CHAPTER X
AN UNANSWERED QUESTION
Sir John had guessed aright. Shere Ali was in the conservatory, andViolet Oliver sat by his side.
"I did not expect you to-night," she said lightly, as she opened andshut her fan.
"Nor did I mean to come," he answered. "I had arranged to stay in thecountry until to-morrow. But I got my letter from the India Office thismorning. It left me--restless." He uttered the word with reluctance, andalmost with an air of shame. Then he clasped his hands together, andblurted out violently: "It left me miserable. I could not stay away," andhe turned to his companion. "I wanted to see you, if only for fiveminutes." It was Violet Oliver's instinct to be kind. She fitted herselfnaturally to the words of her companions, sympathised with them in theirtroubles, laughed with them when they were at the top of their spirits.So now her natural kindness made her eyes gentle. She leaned forward.
"Did you?" she asked softly. "And yet you are going home!"
"I am going back to Chiltistan," said Shere Ali.
"Home!" Violet Oliver repeated, dwelling upon the word with a friendlyinsistence.
But the young prince did not assent; he remained silent--so long silentthat Violet Oliver moved uneasily. She was conscious of suspense; shebegan to dread his answer. He turned to her quickly as she moved.
"You say that I am going home. That's the whole question," he said. "I amtrying to answer it--and I can't. Listen!"
Into the quiet and dimly lit place of flowers the music of the violinsfloated with a note of wistfulness in the melody they played--asuggestion of regret. Through a doorway at the end of the conservatoryShere Ali could see the dancers swing by in the lighted ball-room, thewomen in their bright frocks and glancing jewels, some of whom hadflattered him, a few of whom had been his friends, and all of whom hadtreated him as one of their own folk and their equal.
"I have heard the tune, which they are playing, before," he said slowly."I heard it one summer night in Geneva. Linforth and I had come down fromthe mountains. We were dining with a party on the balcony of a restaurantover the lake. A boat passed hidden by the darkness. We could hear thesplash of the oars. There were musicians in the boat playing this melody.We were all very happy that night. And I hear it again now--when I amwith you. I think that I shall remember it very often in Chiltistan."
There was so unmistakable a misery in his manner, in his voice, in hisdejected looks, that Violet was moved to a deep sympathy. He was only aboy, of course, but he was a boy sunk in distress.
"But there are your plans," she urged. "Have you forgotten them? You weregoing to do so much. There was so much to do. So many changes, so manyreforms which must be made. You used to talk to me so eagerly. No more ofyour people were to be sold into slavery. You were going to stop allthat. You were going to silence the mullahs when they preached seditionand to free Chiltistan from their tyranny."
Violet remembered with a whimsical little smile how Shere All'senthusiasm had wearied her, but she checked the smile and continued:
"Are all those plans mere dreams and fancies?"
"No," replied Shere Ali, lifting his head. "No," he said again withsomething of violence in the emphasis; and for a moment he sat erect,with his shoulders squared, fronting his destiny. Almost for a moment herecaptured that for which he had been seeking--his identity with his ownrace. But the moment passed. His attitude relaxed. He turned to Violetwith troubled eyes. "No, they are not dreams; they are things which needto be done. But I can't realise them now, with you sitting here, any morethan I can realise, with this music in my ears, that it is my home towhich I am going back."
"Oh, but you will!" cried Violet. "When you are out there you will.There's the road, too, the road which you and Mr. Linforth--"
She did not complete the sentence. With a low cry Shere All broke in uponher words. He leaned forward, with his hands covering his face.
"Yes," he whispered, "there's the road--there's the road." A passion ofself-reproach shook him. Not for nothing had Linforth been his friend. "Ifeel a traitor," he cried. "For ten years we have talked of that road,planned it, and made it in thought, poring over the maps. Yes, for evenat the beginning, in our first term at Eton, we began. Over the passes tothe foot of the Hindu Kush! Only a year ago I was eager, really, honestlyeager," and he paused for a moment, wondering at that picture of himselfwhich his words evoked, wondering whether it was indeed he--he who sat inthe conservatory--who had cherished those bright dreams of a great lifein Chiltistan. "Yes, it is true. I was honestly eager to go back."
"Less than a year ago," said Violet Oliver quickly. "Less than a weekago. When did I see you last? On Sunday, wasn't it?"
"But was I honest then?" exclaimed Shere Ali. "I don't know. I thought Iwas--right up to to-day, right up to this morning when the letter came.And then--" He made a despairing gesture, as of a man crumbling dustbetween his fingers.
"I will tell you," he said, turning towards her. "I believe that the lasttime I was really honest was in August of last year. Linforth and Italked of the Road through a long day in the hut upon the Meije. I waskeen then--honestly keen. But the next evening we came down to La Grave,and--I met you."
"No," Violet Oliver protested. "That's not the reason."
"I think it is," said Shere Ali quietly; and Violet was silent.
In spite of her pity, which was genuine enough, her thoughts went outtowards Shere Ali's friend. With what words and in what spirit would hehave received Shere Ali's summons to Chiltistan? She asked herself thequestion, knowing well the answer. There would have been nolamentations--a little regret, perhaps, perhaps indeed a longing to takeher with him. But there would have been not a thought of abandoning thework. She recognised that truth with a sudden spasm of anger, but yetadmiration strove with the anger and mastered it.
"If what you say is true," she said to Shere Ali gently, "I am verysorry. But I hope it is not true. You have been ten years here; you havemade many friends. Just for the moment the thought of leaving them behindtroubles you. But that will pass."
"Will it?" he asked quietly. Then a smile came upon his face. "There'sone thing of which I am glad," he whispered.
