Books: The Native Born

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"And you managed to keep it a secret in Marut?" he asked.

"Yes, it was a marvel, wasn't it?"--her eyes brightening with a spark
of the old fun. "We lived in a constant state of alarms and
excursions. But Mr. Travers did what he could. He knew all about it,
and he helped us."

"On conditions, no doubt?"

"Of course, on conditions. But he said, quite truthfully, that he had
no idea of blackmailing me. It was just a fair bargain between us."
She paused a little before she went on: "Now, you understand what
brought us to Marut, and what made you such a desirable catch. We
wanted to get clear away from the past and build up a new life. But we
couldn't. One can't build up anything on a lie."

"That is true," he returned sternly, "and yet this is hardly a time
for you to talk of your failure. From the moment that you are my
wife--"

"But, John, that's what I never shall be." She laughed wearily. "Do
you think a clever woman would own up to an unpleasant past to the man
she wanted to marry? And if you want to hear more detestable things
about me, ask the Colonel, ask Mrs. Berry, ask the Rajah. They know
all about me, for I told them yesterday. You don't need to look so
white and haggard. I am not going to marry you. That is what I came to
say. And I wanted to explain everything, and to ask you, if you can,
to forgive me all the trouble I have brought upon you." She rose, and
held out her hand to him. "Will you shake hands, John?"

He stood motionless by the table, watching her with a last stirring of
the old distrust.

"I do not understand you," he said bluntly, and in truth he did not.
This pale-faced woman with the earnest eyes deep underlined with the
marks of sleepless nights was a riddle which his stiff, conventional
imagination could not solve.

"Is it necessary that you should understand?" she answered. "I have
not asked you to explain why, still loving her, you threw Lois over. I
believe that you had some grave reason. It could not be graver than
mine for doing what I am doing."

"Then you mean that--it is entirely over between us?"

"Yes, it is over between us. Your sense of justice will not have to
undergo the ordeal of forcing your sense of honor to link itself with
dishonor. To your credit, I believe you would have married me, John,
and I am grateful. But there's an end of it. I have come to say
good-by. I suppose it is absurd, but I wish we could remain friends."

This time he took her hand in his. Now that the artificial union
between them was done away with, their real friendship for each other
came back and took its rightful place in their lives.

"Why shouldn't we, Beatrice?" he said. "Heaven knows, we both have
need of friends."

"It is a strange thing," she continued thoughtfully, "that, though you
are so completely my opposite, I have always liked you. Even when you
most jarred upon me with your prunes-and-prisms morality, I was never
able quite to close my heart. I wonder why?"

He could not repress a faint amusement at the flash of her old self.

"It has been the same with me," he said. "Even when you trod on all my
principles at once, I haven't been able to smother a sort of
shamefaced respect for you. You always seemed more worthy of respect
than--well, some of the others."

"I suppose it is our sincerity," she said. "You are sincere in your
goodness, and I, paradoxical as it sounds, in my badness."

"I think not," he answered, looking her gravely in the face. "I think
it is because the hidden best in both of us recognized each other and
held out the hand of friendship almost without our knowing."

She smiled, but he saw a light sparkle in her eyes.

"Oh, practical John, you are making fast progress in the soul's world!
Who has taught you?"

He turned away from her back to the table and stood there gazing out
over the garden.

"No one. It is a mood I have on today which makes me see clearer than
I have done before. Go now--if any one saw you here, you know what
Marut would say."

"Yes, I know Marut very well by now. Not that it much matters.
Good-by. Please--I found my way alone; I can find the way out."

She had reached the door before he stopped her.

"Beatrice!"

She turned.

"What is it?"

"I have a favor to ask of you--or rather, I have a trust to put in
your hands. It is in a sort of way the seal upon our good
understanding. There is no one else whom I could trust so much."

She came back to his side. A new color was in her cheeks. Her eyes
looked less tired, less hopeless.

"A trust? That would make life worth living."

He took up the packet on the table and gave it to her.

"That is my will. I made it afresh last night. It was witnessed this
morning. In it I have made you my executrix, with half my estate. The
other half I have left to Lois."

