CHAPTER XVIII
SYBIL LINFORTH'S LOYALTY
A fortnight after Shere Ali had dined with Ralston in Calcutta, atelegram was handed to Linforth at Chatham. It was Friday, and aguest-night. The mess-room was full, and here and there amongst thescarlet and gold lace the sombre black of a civilian caught the eye.Dinner was just over, and at the ends of the long tables the mess-waitersstood ready to draw, with a single jerk, the strips of white tableclothfrom the shining mahogany. The silver and the glasses had been removed,the word was given, and the strips of tablecloth vanished as though bysome swift legerdemain. The port was passed round, and while the glasseswere being filled the telegram was handed to Linforth by his servant.
He opened it carelessly, but as he read the words his heart jumped withinhim. His importunities had succeeded, he thought. At all events, hisopportunity had come; for the telegram informed him of his appointment tothe Punjab Commission. He sat for a moment with his thoughts in a whirl.He could hardly believe the good news. He had longed so desperately forthis one chance that it had seemed to him of late impossible that heshould ever obtain it. Yet here it had come to him, and upon that hisneighbour jogged him in the ribs and said:
"Wake up!"
He waked to see the Colonel at the centre of the top table standing onhis feet with his glass in his hand.
"Gentlemen, the Queen. God bless her!" and all that company arose anddrank to the toast. The prayer, thus simply pronounced amongst the menwho had pledged their lives in service to the Queen, had always been toLinforth a very moving thing. Some of those who drank to it had alreadyrun their risks and borne their sufferings in proof of their sincerity;the others all burned to do the like. It had always seemed to him, too,to link him up closely and inseparably with the soldiers of the regimentwho had fallen years ago or had died quietly in their beds, their serviceended. It gave continuity to the regiment of Sappers, so that what eachman did increased or tarnished its fair fame. For years back that toasthad been drunk, that prayer uttered in just those simple words, andLinforth was wont to gaze round the walls on the portraits of the famousgenerals who had looked to these barracks and to this mess-room as theirhome. They, too, had heard that prayer, and, carrying it in their hearts,without parade or needless speech had gone forth, each in his turn, andlaboured unsparingly.
But never had Linforth been so moved as he was tonight. He choked in histhroat as he drank. For his turn to go forth had at the last come to him.And in all humility of spirit he sent up a prayer on his own account,that he might not fail--and again that he might not fail.
He sat down and told his companions the good news, and rejoiced at theircongratulations. But he slipped away to his own quarters very quietly assoon as the Colonel rose, and sat late by himself.
There was one, he knew very well, to whom the glad tidings would be aheavy blow--but he could not--no, not even for her sake--stand aside.For this opportunity he had lived, training alike his body and mindagainst its coming. He could not relinquish it. There was too strong aconstraint upon him.
"Over the passes to the foot of the Hindu Kush," he murmured; and in hismind's eye he saw the road--a broad, white, graded road--snake across thevalleys and climb the cliffs.
Was Russia at work? he wondered. Was he to be sent to Chiltistan? Whatwas Shere Ali doing? He turned the questions over in his mind withoutbeing at much pains to answer them. In such a very short time now hewould know. He was to embark before a month had passed.
He travelled down the very next day into Sussex, and came to the houseunder the Downs at twelve o'clock. It was early spring, and as yet therewere no buds upon the trees, no daffodils upon the lawns. The house,standing apart in its bare garden of brown earth, black trees, and dullgreen turf, had a desolate aspect which somehow filled him with remorse.He might have done more, perhaps, to fill this house with happiness. Hefeared that, now that it was too late to do the things left undone. Hehad been so absorbed in his great plans, which for a moment lost in hiseyes their magnitude.
Dick Linforth found his mother in the study, through the window of whichshe had once looked from the garden in the company of Colonel Dewes. Shewas writing her letters, and when she saw him enter, she sprang up with acry of joy.
"Dick!" she cried, coming towards him with outstretched hands. But shestopped half-way. The happiness died out of her. She raised a hand to herheart, and her voice once more repeated his name; but her voice falteredas she spoke, and the hand was clasped tight upon her breast.
"Dick," she said, and in his face she read the tidings he had brought.The blow so long dreaded had at last fallen.
"Yes, mother, it's true," he said very gently; and leading her to achair, he sat beside her, stroking her hand, almost as a lover might do."It's true. The telegram came last night. I start within the month."
"For Chiltistan?"
Dick looked at her for a moment.
"For the Punjab," he said, and added: "But it will mean Chiltistan. Elsewhy should I be sent for? It has been always for Chiltistan that I haveimportuned them."
