sight. They were laughing, talking. Some of them had brought sandwiches and were eating their lunch. Others were taking photographs with their cameras. They were waiting for the show to begin.
Shere Ali followed the example of his neighbour and cursed them. All his anger kindled again and quickened into hatred. They were so careful of themselves, so careless of others!
“Not a Mohammedan,” he cried to himself, “must set foot in their graveyard at Lucknow, but they come to our mosque as to a show.”
Suddenly he saw the priest climb the ladder on to the high wooden platform in front of the central arch of the mosque and bow his forehead to the floor. His voice rang out resonant and clear and confident over that vast assemblage.
“There is only one God.”
And a shiver passed across the rows of kneeling men, as though unexpectedly a wind had blown across a ripe field of corn. Shere Ali was moved like the rest, but all the while at the back of his mind there was the thought of those white people in the galleries.
�
�They are laughing at us, they are making a mock of us, they think we are of no account.” And fiercely he called upon his God, the God of the Mohammedans, to root them out from the land and cast them as weeds in the flame.
The priest stood up erect upon the platform, and with a vibrating voice, now plaintive and conveying some strange sense of loneliness, now loud in praise, now humble in submission, he intoned the prayers. His voice rose and sank, reverberating back over the crowded courtyard from the walls of the mosque. Shere Ali prayed too, but he prayed silently, with all the fervour of a fanatic, that it might be his hand which should drive the English to their ships upon the sea.
When he rose and came out from the mosque he turned to Ahmed Ismail.
“There are some of my people in Delhi?”
Ahmed Ismail bowed.
“Let us go to them,” said Shere Ali; he sought refuge amongst them from the thought of those people in the galleries. Ahmed Ismail was well content with the results of his pilgrimage. Shere Ali, as he paced the streets of Delhi with a fierce rapt look in his eyes, had the very aspect of a Ghazi fresh from the hills and bent upon murder and immolation.
CHAPTER XXIV
NEWS FROM AJMERE
SOMETHING OF THIS pilgrimage Ralston understood; and what he understood he explained to Dick Linforth on the top of the tower at Peshawur. Linforth, however, was still perplexed, still unconvinced.
“I can’t believe it,” he cried; “I know Shere Ali so well.”
Ralston shook his head.
“England overlaid the real man with a pretty varnish,” he said. “That’s all it ever does. And the varnish peels off easily when the man comes back to an Indian sun. There’s not one of these people from the hills but has in him the makings of a fanatic. It’s a question of circumstances whether the fanaticism comes to the top or not. Given the circumstances, neither Eton, nor Oxford, nor all the schools and universities rolled into one would hinder the relapse.”
“But why?” exclaimed Linforth. “Why should Shere Ali have relapsed?”
“Disappointment here, flattery in England — there are many reasons. Usually there’s a particular reason.”
“And what is that?” asked Linforth.
“The love of a white woman.”
Ralston was aware that Linforth at his side started. He started ever so slightly. But Ralston was on the alert. He made no sign, however, that he had noticed anything.
“I know that reason held good in Shere Ali’s case,” Ralston went on; and there came a change in Linforth’s voice. It grew rather stern, rather abrupt.
“Why? Has he talked?”
“Not that I know of. Nevertheless, I am sure that there was one who played a part in Shere Ali’s life,” said Ralston. “I have known it ever since I first met him — more than a year ago on his way northwards to Chiltistan. He stopped for a day at Lahore and rode out with me. I told him that the Government expected him to marry as soon as possible, and settle down in his own country. I gave him that advice deliberately. You see I wanted to find out. And I did find out. His consternation, his anger, answered me clearly enough. I have no doubt that there was someone over there in England — a woman, perhaps an innocent woman, who had been merely careless — perhaps—”
But he did not finish the sentence. Linforth interrupted him before he had time to complete it. And he interrupted without flurry or any sign of agitation.
“There was a woman,” he said. “But I don’t think she was thoughtless. I don’t see how she could have known that there was any danger in her friendliness. For she was merely friendly to Shere Ali. I know her myself.”
The answer was given frankly and simply. For once Ralston was outwitted. Dick Linforth had Violet Oliver to defend, and the defence was well done. Ralston was left without a suspicion that Linforth had any reason beyond the mere truth of the facts to spur him to defend her.
“Yes, that’s the mistake,” said Ralston. “The woman’s friendly and means no more than she says or looks. But these fellows don’t understand such friendship. Shere Ali is here dreaming of a woman he knows he can never marry — because of his race. And so he’s ready to run amuck. That’s what it comes to.”
He turned away from the city as he spoke and took a step or two towards the flight of stone stairs which led down from the tower.