"Now you must leave it all to her," she said.

"No, I wish it to remain as it is. Besides--" He broke off hurriedly,
as though seeking to avoid an unpleasant train of thought. "Beatrice,
the world won't understand that will. Lois won't, and I pray, for the
sake of her happiness, that she may never have to--but if the time
comes when this must be put into action, I want you to give her a
message from me. Will you?"

"Of course I will. But"--she faced him with a sudden inspired
appeal--"must you wait until you are dead to speak to her? Would it
not be better to go to her now with your message? I do not know what
has come between you both, but I know this much--all forms of pretense
are fatal--"

He stopped her with a gesture of decision.

"No," he said. "The secret must remain secret. It has overshadowed my
life. It has laden me with a burden of responsibility and shame which
I have determined to share with no one. I have taken it upon my
shoulders, and I shall carry it to the end. Tell Lois that I have
never once swerved in my love for her. Ask her to trust me and think
kindly of me. It is not I who have sinned against her--"

"Sinned against her! Who has sinned against her? Do you mean me?"

"No, not you. You also have been sinned against. I also." He sighed
wearily. "When I look about me, it seems as though not one of us has
not in turn sinned and been sinned against. It is an endless chain of
the wrong we do one another."

She laughed, and for the first time there rang in her voice a note of
the old harshness.

"Look at me, John. There is no turn and turn about with me. From the
beginning I have tricked and lied and fought my way through life. I
didn't care whom I hurt so long as I got through. I sinned. Who has
sinned against me?"

"One person at least," he answered significantly.

She caught her breath, and the hand that passed hastily across her
forehead trembled.

"Even if it were true what you say," she said, half inaudibly, "it
does not alter the fact that we must atone for what has been done."

"It is the justice of the world," he assented. "We must make good the
harm we do and the harm that has been done us." He threw back his
shoulders with a movement of energetic protest. "Do not let us waste
time talking. We can not help each other. All I ask is--do not forget
my message."

She looked at him, strangely moved.

"You talk as though you were going to die to-night," she said.

"I talk as a man does whom death has already tapped on the shoulder
more than once of late," he answered, with grim humor. "Good-by,
Beatrice."

"Good-by."

He pushed his writing-table to one side so that she could pass out on
to the verandah.

"Do not come with me farther," she said. "The carriage is waiting
outside. I would rather go alone."

He stood and watched her as she passed lightly and quickly among the
rose-bushes. It was as though he were trying to engrave upon his mind
the memory of a lovely picture that he was never to see again,--as
though he were bidding her a final farewell. Twice she turned and
glanced back at him. Was it with the same intent, guided by the same
strange foreboding? She disappeared, and the voice of a native
orderly who had entered the room unheard recalled him to the reality.

"A letter for you, Captain Sahib," the man said, saluting.

Stafford took the sealed envelope and, tearing it open, ran hastily
over the contents. It was from the Colonel. The subscription, as usual
since the rupture in their relations, was cold and formal.

"I should be glad to see you at once," Colonel Carmichael had written.
"Events occurred yesterday which I have not as yet been able to
discuss with you, but which I fear are likely to have the most serious
consequences. In the present weakened condition of our garrison, we
can afford to run no risks. Nicholson is with me here. Your presence
would simplify matters as regards forming our plans for the future."

Stafford turned to the waiting soldier.

"Present my compliments to the Colonel Sahib," he said. "I shall be
with him immediately."

CHAPTER IV

STAFFORD INTERVENES

The threatening cloud which had loomed up on the horizon had acted
wonders on Colonel Carmichael's constitution. At the last meeting of
the Marut Diamond Company he had looked like a man whose days on the
active service list were numbered. Ill-health, disappointment, and a
natural pessimism had apparently left an indelible trace upon him, and
Mrs. Carmichael's prophetic eye saw them both established in
Cheltenham or Bath, relegated to the Empire's lumber-room--unless
something happened. The something had happened. The one sound which
had the power to rouse him had broken like a clap of unheralded
thunder upon his ears. It was the call of danger, the war-note which
had brought back to him the springtime of his youth and strength.