"Yes."
"You are wearing my pearls to-night."
Violet Oliver smiled, and with a tender caressing movement her fingerstouched and felt the rope of pearls about her neck. Both the smile andthe movement revealed Violet Oliver. She had a love of beautiful things,but, above all, of jewels. It was a passion with her deeper than any shehad ever known. Beautiful stones, and pearls more than any other stones,made an appeal to her which she could not resist.
"They are very lovely," she said softly.
"I shall be glad to remember that you wore them to-night," said ShereAli; "for, as you know, I love you."
"Hush!" said Mrs. Oliver; and she rose with a start from her chair. ShereAli did the same.
"It's true," he said sullenly; and then, with a swift step, he placedhimself in her way. Violet Oliver drew back quietly. Her heart beatquickly. She looked into Shere Ali's face and was afraid. He was quitestill; even the expression of his face was set, but his eyes burned uponher. There was a fierceness in his manner which was new to her.
His hand darted out quickly towards her. But Violet Oliver was no lessquick. She drew back yet another step. "I didn't understand," she said,and her lips shook, so that the words were blurred. She raised her handsto her neck and loosened the coils of pearls about it as though she meantto lift them off and return them to the giver.
"Oh, don't do that, please," said Shere Ali; and already his voice andhis manner had changed. The sullenness had gone. Now he besought. HisEnglish training came to his aid. He had learned reverence for women,acquiring it gradually and almost unconsciously rather than from anydirect teaching. He had spent one summer's holidays with Mrs. Linforthfor his hostess in the house under the Sussex Downs, and from her andfrom Dick's manner towards her he had begun to acquire it. He had becomeconscious of that reverence, and proudly consciou
s. He had fostered it.It was one of the qualities, one of the essential qualities, of the whitepeople. It marked the sahibs off from the Eastern races. To possess thatreverence, to be influenced and moved and guided by it--that made him onewith them. He called upon it to help him now. Almost he had forgotten it.
"Please don't take them off," he implored. "There was nothing tounderstand."
And perhaps there was not, except this--that Violet Oliver was of thosewho take but do not give. She removed her hands from her throat. Themoment of danger had passed, as she very well knew.
"There is one thing I should be very grateful for," he said humbly. "Itwould not cause you very much trouble, and it would mean a great deal tome. I would like you to write to me now and then."
"Why, of course I will," said Mrs. Oliver, with a smile.
"You promise?"
"Yes. But you will come back to England."
"I shall try to come next summer, if it's only for a week," said ShereAli; and he made way for Violet.
She moved a few yards across the conservatory, and then stopped for ShereAli to come level with her. "I shall write, of course, to Chiltistan,"she said carelessly.
"Yes," he replied, "I go northwards from Bombay. I travel straightto Kohara."
"Very well. I will write to you there," said Violet Oliver; but it seemedthat she was not satisfied. She walked slowly towards the door, withShere Ali at her side.
"And you will stay in Chiltistan until you come back to us?" she asked."You won't go down to Calcutta at Christmas, for instance? Calcutta isthe place to which people go at Christmas, isn't it? I think you areright. You have a career in your own country, amongst your own people."
She spoke urgently. And Shere Ali, thinking that thus she spoke inconcern for his future, drew some pride from her encouragement. Healso drew some shame; for she might have been speaking, too, in pityfor his distress.
"Mrs. Oliver," he said, with hesitation; and she stopped and turned tohim. "Perhaps I said more than I meant to say a few minutes ago. I havenot forgotten really that there is much for me to do in my own country; Ihave not forgotten that I can thank all of you here who have shown me somuch kindness by more than mere words. For I can help in Chiltistan--Ican really help."
Then came a smile upon Violet Oliver's face, and her eyes shone.
"That is how I would have you speak," she cried. "I am glad. Oh, I amglad!" and her voice rang with the fulness of her pleasure. She had beengreatly distressed by the unhappiness of her friend, and in that distresscompunction had played its part. There was no hardness in Violet Oliver'scharacter. To give pain flattered no vanity in her. She understood thatShere Ali would suffer because of her, and she longed that he should findhis compensation in the opportunities of rulership.
"Let us say good-bye here," he said. "We may not be alone againbefore I go."
She gave him her hand, and he held it for a little while, and thenreluctantly let it go.
"That must last me until the summer of next year," he said with a smile.
"Until the summer," said Violet Oliver; and she passed out from thedoorway into the ball-room. But as she entered the room and came oncemore amongst the lights and the noise, and the familiar groups of herfriends, she uttered a little sigh of relief. The summer of next yearwas a long way off; and meanwhile here was an episode in her life endedas she wished it to end; for in these last minutes it had begun todisquiet her.
Shere Ali remained behind in the conservatory. His eyes wandered aboutit. He was impressing upon his memory every detail of the place, thecolours of the flowers and their very perfumes. He looked through thedoorway into the ball-room whence the music swelled. The note of regretwas louder than ever in his ears, and dominated the melody. To-morrow thelights, the delicate frocks, the laughing voices and bright eyes would begone. The violins spoke to him of that morrow of blank emptiness softlyand languorously like one making a luxury of grief. In a week's time hewould be setting his face towards Chiltistan; and, in spite of the bravewords he had used to Violet Oliver, once more the question forced itselfinto his mind.
"Do I belong here?" he asked. "Or do I belong to Chiltistan?"
On the one side was all that during ten years he had gradually learned tolove and enjoy; on the other side was his race and the land of his birth.He could not answer the question; for there was a third possibility whichhad not yet entered into his speculations, and in that third possibilityalone was the answer to be found.