The Broken Road - A. E. W. Mason
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Dewes leaned forward. The sincerity of Luffe had gained upon him. "Let me
hear all," he said.
"There is the white woman," continued Luffe. "The English woman, the
English girl, with her daintiness, her pretty frocks, her good looks,
her delicate charm. Very likely she only thinks of him as a picturesque
figure; she dances with him, but she does not take him seriously. Yes,
but he may take her seriously, and often does. What then? When he is
told to go back to his State and settle down, what then? Will he be
content with a wife of his own people? He is already a stranger among
his own folk. He will eat out his heart with bitterness and jealousy.
And, mind you, I am speaking of the best--the best of the Princes and
the best of the English women. What of the others? The English women who
take his pearls, and the Princes who come back and boast of their
success. Do you think that is good for British rule in India? Give me
something to drink!"
Luffe poured out his vehement convictions to his companion, wishing with
all his heart that he had one of the great ones of the Viceroy's Council
at his side, instead of this zealous but somewhat commonplace Major of a
Sikh regiment. All the more, therefore, must he husband his strength, so
that all that he had in mind might be remembered. There would be little
chance, perhaps, of it bearing fruit. Still, even that little chance must
be grasped. And so in that high castle beneath the Himalayas, besieged by
insurgent tribes, a dying Political Officer discoursed upon this question
of high policy.
"I told you of a supper I had one night at the Savoy--do you
remember? You all looked sufficiently astonished when I told you to
bear it in mind."
"Yes, I remember," said Dewes.
"Very well. I told you I learned something from the lady who was with me
which it was good for me to know. I saw something which it was good for
me to see. Good--yes, but not pleasant either to know or see. There was a
young Prince in England then. He dined in high places and afterwards
supped at the Savoy with the _coryphees;_ and both in the high places and
among the _coryphees_ his jewels had made him welcome. This is truth I am
telling you. He was a boaster. Well, after supper that night he threw a
girl down the stairs. Never mind what she was--she was of the white
ruling race, she was of the race that rules in India, he comes back to
India and insolently boasts. Do you approve? Do you think that good?"
"I think it's horrible," exclaimed Dewes.
"Well, I have done," said Luffe. "This youngster is to go to Oxford.
Unhappiness and the distrust of his own people will be the best that can
come of it, while ruin and disasters very well may. There are many ways
of disaster. Suppose, for instance, this boy were to turn out a strong
man. Do you see?"
Dewes nodded his head.
"Yes, I see," he answered, and he answered so because he saw that Luffe
had come to the end of his strength. His voice had weakened, he lay with
his eyes sunk deep in his head and a leaden pallor upon his face, and his
breath laboured as he spoke.
"I am glad," replied Luffe, "that you understand."
But it was not until many years had passed that Dewes saw and understood
the trouble which was then stirring in Luffe's mind. And even then, when
he did see and understand, he wondered how much Luffe really had
foreseen. Enough, at all events, to justify his reputation for sagacity.
Dewes went out from the bedroom and climbed up on to the roof of the
Fort. The sun was up, the day already hot, and would have been hotter,
but that a light wind stirred among the almond trees in the garden. The
leaves of those trees now actually brushed against the Fort walls. Five
weeks ago there had been bare stems and branches. Suddenly a rifle
cracked, a little puff of smoke rose close to a boulder on the far side
of the river, a bullet sang in the air past Dewes' head. He ducked behind
the palisade of boards. Another day had come. For another day the flag,
manufactured out of some red cloth, a blue turban and some white cotton,
floated overhead. Meanwhile, somewhere among the passes, the relieving
force was already on the march.
Late that afternoon Luffe died, and his body was buried in the Fort. He
had done his work. For two days afterwards the sound of a battle was
heard to the south, the siege was raised, and in the evening the
Brigadier-General in Command rode up to the gates and found a tired and
haggard group of officers awaiting him. They received him without cheers
or indeed any outward sign of rejoicing. They waited in a dead silence,
like beaten and dispirited men. They were beginning to pay the price of
their five weeks' siege.
The Brigadier looked at the group.
"What of Luffe?" he asked.
"Dead, sir," replied Dewes.
"A great loss," said Brigadier Appleton solemnly. But he was paying his
tribute rather to the class to which Luffe belonged than to the man
himself. Luffe was a man of independent views, Brigadier Appleton a
soldier clinging to tradition. Moreover, there had been an encounter
between the two in which Luffe had prevailed.
