The Broken Road Page 5

  CHAPTER V

  A MAGAZINE ARTICLE

  The little war of Chiltistan was soon forgotten by the world. But itlived vividly enough in the memories of a few people to whom it hadbrought either suffering or fresh honours. But most of all it wasremembered by Sybil Linforth, so that even after fourteen years a chanceword, or a trivial coincidence, would bring back to her the horror andthe misery of that time as freshly as if only a single day hadintervened. Such a coincidence happened on this morning of August.

  She was in the garden with her back to the Downs which rose high fromclose behind the house, and she was looking across the fields rich withorchards and yellow crops. She saw a small figure climb a stile and cometowards the house along a footpath, increasing in stature as itapproached. It was Colonel Dewes, and her thoughts went back to the daywhen first, with reluctant steps, he had walked along that path, carryingwith him a battered silver watch and chain and a little black leatherletter-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. "Whendid you land?"

  "Yesterday. I am home for good now. My time is up." Sybil Linforth lookedquickly 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 workin me yet. But there! That's the trouble with the mediocre men. They areshelved 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 hadnot 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 ofher 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 creasedlike a dry pippin. There are you--" and he broke off. "I suppose it's theboy who keeps you young. How is he?"

  A look of anxiety troubled Mrs. Linforth's face; into her eyes there camea 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 notunderstand.

  "You must let me have him for a week or two sometimes, Sybil. Boys willget into trouble, you know. It is their nature to. And sometimes a manmay be of use in putting things straight."

  The hint of a smile glimmered about Sybil Linforth's mouth, but sherepressed it. She would not for worlds have let her friend see it, lesthe might be hurt.

  "No," she replied, "Dick is not in any trouble. But--" and she struggledfor a moment with a feeling that she ought not to say what she greatlydesired to say; that speech would be disloyal. But the need to speak wastoo strong within her, her heart too heavily charged with fear.

  "I will tell you," she said, and, with a glance towards the open windowsof the house, she led Colonel Dewes to a corner of the garden where, upona grass mound, there was a garden seat. From this seat one overlooked thegarden hedge. To the left, the little village of Poynings with its greychurch and tall tapering spire, lay at the foot of the gap in the Downswhere runs the Brighton road. Behind them the Downs ran like a rampart toright and left, their steep green sides scarred here and there bylandslips and showing the white chalk. Far away the high trees ofChanctonbury Ring stood out against the sky.

  "Dick has secrets," Sybil said, "secrets from me. It used not to be so. Ihave always known how a want of sympathy makes a child hide what he feelsand thinks, and drives him in upon himself, to feed his thoughts withimaginings and dreams. I have seen it. I don't believe that anything butharm ever comes of it. It builds up a barrier which will last for life. Idid not want that barrier to rise between Dick and me--I--" and her voiceshook a little--"I should be very unhappy if it were to rise. So I havealways tried to be his friend and comrade, rather than his mother."

  "Yes," said Colonel Dewes, wisely nodding his head. "I have seen youplaying cricket with him."

  Colonel Dewes had frequently been puzzled by a peculiar change of mannerin his friends. When he made a remark which showed how clearly heunderstood their point of view and how closely he was in agreement withit, 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 theconversation altogether into a conventional and less interesting channel.That change of manner became apparent now. Sybil Linforth leaned back andabruptly 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 secretscame. Oh, I know him so well. He is trying to hide that there are anysecrets lest his reticence should hurt me. But we have been so muchtogether, so much to each other--how should I not know?" And again sheleaned forward with her hands clasped tightly together upon her knees anda look of great distress lying like a shadow upon her face. "The firstsecrets," she continued, and her voice trembled, "I suppose they arealways bitter to a mother. But since I have nothing but Dick they hurt memore deeply than is perhaps reasonable"; and she turned towards hercompanion 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 themslowly others. "I don't know--and I am a little afraid to guess. But Iknow that something is stirring in his mind, something is--" and shepaused, and into her eyes there came a look of actual terror--"somethingis calling him. He goes alone up on to the top of the Downs, and staysthere alone for hours. I have seen him. I have come upon him unawareslying on the grass with his face towards the sea, his lips parted, andhis eyes strained, his face absorbed. He has been so lost in dreams thatI have come close to him through the grass and stood beside him andspoken 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? Idon't think it is good either. It is not natural for a boy of his age tobe thoughtful. I am not sure that that is good. I am, to tell you thetruth, very troubled."

  Dewes looked at her sharply. Something, not so much in her words as inthe careful, slow manner of her speech, warned him that she was nottelling him all of the trouble which oppressed her. Her fears were moredefinite than she had given him as yet reason to understand. There wasnot enough in what she had said to account for the tense clasp of herhands, and the glint of terror in her eyes.

  "Anyhow, he's going to the big school next term," he said; "that is, ifyou haven't changed your mind since you last wrote to me, and I hope youhaven't changed your mind. All that he wants really," the Colonel addedwith unconscious cruelty, "is companions of his own age. He passed inwell, didn't he?"

  Sybil Linforth's face lost for the moment all its apprehension. A smileof pride made her face very tender, and as she turned to Dewes he thoughtto 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." Thenshe 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 ofsunshine; the ga
rden was bright with flowers, and about the windowsrose-trees climbed the house-walls. It was a house of red brick, darkenedby age, and with a roof of tiles. To Dewes' eyes, nestling as it didbeneath 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 fallacross the floor."

