CHAPTER XXIV

NEWS FROM AJMERE

Something of this pilgrimage Ralston understood; and what he understood he explained to Dick Linforth on the top of the tower at Peshawur.  Linforth, however, was still perplexed, still unconvinced.

“I can’t believe it,” he cried; “I know Shere Ali so well.”

Ralston shook his head.

“England overlaid the real man with a pretty varnish,” he said.  “That’s all it ever does.  And the varnish peels off easily when the man comes back to an Indian sun.  There’s not one of these people from the hills but has in him the makings of a fanatic.  It’s a question of circumstances whether the fanaticism comes to the top or not.  Given the circumstances, neither Eton, nor Oxford, nor all the schools and universities rolled into one would hinder the relapse.”

“But why?” exclaimed Linforth.  “Why should Shere Ali have relapsed?”

“Disappointment here, flattery in England—­there are many reasons.  Usually there’s a particular reason.”

“And what is that?” asked Linforth.

“The love of a white woman.”

Ralston was aware that Linforth at his side started.  He started ever so slightly.  But Ralston was on the alert.  He made no sign, however, that he had noticed anything.

“I know that reason held good in Shere Ali’s case,” Ralston went on; and there came a change in Linforth’s voice.  It grew rather stern, rather abrupt.

“Why?  Has he talked?”

“Not that I know of.  Nevertheless, I am sure that there was one who played a part in Shere Ali’s life,” said Ralston.  “I have known it ever since I first met him—­more than a year ago on his way northwards to Chiltistan.  He stopped for a day at Lahore and rode out with me.  I told him that the Government expected him to marry as soon as possible, and settle down in his own country.  I gave him that advice deliberately.  You see I wanted to find out.  And I did find out.  His consternation, his anger, answered me clearly enough.  I have no doubt that there was someone over there in England—­a woman, perhaps an innocent woman, who had been merely careless—­perhaps—­”

But he did not finish the sentence.  Linforth interrupted him before he had time to complete it.  And he interrupted without flurry or any sign of agitation.

“There was a woman,” he said.  “But I don’t think she was thoughtless.  I don’t see how she could have known that there was any danger in her friendliness.  For she was merely friendly to Shere Ali.  I know her myself.”

The answer was given frankly and simply.  For once Ralston was outwitted.  Dick Linforth had Violet Oliver to defend, and the defence was well done.  Ralston was left without a suspicion that Linforth had any reason beyond the mere truth of the facts to spur him to defend her.

“Yes, that’s the mistake,” said Ralston.  “The woman’s friendly and means no more than she says or looks.  But these fellows don’t understand such friendship.  Shere Ali is here dreaming of a woman he knows he can never marry—­because of his race.  And so he’s ready to run amuck.  That’s what it comes to.”