“Where is Shere Ali now?” Linforth asked, and Ralston stopped and came back again.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I shall know, and very soon. There may be a letter waiting for me at home. You see, when there’s trouble brewing over there behind the hills, and I want to discover to what height it has grown and how high it’s likely to grow, I select one of my police, a Pathan, of course, and I send him to find out.”
“You send him over the Malakand,” said Linforth, with a glance towards the great hill-barrier. He was to be astonished by the answer Ralston gave.
“No. On the contrary, I send him south. I send him to Ajmere, in Rajputana.”
“In Ajmere?” cried Linforth.
“Yes. There is a great Mohammedan shrine. Pilgrims go there from all parts, but mostly from beyond the frontier. I get my fingers on the pulse of the frontier in Ajmere more surely than I should if I sent spies up into the hills. I have a man there now. But that’s not all. There’s a great feast in Ajmere this week. And I think I shall find out from there where Shere Ali is and what he’s doing. As soon as I do find out, I want you to go to him.”
“I understand,” said Linforth. “But if he has changed so much, he will have changed to me.”
“Yes,” Ralston admitted. He turned again towards the steps, and the two men descended to their horses. “That’s likely enough. They ought to have sent you to me six months ago. Anyway, you must do your best.” He climbed into the saddle, and Linforth did the same.
“Very well,” said Dick, as they rode through the archway. “I will do my best,” and he turned towards Ralston with a smile. “I’ll do my best to hinder the Road from going on.”
It was a queer piece of irony that the first real demand made upon him in his life was that he should stop the very thing on the accomplishment of which his hopes were set. But there was his friend to save. He comforted himself with that thought. There was his friend rushing blindly upon ruin. Linforth could not doubt it. How in the world could Shere Ali, he wondered. He could not yet dissociate the Shere Ali of to-day from the boy and the youth who had been his chum.
They passed out of the further gate of Peshawur and rode along the broad white road towards Government House. It was growing dark, and as they turned in at the gateway of the garden, lights shone in the windows ahead of them. The lights recalled to Ralston’s mind a fact which he had forgotten to mention.
“By the way,” he said, turning towards Linforth, “we have a lady staying with us who knows you.”
Linforth leaned forward in his saddle and stooped as if to adjust a stirrup, and it was thus a second or two before he answered.
“Indeed!” he said. “Who is she?”
“A Mrs. Oliver,” replied Ralston, “She was at Srinagar in Cashmere this summer, staying with the Resident. My sister met her there, I think she told Mrs. Oliver you were likely to come to us about this time.”
Dick’s heart leaped within him suddenly. Had Violet Oliver arranged her visit so that it might coincide with his? It was at all events a pleasant fancy to play with. He looked up at the windows of the house. She was really there! After all these months he would see her. No wonder the windows were bright. As they rode up to the porch and the door was opened, he heard her voice. She was singing in the drawing-room, and the door of the drawing-room stood open. She sang in a low small voice, very pretty to the ear, and she was accompanying herself softly on the piano. Dick stood for a while listening in the lofty hall, while Ralston looked over his letters which were lying upon a small table. He opened one of them and uttered an exclamation.
“This is from my man at Ajmere,” he said, but Dick paid no attent
ion. Ralston glanced through the letter.
“He has found him,” he cried. “Shere Ali is in Ajmere.”
It took a moment or two for the words to penetrate to Linforth’s mind. Then he said slowly:
“Oh! Shere Ali’s in Ajmere. I must start for Ajmere to-morrow.”
Ralston looked up from his letters and glanced at Linforth. Something in the abstracted way in which Linforth had spoken attracted his attention. He smiled:
“Yes, it’s a pity,” he said. But again it seemed that Linforth did not hear. And then the voice at the piano stopped abruptly as though the singer had just become aware that there were people talking in the hall. Linforth moved forward, and in the doorway of the drawing-room he came face to face with Violet Oliver. Ralston smiled again.
“There’s something between those two,” he said to himself. But Linforth had kept his secrets better half an hour ago. For it did not occur to Ralston to suspect that there had been something also between Violet Oliver and Shere Ali.
CHAPTER XXV
IN THE ROSE GARDEN
“LET US GO out,” said Linforth.
It was after dinner on the same evening, and he was standing with Violet Oliver at the window of the drawing-room. Behind them an officer and his wife from the cantonment were playing “Bridge” with Ralston and his sister. Violet Oliver hesitated. The window opened upon the garden. Already Linforth’s hand was on the knob.
“Very well,” she said. But there was a note of reluctance in her voice.
“You will need a cloak,” he said.
“No,” said Violet Oliver. She had a scarf of lace in her hand, and she twisted it about her throat. Linforth opened the long window and they stepped out into the garden. It was a clear night of bright stars. The chill of sunset had passed, the air was warm. It was dark in spite of the stars. The path glimmered faintly in front of them.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 468