Bab Bab 15 · Chapter XV

. Chapter XV

Miss Quested and Aziz and a guide continued the slightly tedious

expedition. They did not talk much, for the sun was getting high.

The air felt like a warm bath into which hotter water is trickling

constantly, the temperature rose and rose, the boulders said, “I

am alive,” the small stones answered, “I am almost alive.” Between

the chinks lay the ashes of little plants. They meant to climb to

the rocking-stone on the summit, but it was too far, and they

contented themselves with the big group of caves. _En route_ for

these, they encountered several isolated caves, which the guide

persuaded them to visit, but really there was nothing to see; they

lit a match, admired its reflection in the polish, tested the echo

and came out again. Aziz was “pretty sure they should come on some

interesting old carvings soon,” but only meant he wished there were

some carvings. His deeper thoughts were about the breakfast.

Symptoms of disorganization had appeared as he left the camp. He

ran over the menu: an English breakfast, porridge and mutton chops,

but some Indian dishes to cause conversation, and pan afterwards.

He had never liked Miss Quested as much as Mrs. Moore, and had

little to say to her, less than ever now that she would marry a

British official.

Nor had Adela much to say to him. If his mind was with the

breakfast, hers was mainly with her marriage. Simla next week, get

rid of Antony, a view of Thibet, tiresome wedding bells, Agra in

October, see Mrs. Moore comfortably off from Bombay—the procession

passed before her again, blurred by the heat, and then she turned

to the more serious business of her life at Chandrapore. There were

real difficulties here—Ronny’s limitations and her own—but she

enjoyed facing difficulties, and decided that if she could control

her peevishness (always her weak point), and neither rail against

Anglo-India nor succumb to it, their married life ought to be happy

and profitable. She mustn’t be too theoretical; she would deal with

each problem as it came up, and trust to Ronny’s common sense and

her own. Luckily, each had abundance of common sense and good will.

But as she toiled over a rock that resembled an inverted saucer,

she thought, “What about love?” The rock was nicked by a double

row of footholds, and somehow the question was suggested by them.

Where had she seen footholds before? Oh yes, they were the pattern

traced in the dust by the wheels of the Nawab Bahadur’s car. She

and Ronny—no, they did not love each other.

“Do I take you too fast?” enquired Aziz, for she had paused, a

doubtful expression on her face. The discovery had come so suddenly

that she felt like a mountaineer whose rope had broken. Not to love

the man one’s going to marry! Not to find it out till this moment!

Not even to have asked oneself the question until now! Something

else to think out. Vexed rather than appalled, she stood still,

her eyes on the sparkling rock. There was esteem and animal contact

at dusk, but the emotion that links them was absent. Ought she to

break her engagement off? She was inclined to think not—it would

cause so much trouble to others; besides, she wasn’t convinced that

love is necessary to a successful union. If love is everything,

few marriages would survive the honeymoon. “No, I’m all right,

thanks,” she said, and, her emotions well under control, resumed

the climb, though she felt a bit dashed. Aziz held her hand, the

guide adhered to the surface like a lizard and scampered about as

if governed by a personal centre of gravity.

“Are you married, Dr. Aziz?” she asked, stopping again, and

frowning.

“Yes, indeed, do come and see my wife”—for he felt it more artistic

to have his wife alive for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said absently.

“She is not in Chandrapore just now.”

“And have you children?”

“Yes, indeed, three,” he replied in firmer tones.

“Are they a great pleasure to you?”

“Why, naturally, I adore them,” he laughed.

“I suppose so.” What a handsome little Oriental he was, and no

doubt his wife and children were beautiful too, for people usually

get what they already possess. She did not admire him with any

personal warmth, for there was nothing of the vagrant in her blood,

but she guessed he might attract women of his own race and rank,

and she regretted that neither she nor Ronny had physical charm.

It does make a difference in a relationship—beauty, thick hair, a

fine skin. Probably this man had several wives—Mohammedans always

insist on their full four, according to Mrs. Turton. And having no

one else to speak to on that eternal rock, she gave rein to the

subject of marriage and said in her honest, decent, inquisitive

way: “Have you one wife or more than one?”

The question shocked the young man very much. It challenged a new

conviction of his community, and new convictions are more sensitive

than old. If she had said, “Do you worship one god or several?” he

would not have objected. But to ask an educated Indian Moslem how

many wives he has—appalling, hideous! He was in trouble how to

conceal his confusion. “One, one in my own particular case,” he

sputtered, and let go of her hand. Quite a number of caves were at

the top of the track, and thinking, “Damn the English even at their

best,” he plunged into one of them to recover his balance. She

followed at her leisure, quite unconscious that she had said the

wrong thing, and not seeing him, she also went into a cave, thinking

with half her mind “sight-seeing bores me,” and wondering with the

other half about marriage.