Books: The Native Born

I >> I. A. R. Wylie >> The Native Born

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Travers shuddered; he tried to free himself from the clutch of the
white, bloodless hand, but she clung to him desperately, despairingly,
while her voice rose in an agonized crescendo.

"Don't you know that I am _dead?_"

Footsteps came hurrying down the corridor. A sudden impulse, a
reawakening of the spirit of action and enterprise, which had carried
him through his life, bade him grasp her hand and drag from it the
loosely fitting ring.

"I will see you again--dead or living, I will help you," he said.

The next instant he drew quickly back. A white-bearded native servant
had entered and was moving swiftly with cat-like stealth toward the
veiled figure by the window. He was breathless, as though with hard
running, and seemed oblivious of Travers' presence until, with an
exclamation of relief, he had grasped the unresisting figure by the
wrist. Then he turned, salaaming profoundly.

"May the Lord Sahib forgive his servant!" he said with a humility
which in Travers' ears rang curiously ironical. "The woman is possessed
of a devil who speaketh lies out of her mouth. It would cost thy
servant dear if she were found with the Lord Sahib."

Travers assumed an air of indifference.

"Who is she?" he asked carelessly.

"My wife, Lord Sahib. The devil has possessed her these many years."

Travers caught the flash of the cunning, suspicious eyes and knew that
the man had lied. But he said nothing, dismissing him and his captive
with a gesture. Only for an instant, governed by an irresistible
instinct, he glanced over his shoulder. He saw then that the woman's
head was turned toward him and that one white hand was raised as
though in mingled appeal and imperative command. Travers nodded almost
imperceptibly and she disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

For some minutes Travers remained motionless, then, as though nothing
unusual had happened, he resumed his critical survey of the precious
stones with which the pillars were adorned, apparently so absorbed
that he did not notice the sound of approaching footsteps. Only when
he was called by name did he look up with a start of pleased surprise.

"Ah, Your Highness!" he exclaimed.

The young prince stood in the curtained doorway, dressed as though he
had just returned from riding. He was dusty and travel-stained and, in
spite of his energetic, upright bearing, he looked exhausted. There
were heavy lines under the keen eyes, and Travers noticed for the
first time that his cheeks were slightly hollow, giving his whole
appearance an air of haggard weariness. He lifted his hand in return
to Travers' salute, and came forward with a welcoming smile.

"My servants told me I should find you here," he said. "I hope the
time of waiting has not been too long?"

"Indeed, no!" Travers returned, as he descended the throne steps. "I
have been amusing myself right royally. You have surely the most
perfect collection of stones in India."

"They are well enough," Nehal answered, his smile deepening. "Have you
been calculating how many rupees they will bring in?"

The remark, which at another time would have called a frank laugh of
agreement from Travers, caused him instead a faint feeling of
annoyance.

"Perhaps I have," he said, not without a suggestion of bitterness,
"but I am still sufficiently alive to beauty to be able to appreciate
it apart from its intrinsic value."

Nehal Singh motioned him to take his seat at the low table which a
servant had at that moment brought in.

"Forgive me," he said. "I fear my remark hurt you. I thought as a
business man you had only one standpoint from which you judged--you
told me as much."

"Yes, and I told you the truth," Travers said, after a moment, in
which he bent frowningly over his cup of coffee. "I am a business man,
Rajah, and for a business man who wants to make any sort of success of
his life there must be only one standpoint. If he has another side to
his nature, as I have--the purely artistic and emotional side--he must
crush it out of sight, if not out of existence, as I do." He looked up
with a sudden return of his old tranquil humor. "You must not count it
as anything if the beauty of these surroundings for a moment lifted
the unpractical side of me uppermost," he said, laughing. "It was
purely _pro tem.,_ and I am once more my normal, hard-headed self, at
your disposal, Rajah."

Nehal Singh nodded absently.

"I believe what you say is true," he said. "A man who goes out into
the world and enters into her conflicts must have only one side--the
strong, hard, practical side; otherwise he can do nothing, neither for
himself nor others. The idea came to me already the other night after
I left you."

"Indeed?" Travers murmured. "What made you think of that, Rajah?"

Nehal gave a gesture which seemed to put the question to one side.

"Something I heard--saw," he said. "It does not matter. It made me
hesitate. That is all."

"Hesitate?"

"To enter into the conflict. I felt for the moment that I was not
fit--that it would overwhelm me. I had made a picture of the world, a
picture which after all might not be the true one. I did not believe
that I could bear the reality."

