The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [99]
It must be owned that such an idea had not previously occurred to him, for he had imagined that Belinda's Papa would insist that they wait until he came of age, and he had not been prepared to quarrel with that. But his meeting with Major Harlowe had made him begin to revise his plans. Ash too had pictured someone far more formidable than the undersized and .-it it must be admitted – insignificant-looking gentleman to whom he had been introduced at Jhelum, but now that he had seen the Major, he was no longer surprised that Mrs Harlowe should have taken it upon herself to consent to the engagement instead of telling him (which he had fully expected her to do) that he must wait until he had seen Belinda's Papa, because if looks were anything to go by, Major Archibald Harlowe was the kind of man who would allow himself to be over-ruled by the opinions of his women-folk; in which case they might well be able to talk him into allowing an early wedding. It was an exciting prospect, and Ash gave himself up to day dreams.
Major Harlowe, for his part, had paid no particular attention to Ensign Pelham-Martyn beyond vaguely noting that his pretty little daughter seemed to have attracted two personable young admirers. He had acknowledged his wife's introductions to Ash and Mr Garforth, and promptly forgotten their names, though he would nod amiably to them whenever they met at one of the staging posts on the road, and twit his daughter on having acquired two beaux already.
The road wound through the desolate Salt Ranges that lay between Jhelum and the great cantonment of Rawalpindi, and swept onward, past the ruins of Taxila and among low rocky hills that showed above a barren plain like the bones of starving cattle, to end on the banks of the Indus under the grim shadow of Attock Fort. Here the travellers descended, and having paid off their drivers, crossed the river by ferry and continued their journey in fresh relays of dâk-gharis along a road that ran parallel to the Kabul River. The autumn rains had turned the river to a swirling, rust-stained torrent, but the plains were still parched and dusty, and beyond the swollen river the land stretched away towards the hills, lion-coloured and rock-strewn, its trees and fields dried to a uniform gold by the furnace heat of the summer months.
The hills were nearer now, and the horizon no longer limitless but bounded by bleak folds and ridges of rock that changed colour with every hour of the day: at one moment seeming fifty miles away and as blue and transparent as glass, and at another a mere furlong distant, rust-brown and streaked with the black shadows of innumerable gullies. Behind them the Border hills and the mountains of Malakand rose up in ridge after ridge like frozen waves breaking on the rim of the plain, guardians of a harsh land inhabited by a score of turbulent tribes who recognized no law save that of force, lived in fortified villages and indulged in savage blood-feuds, and waged perpetual war either with each other or the British. For this was the North-West Frontier: the Gateway of India through which Alexander of Macedon and his conquering Legions had marched when the world was young. Beyond its inhospitable passes lay the Kingdom of Sher Ali, Amir of Afghanistan. And beyond that, the vast and menacing Empire of the Tsars.
To Belinda, the countryside seemed depressingly bleak and empty, but at least there was no lack of traffic on the Peshawar road, and looking out