Stafford found him restlessly pacing backward and forward in his
narrow workroom, deep in conversation with Nicholson, who stood at the
table, his head bent over a map of Marut. Both men were in uniform,
and it seemed to Stafford that Colonel Carmichael listened to the
click of his own spurs with the pleasure of a young lieutenant. It was
no longer the sound of weary routine. It was the herald of clashing
sabres and the champing of impatient horses awaiting the charge; it
was an echo of past warlike days which were to come again. He stood
still as Stafford entered, and a flash of satisfaction passed over his
face.

"I'm glad you have come," he said. "Whatever is to be done must be
done at once. I suppose you know nothing?"

"Nothing," Stafford answered. "Your note was the first intimation I
have received that there was anything amiss."

Colonel Carmichael grunted angrily.

"Of course you know nothing," he said, resuming his restless march
about the room. "Nor did I--nor did any one. Heaven and earth, I'm
beginning to think there's something wrong in our theory that whatever
is going on under our noses must be too insignificant to be noticed!
There, Nicholson, hurry up and tell him what you know."

Nicholson stood upright, and folding the map put it in his pocket.

"I was in the New Bazaar last night," he began curtly. "I go there
regularly, as you know, disguised as one thing or another, just for
the sake of having a look at the people when they don't know they are
being watched. Last night there was no one there--not so much as a
child or a woman. The place was dead. I admit that I was not
particularly startled. I knew that there was a great festival at hand.
Pilgrims have been streaming in for days past, and it was quite
conceivable that some ceremony was taking place in the temple.
Curiosity fortunately led me to investigate further. Myself disguised
as a traveling fakir, I made my way to the Rajah's palace gates.
Already on the road I was joined by a hurrying stream of men and
women, principally men. My suspicions were aroused. I knew from
experience that it was not a usual crowd of pilgrims. Every man was
armed, not only with knives, but guns and revolvers. Some of them were
undoubtedly deserted sepoys who had stolen their weapons. Moreover,
they exchanged a signal which I recognized and, in order to escape
detection, imitated. It was the signal which in past generations
revealed one member of the Thug fraternity to another."

"Thugs!" exclaimed Stafford, with a faintly skeptical smile.

"Do not misunderstand me," Nicholson said. "I am not going to recall
to your minds the nursery horrors with which our ayahs regaled our
childish imaginations. I will only emphasize one fact. The Thugs were
not and are not merely a band of murderous and treacherous robbers.
They belong to the priesthood, they are the deputed servants of the
goddess Kali, and their task is the extermination of the enemy--of the
foreigner, that is to say--in this case, of ourselves."

Stafford glanced at the Colonel. The latter's face was set and grave.

"I do not for a moment suggest that the crowd with which I traveled
were Thugs," Nicholson continued. "I know that they were not. But they
had adopted the Thug sign because they had adopted the Thug mission.
Not, however, till we had passed the gates and reached the palace did
I realize the gravity of the situation. The Rajah stood on the great
steps, surrounded by a body-guard of torch-bearers. He was dressed in
full native costume, a blaze of gems, and wearing the royal insignia.
The expression on his face was something I shall not easily forget,
and at the time it was inexplicable to me. I can not describe it. I
can only say that I was instantly reminded of Milton's fallen Satan as
he stands above his followers, superb, dauntless, but tortured by
hatred, contempt and God knows what strange minglings of remorse and
anger. He greeted the crowd with the sign of death. His first words
revealed to me that his allegiance to us was at an end, and that he
meant to follow in his father's bloody footsteps."

Stafford stretched out his hand, catching hold of the back of a chair
as if seeking support.

"Go on!" he said sharply.

"I have very little more to say. I did not wait, for I had heard
enough to know that Marut was in instant danger. I made my escape as
best I could, but in order to avoid notice I had to resort to
circuitous paths, and only reached here this morning."

Colonel Carmichael brought his hand down angrily upon the table.

"To think that the scoundrel should have been pretending friendship
all the time that he was preparing to murder us!" he exclaimed. "This
comes of trusting a native!"

