“I will go north to the hills,” he cried, and with a shock he understood that, after all, he had recovered his own place.  The longing at his heart was for his own country—­for his own people.  It might have been bred of disappointment and despair.  Envy of the white people might have cradled it, desire for the white woman might have nursed it into strength.  But it was alive now.  That was all of which Shere Ali was conscious.  The knowledge filled all his thoughts.  He had his place in the world.  Greatly he rejoiced.

CHAPTER XXIII

SHERE ALI’S PILGRIMAGE

There were times when Ralston held aloft his hands and cursed the Indian administration by all his gods.  But he never did so with a more whole-hearted conviction than on the day when he received word that Linforth had been diverted to Rawal Pindi, in order that he might take up purely military duties.  It took Ralston just seven months to secure his release, and it was not until the early days of autumn had arrived that Linforth at last reached Peshawur.  A landau, with a coachman and groom in scarlet liveries, was waiting for him at the station, and he drove along the broad road through the cantonment to Government House.  As the carriage swung in at the gates, a tall, thin man came from the croquet-ground on the left.  He joined Dick in the porch.

“You are Mr. Linforth?” he said.

“Yes.”

For a moment a pair of grey, tired eyes ran Dick over from head to foot in a careless scrutiny.  Apparently, however, the scrutiny was favourable.

“I am the Chief Commissioner.  I am glad that you have come.  My sister will give you some tea, and afterwards, if you are not tired, we might go for a ride together.  You would like to see your room first.”

Ralston spoke with his usual indifference.  There was no intonation in his voice which gave to any one sentence a particular meaning; and for a particular meaning Dick Linforth was listening with keen ears.  He followed Ralston across the hall to his room, and disappointment gained upon him with every step.  He had grown familiar with disappointment of late years, but he was still young enough in years and spirit to expect the end of disappointment with each change in his fortunes.  He had expected it when the news of his appointment had reached him in Calcutta, and disappointment had awaited him in Bombay.  He had expected it again when, at last, he was sent from Rawal Pindi to Peshawur.  All the way up the line he had been watching the far hills of Cashmere, and repeating to himself, “At last!  At last!”

The words had been a song at his heart, tuned to the jolt and rhythm of the wheels.  Ralston of Peshawur had asked for him.  So much he had been told.  His longing had explained to him why Ralston of Peshawur had asked for him, and easily he had believed the explanation.  He was a Linforth, one of the Linforths of the Road.  Great was his pride.  He would not have bartered his position to be a General in command of a division.  Ralston had sent for him because of his hereditary title to work upon the Road, the broad, permanent, graded Road which was to make India safe.