He bent his head wearily on his hand, and there followed an instant's
silence in which Travers thoughtfully studied his companion. He was
wondering what cross-current of influence had flowed into the stream
on which he meant to sweep the prince toward his purpose. Any idea of
relinquishing his plans had evaporated; the very suggestion of another
influence having been sufficient to put him on his mettle and call to
life the full energy of his headstrong ambition. He had the tact,
however, to remain silent, and to leave Nehal's train of thought
uninterrupted. And this required considerable patience and
self-control, for the Rajah seemed to forget his existence, and sat
staring vacantly in front of him, his head still resting on his hand.

"Yes," he went on suddenly, but without changing his position, "that
is what I felt two nights ago. The practical, hard side of me seemed
lacking. I felt that I was a dreamer, like the rest of my unfortunate
race, and that to enter into battle with the world, as you suggested,
could only bring misfortune. I did not realize then that, at whatever
cost, it was my duty."

"Duty?"

"Yes. A dreamer has no right to his dreams, be they ever so beautiful,
unless he changes them into substance. In my dreams I have loved the
world and my fellow-creatures. But what does that avail me if I do
nothing for the suffering and sorrow with which the world is filled? I
must go out and help. I must put my whole wealth and strength to the
task, even if I lose thereby my peace. I must 'sell all that I have.'
Is not that the advice your Great Teacher gave to the young man
seeking to do his duty?"

Travers started, and then smiled.

"Is there anything you do not know or have not read, Rajah?" he said,
with an amused admiration.

"I have read a great deal," was the earnest answer, "but it seems to
me as though I had known nothing until yesterday. Yesterday, in an
hour, a new world was revealed to me." He leaned forward, extending
his hand. "I ask you as a man of honor," he said, "before you show me
your plans, before I definitely engage myself in this great work, tell
me, do you believe that it will be for my people, what you say? Will
it lift them from their misery; will it make them prosperous and
happy?"

Travers took the hand in his own. For a moment he studied it intently,
curiously, as though it had been the sole topic of their conversation.
Then his eyes met those of the Rajah with unflinching calm and
decision.

"As far as I can be sure of anything, it will do for your country all
that I have said," he answered. And therein he was sincere--as
sincere, that is, as a man can be whose retreat is already secured.

With a sigh of relief Nehal Singh drew the table closer.

"Show me your plans," he said.

For three uninterrupted hours the two men sat over the papers which
Travers had brought. Now and again he lifted his head and glanced
toward the doorway through which the strange apparition had
disappeared, half expecting to see once more the white extended hand,
half believing that he had been the victim of a delusion, a fantasy
born of the mysterious veil with which the whole palace seemed
shrouded. Then he glanced at the ring which sparkled on his own
finger, and he knew that it was no delusion, but that a corner of the
veil lay perhaps within his grasp.

CHAPTER XIII

THE ROAD CLEAR

The English colony heard of the Rajah's project with mingled feelings
of amusement and anxiety. As Colonel Carmichael expressed it, it would
have been safer to have stirred up a hornet's nest than to attempt any
vital reform in the native quarters; and he was firmly convinced that
the inhabitants of the Bazaar would cling to their dirt and squalor
with the same tenacity with which they clung to their religion. When
the first batch of native workers, under the direction of a European
overseer, set out on the task of constructing new and sanitary
quarters half a mile outside Marut, he announced that it was no more
than the calm before the storm, and kept a weather eye open for
trouble. But, in spite of these gloomy prognostications, the work
proceeded calmly and steadily on its way. The new dwellings were well
constructed, broad, clean thoroughfares taking the place of the
narrow, dirty passages which had run like an unwholesome labyrinth
through the old Bazaar. Water in abundance was laid on from the river.
Natives of superior caste, who had proved their capacity for order,
were put in charge of the different blocks and made responsible for
their condition. Of more value than all this was the energy and
willingness with which the people entered into the project. More
workers offered themselves than were required, and could only be
comforted with the assurance that very soon a new enterprise would be
set on foot in which they, too, would find occupation.

