On the day when things became clear to me, I was walking towards the
Meryons’ gates when I met her coming alone along the sunset road, in the
late gold of the afternoon. She looked pale and a little wearied, and I
remembered I wished I did not know every change of her face as I did. It
was a symptom that alarmed my selfishness--it galled me with the sense
that I was no longer my own despot.
“So you have been up the Khyber Pass,” she said as I fell into step at
her side. “Tell me--was it as wonderful as you expected?”
“No, no,--you tell me! It will give me what I missed. Begin at the
beginning. Tell me what I saw.”
I could not miss the delight of her words, and she laughed, knowing my
whim.
“Oh, that Pass!--the wonder of those old roads that have borne the
traffic and romance of the world for ages. Do you think there is
anything in the world so fascinating as they are? But did you go on
Tuesday or Friday?”
For these are the only days in the week when the Khyber can be safely
entered. The British then turn out the Khyber Rifles and man every crag,
and the loaded caravans move like a tide, and go up and down the narrow
road on their occasions.
Naturally mere sightseers are not welcomed, for much business must be
got through in that urgent forty eight hours in which life is not risked
in entering.
“Tuesday. But make a picture for me.”
“Well, you gave your word not to photograph or sketch--as if one wanted
to when every bit of it is stamped on one’s brain! And you went up to
Jumrood Fort at the entrance. Did they tell you it is an old Sikh Fort
and has been on duty in that turbulent place for five hundred years And
did you see the machine guns in the court? And every one armed--even the
boys with belts of cartridges? Then you went up the narrow winding track
between the mountains, and you said to yourself, ‘This is the road of
pure romance. It goes up to silken Samarkhand, and I can ride to Bokhara
of the beautiful women and to all the dreams. Am I alive and is it
real?’ You felt that?”
“All. Every bit. Go on!”
She smiled with pleasure.
“And you saw the little forts on the crags and the men on guard all
along the bills, rifles ready! You could hear the guns rattle as they
saluted. Do you know that up there men plough with rifles loaded beside
them? They have to be men indeed.”
“Do you mean to imply that we are not men?”
“Different men at least. This is life in a Border ballad. Such a life as
you knew in France but beautiful in a wild--hawk sort of way. Don’t the
Khyber Rifles bewilder you? They are drawn from these very Hill tribes,
and will shoot their own fathers and brothers in the way of duty as
comfortably as if they were jackals. Once there was a scrap here and
one of the tribesmen sniped our men unbearably. What do you suppose
happened? A Khyber Rifle came to the Colonel and said, ‘Let me put
an end to him, Colonel Sahib. I know exactly where he sits. He is my
grandfather.’ And he did it!”
“The bond of bread and salt?”
“Yes, and discipline. I’m sometimes half frightened of discipline. It
moulds a man like wax. Even God doesn’t do that. Well--then you had the
traders--wild shaggy men in sheepskin and women in massive jewelry of
silver and turquoise,-great earrings, heavy bracelets loading their
arms, wild, fierce, handsome. And the camels--thousands of them, some
going up, some coming down, a mass of human and animal life. Above
you, moving figures against the keen blue sky, or deep below you in the
ravines.
“The camels were swaying along with huge bales of goods, and dark
beautiful women in wicker cages perched on them. Silks and carpets from
Bokhara, and blue--eyed Persian cats, and bluer Persian turquoises.
Wonderful! And the dust, gilded by the sunshine, makes a vaporous golden
atmosphere for it all.”
“What was the most wonderful thing you saw there?”
“The most beautiful, I think, was a man--a splendid dark ruffian
lounging along. He wanted to show off, and his swagger was perfect. Long
black onyx eyes and a tumble of black curls, and teeth like almonds.
But what do you think he carried on his wrist--a hawk with fierce yellow
eyes, ringed and chained. Hawking is a favourite sport in the hills. Oh,
why doesn’t some great painter come and paint it all before they take to
trains and cars? I long to see it all again, but I never shall.”
“Why not,” said I. “Surely Sir John can get you up there any day?”
“Not now. The fighting makes it difficult. But it isn’t that. I am
leaving.”
“Leaving?” My heart gave a leap. “Why? Where?”
“Leaving Lady Meryon.”
“Why--for Heaven’s sake?”
“I had rather not tell you.”
“But I must know.”
“You cannot.”
“I shall ask Lady Meryon.”
“I forbid you.”
And then the unexpected happened, and an unbearable impulse swept me
into folly--or was it wisdom?
“Listen to me. I would not have said it yet, but this settles it. I want
you to marry me. I want it atrociously!”
It was a strange word. What I felt for her at that moment was difficult
to describe. I endured it like a pain that could only be assuaged by
her presence, but I endured it angrily. We were walking on the sunset
road--very deserted and quiet at the time. The place was propitious if
nothing else was.
She looked at me in transparent astonishment;
“Mr. Clifden, are you dreaming? You can’t mean what you say.”
“Why can’t I? I do. I want you. You have the key of all I care for. I
think of the world without you and find it tasteless.”
“Surely you have all the world can give? What do you want more?”
“The power to enjoy it--to understand it. You have got that--I haven’t.
I want you always with me to interpret, like a guide to a blind fellow.
I am no better.”
“Say like a dog, at once!” she interrupted. “At least you are frank
enough to put it on that ground. You have not said you love me. You
could not say it.”
“I don’t know whether I do or not. I know nothing about love. I want
you. Indescribably. Perhaps that is love--is it? I never wanted any one
before. I have tried to get away and I can’t.”