The four miles an hour dwindled down to a bare half. The darkness deepened, owing to which possibly they lost their way, turning east instead of west. Away from the Hall they wandered, oblivious of a purple-faced gentleman who was awaiting them there, and whose wrath was rapidly rising as he viewed the still mistressless tea-table.
CHAPTER II
The fair valley of Kashmir lay drowsing in the August sunshine—a strip of green and gold nestling amid a waste of rocky mountains. All around rose the great hills, bare and sun-scorched for the most part towards the west and south—at which point enters the main road from India—but to the east draped with heavy mantles of fir and towering pine; far away, a glittering rampart of eternal snow and ice, the great mass of the Himalayas barred the way to the north, its jagged peaks and saw-like ridges fretting the deep cloudless blue of the sky.
Over the valley itself, now a riotous waste of colour, hung a shimmering vale of heat; through the warm heavy air, drowsy with the perfume of a thousand blossoms, gaudy dragon-flies darted to and fro, or hung poised with tremulous vibration of gauzy wings; while here and there orange and purple butterflies drifted lazily from flower to flower. Tiny rivulets murmured sleepily, as they threaded their way through woods of chestnut, apple and pear, interspersed with patches of golden millet and Indian corn, the sole worldly wealth of some Kashmiri husbandman, the roof of whose hut might be seen peering through the surrounding clump of trees.
Born in the snowy mountains to the north, the river Jhelum winds its way southwards through the centre of the valley, passing through the great lake of Kashmir, a vast sheet of burnished silver, on the still surface of which lie masses of coral-pink lotus. Onward the river crawls, lapping in sleepy caress the wooden piles and temple-steps of Srinagar, the country's capital, a ramshackle cluster of wooden, chalet-like houses, built on both sides of the river. Still half-asleep, it creeps on for some hundred miles through a land golden with crops and bright with flowers and fruit, on past Baramoula, the terminus of the tonga service from Rawal Pindi, and out by a gorge in the mountains, through which lies the road to India and the south. Then it awakes, and hemmed in by jutting crag and precipice, its course vexed by boulder and quicksand, becomes henceforth a wild torrent, roaring its way onward to Mother Indus and the sea.
Following a rough track leading eastward from Baramoula, and steadily rising as he goes, the traveller passes through some fifteen miles of thinly-wooded country, broken by fields of scanty millet and maize, till at length a large wooden temple is reached, situated in a clearing at the foot of a steep fir-clad ridge. Leaving this behind, he plunges into dense forest, and after an hour's stiff climb reaches the summit, where suddenly and unexpectedly he comes upon a native bazaar of rough wooden huts overlooking an expanse of grassy plain. Roughly circular in shape, this plain is girt on all sides with a thick belt of sombre firs, beyond which again tower the mountains. All around, either just inside the girdle of trees or at its edge, are dotted small wooden houses and clusters of white tents, while in the centre of the plain rises a large and more pretentious-looking edifice, around which one August afternoon a numerous and gaily-dressed crowd was to be seen assembled.
This is Shiraz, the hill-station of Kashmir, and here, when the valley below has become impossible owing to the heat and mosquitoes, flock the English visitors and officials of the country—both black and white. The houses and tents surrounding the plain, or Murg as it is called, are their temporary homes, while the building in the centre is the focus of Shiraz social life, serving indiscriminately as club, library, cricket or polo pavilion.
No ordinary event, however, was responsible for to-day's gathering of notabilities, no pagal gymkhana or crumpet snatch, but something much more serious, namely, the finals of the Shiraz Polo championship, and hence the brightest and best of frocks and frills were here on view, while hats and parasols were positively dazzling in their splendour.
Moreover, an additional incentive had been given to good fellowship, for was not Lady Wilford, the wife of Sir Reginald Wilford, K.C.S.I., K.C.I.E. etc, etc., and present Resident of Kashmir, At Home this August afternoon? And no experienced Anglo-Indian lady will, as is well known, forego the delights of a free tea, nor for that matter, of any entertainment, for which someone else pays. Indeed, even one modest rupee gate money has been known in that country to frighten away the fair sex altogether from race-meetings, gymkhana or polo match. To-day, however, there was no such vexatious bar to pleasure, and hence it came about that all was light-hearted enjoyment and hilarity.
Mrs. Twiddell, wife of Major Twiddell of the Supply and Transport Corps, now absent in the plains, looked radiant as she chattered away to her best friend, Mrs. Passy Snorter. True, she had a grievance, though you might not have thought it, the said grievance being the reason that necessitated the wearing of her present attire of pink, instead of one of the ravishing confections of which she had so often made mention.