A month after the first stone had been laid, Stafford paid a visit of
inspection in company with the Rajah and Travers. On his way back be
passed the Carys' bungalow, and seeing Beatrice on the verandah, he
had ridden up, as he said, to make his salaams. Very little persuasion
tempted him into the cool, shady drawing-room. He knew that Lois would
be up at the club, and, _faute de mieux_, Beatrice's company was
something to be appreciated after a hot and exhausting afternoon. For
a rather curious friendship had sprung up between these two. They had
nothing in common. His stiffly honest and orthodox character was oil
to the water of her outspoken indifference to the usual codes and
morals of ordinary society. And yet he liked her, and, strangely
enough, he never found that her supercilious criticisms and daring
opinions jarred on him. Perhaps it was his honesty which recognized
the honesty in her, just as, on the reverse side, the sanctimonious
Philistinisms of Maud Berry left him glowing with irritation because
his instincts told him that they were not even sincere.

On this particular afternoon he was more than usually glad to have a
few minutes' quiet chat with Beatrice. That which he had seen and
heard on his four hours' ride had stirred to life a sudden doubt in
himself and in his hitherto firmly rooted principles, and, like a
great many men, he felt that he could only regain a clear outlook by
an exchange of ideas with some second person.

"You know my standpoint pretty well by now," he said, as, seated in a
comfortable lounge chair, he watched Beatrice busy over some patterns
which she had just received from London. "It isn't your standpoint, of
course, and no doubt you would be fully in your right to say, 'I told
you so,' when I confess that I am beginning to waver."

"I never say, 'I told you so,'" she returned, smiling. "That is the
war-cry of those accustomed to few triumphs."

"Not that by wavering I mean that I am coming round to your opinions,"
he went on. "On the contrary, nothing on this earth will shake my
theory that a mingling of races is an impossibility. They must and
will, with few exceptions, remain separate to all eternity, and one or
the other must have the upper hand if there is to be any law or order.
No, it's not that. It's my self-satisfaction that is beginning to
waver."

"You must be more explicit," Beatrice observed.

"I mean, men like myself--in fact, most Englishmen--are pretty well
convinced, even when they have the rare tact of keeping it to
themselves, that they are the salt of the earth. They may be, as a
whole, but there are exceptions all round, which we are inclined to
overlook because of the foregone conclusion. It has struck me lately
that there are some of us--well, not up to the mark."

"Has this revelation come to you by force of contrast?" she asked.
"Haven't you been out with the Rajah?"

He looked at her with the pleasure of a man who has been saved the
bother of going into explanatory details.

"Yes, I have," he admitted, "and you are not far wrong when you talk
about the force of contrast. You know what I thought of the Rajah.
There are any amount of good-looking native princes with nice surface
manners--that sort of thing wouldn't impress me. But this man has more
than good looks and manners. He is a born leader. You should have seen
him this afternoon. There wasn't a thing he overlooked or forgot.
Every detail was at his fingers' ends, and he has a fire, an energy,
an idealistic belief in himself and in the whole world which fairly
sweeps you off your feet. It did me. I believe it did the Colonel, and
I know it did the natives. The dust wasn't low enough for them. And it
wasn't face worship, either. It came straight from the heart; I could
see that they were ready to die for him on the spot, at his mere
word."

"What a power!" Beatrice murmured. She had stopped turning over the
patterns and was leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed
thoughtfully in front of her.

"Yes, it is a power," he echoed emphatically, "and I wish to goodness
we had more men like him on our side. We English take things too
lightly--most of us. And in India it is not safe to take things
lightly."

He saw that she was about to make some observation, but at that moment
Mrs. Cary entered. She had evidently been out in the garden, for she
had a bunch of freshly cut flowers in her hand and a girlish muslin
hat shaded the fat cheeks flushed with the unusual exertion.

"Ah, there you are, Captain Stafford!" she said, extending her
disengaged hand. "Mr. Travers said he was sure you had dropped in, and
wouldn't believe it when I told him that I had heard and seen nothing
of you. There, come in, Mr. Travers. It's all right."

She smiled at Stafford with a playful significance that seemed to
indicate an unspoken comprehension of the situation, but Stafford did
not smile back. Like a great many worthy and honest people, he was not
gifted with a sense of humor, and the ridiculous, especially if it
took a human form, was his abomination. Consequently he disliked Mrs.
Cary, though not for the reason which made her unpopular in other
quarters.

Travers followed almost immediately on her invitation, like Stafford,
bearing the marks of a hard day's work on his unusually pale face.

"I expect Stafford has told you what a time we've been having," he
said, in response to Beatrice's greeting. "It's no joke to have
aroused an energy like the Rajah's, and I can see myself worked to a
shadow. Please forgive my get-up, Miss Cary, but this isn't an
official call. I only wanted to fetch Stafford."