  Standing aside as she bade him, he looked into the room. He saw a boyseated at a table with his head between his hands, immersed in a bookwhich lay before him. He was seated with his side towards the window andhis hands concealed his face. But in a moment he removed one hand andturned the page. Colonel Dewes could now see the profile of his face. Afirm chin, a beauty of outline not very common, a certain delicacy offeature and colour gave to him a distinction of which Sybil Linforthmight well be proud.

  "He'll be a dangerous fellow among the girls in a few years' time," saidDewes, turning to the mother. But Sybil did not hear the words. She wasstanding with her head thrust forward. Her face was white, her wholeaspect one of dismay. Dewes could not understand the change in her. Amoment ago she had been laughing playfully as she led him towards thewindow. Now it seemed as though a sudden disaster had turned her tostone. Yet there was nothing visible to suggest disaster. Dewes lookedfrom Sybil to the boy and back again. Then he noticed that her eyes wereriveted, 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, recognisedthe visitor, and came forward to the window with a smile of welcome.There was no embarrassment in his manner, no air of being surprised. Hehad not the look of one who nurses secrets. A broad open foreheadsurmounted a pair of steady clear grey eyes.

  "Well, Dick, I hear you have done well in your examination," said theColonel, as he shook hands. "If you keep it up I will leave you all Isave 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 eyeson 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 hadbeen struck. But it did not need that movement to explain to the Colonelthe perplexing problem of her fears. He understood now. The Linforthsbelonged to the Road. The Road had slain her husband. No wonder she livedin 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 awarethat Sybil Linforth drew a deep breath. "The road reaches Kohara. It doesnot go beyond. It will not go beyond."

  Dick's eyes steadily looked into the Colonel's face; and the Colonel hadsome trouble to meet their look with the same frankness. He turned asideand Mrs. Linforth said,

  "Come and see my roses."

  Dick went back to his book. The man and woman passed on round the cornerof 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 beesamong 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 ofthem," said Sybil; and then she broke off suddenly and faced him.

  "Is it true?" she whispered in a low passionate voice. "Is the roadstopped? 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 thereis 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 noteof hopelessness in her voice. "The Power of the Road is beyond the Powerof 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 articlewritten forty years ago by Andrew Linforth--" and she suddenly criedout, "Oh, how I wish he had never lived. He was an uncle of Harry's--myhusband. He predicted it. He was in the old Company, then he became aservant of the Government, and he was the first to begin the road. Youknow his history?"

  "No."

  "It is a curious one. When it was his time to retire, he sent his moneyto England, he made all his arrangements to come home, and then one nighthe walked out of the hotel in Bombay, a couple of days before the shipsailed, 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 tothe north, back to his Road. I think it called him. I think he could notkeep away."

  "But we should have come across him," cried Dewes, "or across news ofhim. 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 theBaroghil 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, andeven hunger--Englishmen and coolies from Baltistan. Many men will diefighting over it, Englishmen and Chiltis, and Gurkhas and Sikhs. It willcost millions of money, and from policy or economy successiveGovernments will try to stop it; but the power of the Road will begreater than the power of any Government. It will wind through valleysso deep that the day's sunshine is gone within the hour. It will becarried in galleries along the faces of mountains, and for eight monthsof the year sections of it will be buried deep in snow. Yet it will befinished. It will go on to the foot of the Hindu Kush, and then only theBritish rule in India will be safe."

  She finished the quotation.

  "That is what Andrew Linforth prophesied. Much of it has already beenjustified. I have no doubt the rest will be in time. I think he wentnorth when he disappeared. I think the Road called him, as it is nowcalling Dick."

  She made the admission at last quite simply and quietly. Yet it wasevident 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 withwhich the Road inspired her.

  "When the trouble began fourteen years ago, when the road was cut and dayafter day no news came of whether Harry lived or, if he died, how hedied--I dreamed of it--I used to see horrible things happening on thatroad--night after night I saw them. Dreadful things happening to Dick andhis father while I stood by and could do nothing. Oh, it seems to me aliving 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 thatcountry, I can tell you. I don't think we shall be caught nappingthere again."

  But these arguments had little weight with Sybil Linforth. The tragedy offourteen years ago had beaten her down with too strong a hand. She couldnot reason about the road. She only felt, and she felt with all thepassion 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 uponthat road is his heritage, if he wants to follow in his father's steps, Ishall say not a single word to dissuade him."

  Dewes stared at her. This half-hour of conversation had made real to himat all events the great strength of her hostility. Yet she would put thehostility aside and say not a word. r />
  "That's more than I could do," he said, "if I felt as you do. ByGeorge it is!"

  Sybil smiled at him with friendliness.

  "It's not bravery. Do you remember the unfinished letter which youbrought home to me from Harry? There were three sentences in that which Icannot pretend to have forgotten," and she repeated the sentences:

  "'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.' It isquite clear--isn't it?--that Harry wanted him to take up the work. Youcan read that in the words. I can imagine him speaking them and hear thetone he would use. Besides--I have still a greater fear than the one ofwhich you know. I don't want Dick, when he grows up, ever to think that Ihave 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.