The Brigadier paid a ceremonious visit to the Khan on the following
morning, and once more the Khan expounded his views as to the education
of his son. But he expounded them now to sympathetic ears.
"I think that his Excellency disapproved of my plan," said the Khan.
"Did he?" cried Brigadier Appleton. "On some points I am inclined to
think that Luffe's views were not always sound. Certainly let the boy go
to Eton and Oxford. A fine idea, your Highness. The training will widen
his mind, enlarge his ideas, and all that sort of thing. I will myself
urge upon the Government's advisers the wisdom of your Highness'
proposal."
Moreover Dewes failed to carry Luffe's dying message to Calcutta. For on
one point--a point of fact--Luffe was immediately proved wrong. Mir Ali,
the Khan of Chiltistan, was retained upon his throne. Dewes turned the
matter over in his slow mind. Wrong definitely, undeniably wrong on the
point of fact, was it not likely that Luffe was wrong too on the point
of theory? Dewes had six months furlong too, besides, and was anxious to
go home. It would be a bore to travel to Bombay by way of Calcutta. "Let
the boy go to Eton and Oxford!" he said. "Why not?" and the years
answered him.
CHAPTER V
A MAGAZINE ARTICLE
The little war of Chiltistan was soon forgotten by the world. But it
lived vividly enough in the memories of a few people to whom it had
brought either suffering or fresh honours. But most of all it was
remembered by Sybil Linforth, so that even after fourteen years a chance
word, or a trivial coincidence, would bring back to her the horror and
the misery of that time as freshly as if only a single day had
intervened. Such a coincidence happened on this morning of August.
She was in the garden with her back to the Downs which rose high from
close behind the house, and she was looking across the fields rich with
orchards and yellow crops. She saw a small figure climb a stile and come
towards the house along a footpath, increasing in stature as it
approached. It was Colonel Dewes, and her thoughts went back to the day
when first, with reluctant steps, he had walked along that path, carrying
with him a battered silver watch and chain and a little black leather
letter-case. Because of that memory she advanced slowly towards him now.
"I did not know that you were home," she said, as they shook hands. "When
did you land?"
"Yesterday. I am home for good now. My time is up." Sybil Linforth looked
quickly at his face and turned away.
"You are sorry?" she said gently.
"Yes. I don't feel old, you see. I feel as if I had many years' good work
in me yet. But there! That's the trouble with the mediocre men. They are
shelved before they are old. I am one of them."
He laughed as he spoke, and looked at his companion.
Sybil Linforth was now thirty-eight years old, but the fourteen years had
not set upon her the marks of their passage as they had upon Dewes.
Indeed, she still retained a look of youth, and all the slenderness of
her figure.
Dewes grumbled to her with a smile upon his face.
"I wonder how in the world you do it. Here am I white-haired and creased
like a dry pippin. There are you--" and he broke off. "I suppose it's the
boy who keeps you young. How is he?"
A look of anxiety troubled Mrs. Linforth's face; into her eyes there came
a glint of fear. Colonel Dewes' voice became gentle with concern.
"What's the matter, Sybil?" he said. "Is he ill?"
"No, he is quite well."
"Then what is it?"
Sybil Linforth looked down for a moment at the gravel of the garden-path.
Then, without raising her eyes, she said in a low voice:
"I am afraid."
"Ah," said Dewes, as he rubbed his chin, "I see."
It was his usual remark when he came against anything which he did not
understand.
"You must let me have him for a week or two sometimes, Sybil. Boys will
get into trouble, you know. It is their nature to. And sometimes a man
may be of use in putting things straight."
The hint of a smile glimmered about Sybil Linforth's mouth, but she
repressed it. She would not for worlds have let her friend see it, lest
he might be hurt.
"No," she replied, "Dick is not in any trouble. But--" and she struggled
for a moment with a feeling that she ought not to say what she greatly
desired to say; that speech would be disloyal. But the need to speak was
too strong within her, her heart too heavily charged with fear.
"I will tell you," she said, and, with a glance towards the open windows
of the house, she led Colonel Dewes to a corner of the garden where, upon
a grass mound, there was a garden seat. From this seat one overlooked the
garden hedge. To the left, the little village of Poynings with its grey
church and tall tapering spire, lay at the foot of the gap in the Downs
where runs the Brighton road. Behind them the Downs ran like a rampart to
right and left, their steep green sides scarred here and there by
landslips and showing the white chalk. Far away the high trees of
Chanctonbury Ring stood out against the sky.