"I'm afraid you can't," Mrs. Cary put in. "We have engaged the poor
exhausted man to tea, and you are strictly forbidden to worry him with
your tiresome business. You can stop, too, if you promise not to
bother."

Travers, who had as a rule an equally amiable smile for every one,
remained unexpectedly serious.

"I am awfully sorry," he said, hesitating. "Perhaps it would do
another time."

"What is it about?" Stafford asked. "Will it take long?"

"As far as I am concerned, only a few minutes."

There was a significance in the tone of Travers' answer which passed
unnoticed. Stafford rose lazily to his feet.

"Perhaps you'll give us the run of your garden for just so long, Mrs.
Cary?" he said. "I'm not going to let Travers cheat me out of my
promised cup of tea. Come on, my dear fellow. I'm ready for the
worst."

The two men went down the verandah steps, and Mrs. Cary and her
daughter remained alone. Beatrice returned at once to her
contemplation of the fashion-plates, her attitude enforcing silence
upon the elder woman, who stood by the round polished table nervously
arranging the flowers. Evidently she had something to say, but for
once had not the courage to say it. At last, with one of those
determined gestures with which irresolute people strive to stiffen
their wavering wills, she pushed the flowers on one side, and came and
sat directly opposite Beatrice.

"Have you got a few minutes to spare?" she asked.

Beatrice looked up, and put the papers aside.

"As many as you like."

Mrs. Cary's eyes sank beneath the direct gaze, and she began to play
with the rings that adorned her fat fingers.

"I'm afraid you'll be angry," she said. "If it wasn't for my duty as a
mother, I should let you go your own way--as it is, I must just risk
it."

"There is no risk," Beatrice returned gravely. "Where duty is
concerned, I am all consideration."

"It's about your intimacy with His Highness," Mrs. Cary went on. "I
can't help thinking it has gone too far."

"In what way?"

"You ride out with him every morning."

"You said nothing a month ago--when I went out for the first time."

"It was the first time. And I didn't know people would talk."

"Do they talk?"

"Yes. Mrs. Berry told me only this afternoon that she thought it most
_infra dig_. She told me as a friend--"

Beatrice laughed.

"Mrs. Berry as a friend is a new departure."

"Never mind. There was something in what she said. She told me it
spoiled your chances--with others."

"I dare say she told you that it is very immoral for me to ride out
with Captain Stafford?"

Mrs. Cary threw up her head.

"I don't take any notice of that sort of thing. That is only her
cattishness, because she wants Stafford for Maud."

"You don't mind about Captain Stafford, then?"

"Goodness, no! Why should I? A man wants to know a girl before--well,
before he asks her. I don't see anything in that. But this business
with the Rajah is quite different. Of course, I know you are only
amusing yourself, but still it lowers your value to be seen so much
with a colored man."

"Why should you mind? Surely you can see for yourself that Captain
Stafford is to all intents and purposes engaged to Lois?"

"Rubbish! She thinks so, but it's a lukewarm business which could
easily be brought to nothing--if you tried. And besides, I don't want
you talked about. We have been talked about quite enough."

"Why should people talk?" exclaimed Beatrice, with a sudden change in
tone. "What harm do I do? What do they suppose goes on between us?"

Mrs. Cary shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm sure I don't know," she said indifferently.

Beatrice sat back in her chair, for a moment silent. A faint smile
moved the corners of her fine mouth.

"I fancy our conversation, if they heard it, would startle the
unbearable Marut scandal-mongers," she said. "What do you say to a
Bible-class on horseback?"

Mrs. Cary's small round eyes opened wide.

"A Bible-class?" she repeated suspiciously.

Beatrice nodded.

"Yes. I have been teaching him the rudiments of Christianity. It seems
you must have neglected my education in that respect, for I have had
to burn a good deal of midnight oil to keep pace with the demand upon
my knowledge. I tell him it as a story, and he reads it himself
afterward. We are halfway through St. John. What are you laughing at?"

The tone of intense irritation pulled Mrs. Cary up short in the midst
of a loud fit of laughter.

"I'm sorry, my dear," she apologized, "but you really must admit it's
rather funny."

"What is rather funny?"

"Oh, well, you, you know. Fancy you as a missionary! I must tell Mrs.
Berry. It will amuse her, and--"

She stopped again, as though she had inadvertently trodden on the tail
of a scorpion. She had seen Beatrice angry, but not as now. There was
something not unlike desperation in the eyes that were suddenly turned
on her.