Sybil Linforth bowed her head. The horror which had been present with hernight and day for so long a while twenty-five years ago rushed upon herafresh, so that she could not speak. She sat living over again the bitterdays when Luffe was shut up with his handful of men in the fort byKohara. She remembered the morning when the postman came up the gardenpath with the official letter that her husband had been slain. And atlast in a whisper she said:
"The Road?"
Dick, even in the presence of her pain, could not deny the implication ofher words.
"We Linforths belong to the Road," he answered gravely. The words struckupon a chord of memory. Sybil Linforth sat upright, turned to her sortand greatly surprised him. He had expected an appeal, a prayer. What heheard was something which raised her higher in his thoughts than ever shehad been, high though he had always placed her.
"Dick," she said, "I have never said a word to dissuade you, have I?Never a word? Never a single word?" and her tone besought him toassure her.
"Never a word, mother," he replied.
But still she was not content.
"When you were a boy, when the Road began to take hold on you--when wewere much together, playing cricket out there in the garden," and hervoice broke upon the memory of those golden days, "when I might have beenable, perhaps, to turn you to other thoughts, I never tried to, Dick? Ownto that! I never tried to. When I came upon you up on the top of the Downbehind the house, lying on the grass, looking out--always--always towardsthe sea--oh, I knew very well what it was that was drawing you; but Isaid nothing, Dick. Not a word--not a word!"
Dick nodded his head.
"That's true, mother. You never questioned me. You never tried todissuade me."
Sybil's face shone with a wan smile. She unlocked a drawer in herwriting-table, and took out an envelope. From the envelope she drew asheet of paper covered with a faded and yellow handwriting.
"This is the last letter your father ever wrote to me," she said. "Harrywrote on the night that he--that he died. Oh, Dick, my boy, I have knownfor a long time that I would have one day to show it to you, and I wantedyou to feel when that time came that I had not been disloyal."
She had kept her face steady, even her voice calm, by a great effort.But now the tears filled her eyes and brimmed over, and her voicesuddenly shook between a laugh and a sob. "But oh, Dick," she cried, "Ihave so often wanted to be disloyal. I was so often near to it--oh,very, very near."
She handed him the faded letter, and, turning towards the window, stoodwith her back to him while he read. It was that letter, with its constantrefrain of "I am very tired," which Linforth had written in his tentwhilst his murderers crouched outside waiting for sleep to overcome him.
"I am sitting writing this by the light of a candle," Dick read. "Thetent door is open. In front of me I can see the great snow-mountains. Allthe ugliness of the shale-slopes is hidden. By such a moonlight, my dear,may you always look back upon my
memory. For it is all over, Sybil."
Then followed the advice about himself and his school; and after thatadvice the message which was now for the first time delivered:
"Whether he will come out here, it is too early to think about. But theRoad will not be finished--and I wonder. If he wants to, let him! WeLinforths belong to the Road."
Dick folded the letter reverently, and crossing to his mother's side, puthis arm about her waist.
"Yes," he said. "My father knew it as I know it. He used the words whichI in my turn have used. We Linforths belong to the Road."
His mother took the letter from his hand and locked it away.
"Yes," she said bravely, and called a smile to her face. "So you mustgo."
Dick nodded his head.
"Yes. You see, the Road has not advanced since my father died. It almostseems, mother, that it waits for me."
He stayed that day and that night with Sybil, and in the morning bothbrought haggard faces to the breakfast table. Sybil, indeed, had slept,but, with her memories crowding hard upon her, she had dreamed again oneof those almost forgotten dreams which, in the time of her suspense, hadso tortured her. The old vague terror had seized upon her again. Shedreamed once more of a young Englishman who pursued a young Indian alongthe wooden galleries of the road above the torrents into the far mists.She could tell as of old the very dress of the native who fled. A thicksheepskin coat swung aside as he ran and gave her a glimpse of gay silk;soft high leather boots protected his feet; and upon his face there was alook of fury and wild fear. But this night there was a difference in thedream. Her present distress added a detail. The young Englishman whopursued turned his face to her as he disappeared amongst the mists, andshe saw that it was the face of Dick.
But of this she said nothing at all at the breakfast table, nor when shebade Dick good-bye at the stile on the further side of the field beyondthe garden.
"You will come down again, and I shall go to Marseilles to see you off,"she said, and so let him go.
There was something, too, stirring in Dick's mind of which he said noword. In the letter of his father, certain sentences had caught his eye,and on his way up to London they recurred to his thoughts, as, indeed,they had more than once during the evening before.
"May he meet," Harry Linforth had written to Sybil of his son Dick--"mayhe meet a woman like you, my dear, when his time comes, and love her as Ilove you."
Dick Linforth fell to thinking of Violet Oliver. She was in India at thismoment. She might still be there when he landed. Would he meet her, hewondered, somewhere on the way to Chiltistan?