"Dick has secrets," Sybil said, "secrets from me. It used not to be so. I
have always known how a want of sympathy makes a child hide what he feels
and thinks, and drives him in upon himself, to feed his thoughts with
imaginings and dreams. I have seen it. I don't believe that anything but
harm ever comes of it. It builds up a barrier which will last for life. I
did not want that barrier to rise between Dick and me--I--" and her voice
shook a little--"I should be very unhappy if it were to rise. So I have
always tried to be his friend and comrade, rather than his mother."
"Yes," said Colonel Dewes, wisely nodding his head. "I have seen you
playing cricket with him."
Colonel Dewes had frequently been puzzled by a peculiar change of manner
in his friends. When he made a remark which showed how clearly he
understood their point of view and how closely he was in agreement with
it, they had a way of becoming reticent in the very moment of expansion.
The current of sympathy was broken, and as often as not they turned the
conversation altogether into a conventional and less interesting channel.
That change of manner became apparent now. Sybil Linforth leaned back and
abruptly ceased to speak.
"Please go on," said Dewes, turning towards her.
She hesitated, and then with a touch of reluctance continued:
"I succeeded until a month or so ago. But a month or so ago the secrets
came. Oh, I know him so well. He is trying to hide that there are any
secrets lest his reticence should hurt me. But we have been so much
together, so much to each other--how should I not know?" And again she
leaned forward with her hands clasped tightly together upon her knees and
a look of great distress lying like a shadow upon her face. "The first
secrets," she continued, and her voice trembled, "I suppose they are
always bitter to a mother. But since I have nothing but Dick they hurt me
more deeply than is perhaps reasonable"; and she turned towards her
companion with a poor attempt at a smile.
"What sort of secrets?" asked Dewes. "What is he hiding?"
"I don't know," she replied, and she repeated the words, adding to them
slowly others. "I don't know--and I am a little afraid to guess. But I
know that something is stirring in his mind, something is--" and she
paused, and into her eyes there came a look of actual terror--"something
is calling him. He goes alone up on to the top of the Downs, and stays
there alone for hours. I have seen him. I have come upon him unawares
lying on the grass with his face towards the sea, his lips parted, and
his eyes strained, his face absorbed. He has been so lost in dreams that
I have come close to him through the grass and stood beside him and
spoken to him before he grew aware that anyone was near."
"Perhaps he wants to be a sailor," suggested Dewes.
"No, I do not think it is that," Sybil answered quietly. "If it were so,
he would have told me."
"Yes," Dewes admitted. "Yes, he would have told you. I was wrong."
"You see," Mrs. Linforth continued, as though Dewes had not interrupted,
"it is not natural for a boy at his age to want to be alone, is it? I
don't think it is good either. It is not natural for a boy of his age to
be thoughtful. I am not sure that that is good. I am, to tell you the
truth, very troubled."
Dewes looked at her sharply. Something, not so much in her words as in
the careful, slow manner of her speech, warned him that she was not
telling him all of the trouble which oppressed her. Her fears were more
definite than she had given him as yet reason to understand. There was
not enough in what she had said to account for the tense clasp of her
hands, and the glint of terror in her eyes.
"Anyhow, he's going to the big school next term," he said; "that is, if
you haven't changed your mind since you last wrote to me, and I hope you
haven't changed your mind. All that he wants really," the Colonel added
with unconscious cruelty, "is companions of his own age. He passed in
well, didn't he?"
Sybil Linforth's face lost for the moment all its apprehension. A smile
of pride made her face very tender, and as she turned to Dewes he thought
to himself that really her eyes were beautiful.
"Yes, he passed in very high," she said.
"Eton, isn't it?" said Dewes. "Whose house?"
She mentioned the name and added: "His father was there before him." Then
she rose from her seat. "Would you like to see Dick? I will show you him.
Come quietly."
She led the way across the lawn towards an open window. It was a day of
sunshine; the garden was bright with flowers, and about the windows
rose-trees climbed the house-walls. It was a house of red brick, darkened
by age, and with a roof of tiles. To Dewes' eyes, nestling as it did
beneath the great grass Downs, it had a most homelike look of comfort.
Sybil turned with a finger on her lips.
"Keep this side of the window," she whispered, "or your shadow will fall
across the floor."