"You won't tell Mrs. Berry, mother. You will never breathe a word to a
single soul of what I have told you. It was very absurd of me to say
anything--I don't know what made me. I might have known that you would
not understand--but sometimes I forget that 'mother' is not a synonym
for everything."

Mrs. Cary smarted under what she felt to be an unjust and uncalled-for
attack.

"I don't see what I have done now," she protested indignantly. "What
is there to understand that I haven't understood, pray?"

Her daughter got up as though she could no longer bear to remain
still, and began to walk restlessly about the room.

"Never mind," she said. "That doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is
that I will not have the Rajah made a butt for the Station's
witticisms. You can say what you like about me--I don't care in the
least--but you will leave him alone."

"Dear me, what are you so annoyed about?" Mrs. Cary inquired, with
irritating solicitude. "How was I to know you were seriously
contemplating the Rajah's conversion? I'm sure it's very nice of you.
Child, don't pull all those roses to pieces!"

Beatrice dropped the flowers impatiently.

"It's more likely that he will convert me," she muttered, but the
remark fell on unheeding ears.

"I wish you would let me tell Mrs. Berry about it," Mrs. Cary went on.
"It might make quite a nice impression, and stop her saying
disagreeable things. Of course, if your intimacy with His Highness was
due to your desire to bring him to a nice Christian state, it would be
quite excusable. I might even ask Mr. Berry for some of those tracts
he is always distributing among the natives."

It was Beatrice's turn to laugh. Her laugh had a disagreeable ring.

"For the Rajah? I wonder how he would reconcile them with all I have
been telling him about love, and pity, and tolerance? Besides, my dear
mother, diplomatist as you are, don't you see that it wouldn't have
the least effect? Do you think the most kindly thinking person in this
Station would believe for an instant that _I_ would ever convert
anyone? Of course I should be seen through at once. They would
say--and perfectly correctly, too--that I was just fooling the Rajah
for my own purposes."

"What are your purposes?" Mrs. Cary demanded.

Beatrice raised her eyebrows.

"You knew them a month ago."

"Oh, yes; then it was for Mr. Travers' sake. But now--"

"Now things are the same as they were then. I--I can't leave off what
I have begun."

She had gone over to the piano and, opening it, sat down and began to
play a few disjointed bars. Mrs. Cary, who watched the lovely face
with what is sometimes called a mother's pride, and which is sometimes
no more than the satisfaction of a merchant with salable goods, saw
something which made her sit bolt upright in her comfortable chair. A
tear rolled down the smooth cheek turned toward her--a single tear,
which splashed on the white hand resting on the keys. That was all,
but it was enough. With a jingle of gold bracelets and a rustle of
silk, Mrs. Cary struggled to her feet and came and stood by her
daughter, her heavy hand clasping her by the shoulder.

"Beaty!" she said stupidly. "Are you--crying?"

Beatrice turned on the music-stool and looked her mother calmly in the
face. There was not a trace of emotion in the clear, steady eyes.

"I--crying?" she said. "What should have made you think that? Have you
ever seen me cry?"

"No, never. I couldn't understand. You are all right?"

"Perfectly all right, thank you. Hadn't you better see about the tea?"

Mrs. Cary heaved a sigh of relief and satisfaction.

"Of course. How thoughtful you can be, my dear! The gentlemen may be
back any moment."

She sailed heavily across the room, on her way passing the glass doors
which opened on to the verandah.

"Why!" she exclaimed, stopping short, "if that isn't Captain Stafford
mounting his horse! Look, Beaty! And he hasn't even come to say
good-by."

Beatrice turned indifferently.

"I expect he has some important business--" she began, and then, as
her eyes fell on the man outside swinging himself up into the saddle,
she stopped and rose abruptly to her feet. "I have never seen anyone
look like that before!" she said, under her breath. "He looks--awful."

Mrs. Cary nodded.

"As though he had seen a ghost," she supplemented unsteadily. "What
can have happened?"

The horse's head was jerked around to the compound gates. Amidst a
clatter of hoofs and in a cloud of dust Stafford galloped out of
sight, not once turning to glance in their direction. The two women
stood and stared at each other, even Beatrice for the moment shaken
out of her usual self-control by what she had seen. They had no time
to make any further observations, for almost immediately Travers came
up the steps, his sun-helmet in his hand. Whatever had happened, he at
least seemed unmoved. The exceptional pallor of his face had given
place to the old healthy glow.

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