Standing aside as she bade him, he looked into the room. He saw a boy
seated at a table with his head between his hands, immersed in a book
which lay before him. He was seated with his side towards the window and
his hands concealed his face. But in a moment he removed one hand and
turned the page. Colonel Dewes could now see the profile of his face. A
firm chin, a beauty of outline not very common, a certain delicacy of
feature and colour gave to him a distinction of which Sybil Linforth
might well be proud.
"He'll be a dangerous fellow among the girls in a few years' time," said
Dewes, turning to the mother. But Sybil did not hear the words. She was
standing with her head thrust forward. Her face was white, her whole
aspect one of dismay. Dewes could not understand the change in her. A
moment ago she had been laughing playfully as she led him towards the
window. Now it seemed as though a sudden disaster had turned her to
stone. Yet there was nothing visible to suggest disaster. Dewes looked
from Sybil to the boy and back again. Then he noticed that her eyes were
riveted, not on Dick's face, but on the book which he was reading.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Hush!" said Sybil, but at that moment Dick lifted his head, recognised
the visitor, and came forward to the window with a smile of welcome.
There was no embarrassment in his manner, no air of being surprised. He
had not the look of one who nurses secrets. A broad open forehead
surmounted a pair of steady clear grey eyes.
"Well, Dick, I hear you have done well in your examination," said the
Colonel, as he shook hands. "If you keep it up I will leave you all I
save out of my pension."
"Thank you, sir," said Dick with a laugh. "How long have you been back,
Colonel Dewes?"
"I left India a fortnight ago."
"A fortnight ago." Dick leaned his arms upon the sill and with his eyes
on the Colonel's face asked quietly: "How far does the Road reach now?"
At the side of Colonel Dewes Sybil Linforth flinched as though she had
been struck. But it did not need that movement to explain to the Colonel
the perplexing problem of her fears. He understood now. The Linforths
belonged to the Road. The Road had slain her husband. No wonder she lived
in terror lest it should claim her son. And apparently it did claim him.
"The road through Chiltistan?" he said slowly.
"Of course," answered Dick. "Of what other could I be thinking?"
"They have stopped it," said the Colonel, and at his side he was aware
that Sybil Linforth drew a deep breath. "The road reaches Kohara. It does
not go beyond. It will not go beyond."
Dick's eyes steadily looked into the Colonel's face; and the Colonel had
some trouble to meet their look with the same frankness. He turned aside
and Mrs. Linforth said,
"Come and see my roses."
Dick went back to his book. The man and woman passed on round the corner
of the house to a little rose-garden with a stone sun-dial in the middle,
surrounded by low red brick walls. Here it was very quiet. Only the bees
among the flowers filled the air with a pleasant murmur.
"They are doing well--your roses," said Dewes.
"Yes. These Queen Mabs are good. Don't you think so? I am rather proud of
them," said Sybil; and then she broke off suddenly and faced him.
"Is it true?" she whispered in a low passionate voice. "Is the road
stopped? Will it not go beyond Kohara?"
Colonel Dewes attempted no evasion with Mrs. Linforth.
"It is true that it is stopped. It is also true that for the moment there
is no intention to carry it further. But--but--"
And as he paused Sybil took up the sentence.
"But it will go on, I know. Sooner or later." And there was almost a note
of hopelessness in her voice. "The Power of the Road is beyond the Power
of Governments," she added with the air of one quoting a sentence.
They walked on between the alleys of rose-trees and she asked:
"Did you notice the book which Dick was reading?"
"It looked like a bound volume of magazines."
Sybil nodded her head.
"It was a volume of the 'Fortnightly.' He was reading an article
written forty years ago by Andrew Linforth--" and she suddenly cried
out, "Oh, how I wish he had never lived. He was an uncle of Harry's--my
husband. He predicted it. He was in the old Company, then he became a
servant of the Government, and he was the first to begin the road. You
know his history?"
"No."
"It is a curious one. When it was his time to retire, he sent his money
to England, he made all his arrangements to come home, and then one night
he walked out of the hotel in Bombay, a couple of days before the ship
sailed, and disappeared. He has never been heard of since."
"Had he no wife?" asked Dewes.
"No," replied Sybil. "Do you know what I think? I think he went back to
the north, back to his Road. I think it called him. I think he could not
keep away."
"But we should have come across him," cried Dewes, "or across news of
him. Surely we should!"
Sybil shrugged her shoulders.
"In that article which Dick was reading, the road was first proposed.
Listen to this," and she began to recite:
"The road will reach northwards, through Chiltistan, to the foot of the
Baroghil Pass, in the mountains of the Hindu Kush. Not yet, but it will.
Many men will die in the building of it from cold and dysentery, and
even hunger--Englishmen and coolies from Baltistan. Many men will die
fighting over it, Englishmen and Chiltis, and Gurkhas and Sikhs. It will
cost millions of money, and from policy or economy successive
Governments will try to stop it; but the power of the Road will be
greater than the power of any Government. It will wind through valleys
so deep that the day's sunshine is gone within the hour. It will be
carried in galleries along the faces of mountains, and for eight months
of the year sections of it will be buried deep in snow. Yet it will be
finished. It will go on to the foot of the Hindu Kush, and then only the
British rule in India will be safe."
She finished the quotation.
"That is what Andrew Linforth prophesied. Much of it has already been
justified. I have no doubt the rest will be in time. I think he went
north when he disappeared. I think the Road called him, as it is now
calling Dick."
She made the admission at last quite simply and quietly. Yet it was
evident to Dewes that it cost her much to make it.
"Yes," he said. "That is what you fear."
She nodded her head and let him understand something of the terror with
which the Road inspired her.
"When the trouble began fourteen years ago, when the road was cut and day
after day no news came of whether Harry lived or, if he died, how he
died--I dreamed of it--I used to see horrible things happening on that
road--night after night I saw them. Dreadful things happening to Dick and
his father while I stood by and could do nothing. Oh, it seems to me a
living thing greedy for blood--our blood."
She turned to him a haggard face. Dewes sought to reassure her.
"But there is peace now in Chiltistan. We keep a close watch on that
country, I can tell you. I don't think we shall be caught napping
there again."
But these arguments had little weight with Sybil Linforth. The tragedy of
fourteen years ago had beaten her down with too strong a hand. She could
not reason about the road. She only felt, and she felt with all the
passion of her nature.
"What will you do, then?" asked Dewes.
She walked a little further on before she answered.
"I shall do nothing. If, when the time comes, Dick feels that work upon
that road is his heritage, if he wants to follow in his father's steps, I
shall say not a single word to dissuade him."
Dewes stared at her. This half-hour of conversation had made real to him
at all events the great strength of her hostility. Yet she would put the
hostility aside and say not a word.
"That's more than I could do," he said, "if I felt as you do. By
George it is!"
Sybil smiled at him with friendliness.
"It's not bravery. Do you remember the unfinished letter which you
brought home to me from Harry? There were three sentences in that which I
cannot pretend to have forgotten," and she repeated the sentences:
"'Whether he will come out here, it is too early to think about. But the
road will not be finished--and I wonder. If he wants to, let him.' It is
quite clear--isn't it?--that Harry wanted him to take up the work. You
can read that in the words. I can imagine him speaking them and hear the
tone he would use. Besides--I have still a greater fear than the one of
which you know. I don't want Dick, when he grows up, ever to think that I
have been cowardly, and, because I was cowardly, disloyal to his father."
"Yes, I see," said Colonel Dewes.
And this time he really did understand.
"We will go in and lunch," said Sybil, and they walked back to the house.
CHAPTER VI
A LONG WALK
The footsteps sounded overhead with a singular regularity. From the
fireplace to the door, and back again from the door to the fireplace. At
each turn there was a short pause, and each pause was of the same
duration. The footsteps were very light; it was almost as though an
animal, a caged animal, padded from the bars at one end to the bars at
the other. There was something stealthy in the footsteps too.
In the room below a man of forty-five sat writing at a desk--a very tall,
broad-shouldered man, in clerical dress. Twenty-five years before he had
rowed as number seven in the Oxford Eight, with an eye all the while upon
a mastership at his old school. He had taken a first in Greats; he had
obtained his mastership; for the last two years he had had a House. As he
had been at the beginning, so he was now, a man without theories but with
an instinctive comprehension of boys. In consequence there were no
vacancies in his house, and the Headmaster had grown accustomed to
recommend the Rev. Mr. Arthur Pollard when boys who needed any special
care came to the school.
He was now so engrossed with the preparations for the term which was to
begin to-morrow that for some while the footsteps overhead did not
attract his attention. When he did hear them he just lifted his head,
listened for a moment or two, lit his pipe and went on with his work.