"Excuse me, Colonel," Nicholson answered, with emphasis. "I have every
reason to believe that until yesterday Nehal Singh was our sincere
ally."

"You mean to say that he stamped an armed crowd out of the earth in
half an hour?"

"No. That armed crowd was the silent work of years. It was the tool
which has been held ready for a long time--but not by Nehal Singh--"

"By whom, then, in the name of all--"

Nicholson drew out an old and faded photograph and handed it to the
Colonel.

"Do you recognize that face?" he asked.

"Certainly I do. It is the Rajah's father--Behar Singh. How did you
come by this?"

"It belonged to my father. He gave it me, and I kept it as a
curiosity. Colonel, I saw that man last night at the Rajah's side."

The photograph fluttered from the Colonel's powerless fingers. He
looked at Nicholson, and there flashed into his old eyes a terrible
primitive passion of revenge and hatred.

"My God! He is alive--and I never knew!"

"He is alive, Colonel. And I believe that, hidden from us all, he has been
working steadily and stealthily at the task which saw its completion last
night. So long as Nehal Singh stood on our side he could do nothing. The
people believe Nehal to be an incarnation of Vishnu, and they will only
follow where he leads. Behar knew that--probably he himself had fostered
the idea. He guessed, probably, that one day Nehal Singh would turn from
us. He waited. Last night I saw a face of devilish triumph which told its
own tale. He had not waited in vain."

Colonel Carmichael turned to Stafford and held out his hand. For the
first time old friendship shone out of his eyes mingled with a fire of
thirsty revenge.

"You and I have a debt to pay before we die, Stafford," he said.

Stafford's hand touched his coldly and powerlessly.

"I have nothing against the Rajah," he said hoarsely. "I can not carry
out a revenge against the son--"

Colonel Carmichael interrupted him with a hard laugh.

"They are all of a piece," he said. "Say what you will, Nicholson,
Nehal Singh is a traitor. We were fools to trust him. We are always
fools when we do not treat a native as a dangerous animal. They murder
us for our silly, sentimental confidence."

Nicholson bent down and, picking up the photograph, replaced it in his
pocket.

"Do you think so, Colonel?" he said significantly. "From, my
experience I have learned that you can always trust a native. You can
treat him as your friend and equal so long as the inequality is there
and obvious to him. I mean, so long as in everything--in generosity,
in courage, and in honor--he realizes that you are his superior."

Colonel Carmichael's face darkened with anger.

"Do you mean, perhaps, that--that we are not all that?" he demanded.

"Surely not all of us. How many men think that any sort of conduct is
good enough to show a native? What did Behar Singh see of our honor?
He was our friend until an Englishman who had eaten and drunk his
hospitality repaid him by a dishonorable theft. What has Nehal Singh
seen of our superiority? In spite of his father's influence, he came
to us prejudiced in our favor. He saw heroes in us all, and he
trusted himself blindly in our hands. What has been the consequence?
Look at yesterday's scene, as you have described it to me, Colonel.
His best friend had proved himself a mean and treacherous swindler.
The woman whom as I judge he regarded as a saint--forgive me,
Stafford, I must be honest--no more than a heartless flirt, who had
led him on from one folly to another for the sake of a little
excitement--"

"Rubbish!" Colonel Carmichael burst out. "What are exceptions in a
whole race?"

"In a strange country no one is an exception, Colonel. One coward, one
thief, one drunkard is quite enough to cast the blackest slur upon the
whole nation in the eyes of another race. As sincerely as he believed
yesterday that we were all heroes, as sincerely Nehal Singh believes
to-day that there isn't an honest man among us."

This time Colonel Carmichael made no answer. He went over to the
window and stood there frowning obstinately out over the neglected
garden. His eyes fell on the ruined bungalow, and he called Nicholson
to his side.

"Look at that!" he said. "In that place Behar Singh murdered my best
and only friend, Steven Caruthers. I have not forgotten and I can not
forget. It has branded every native for me as a murderer. No doubt
this proves your argument. From the first I shrank from all contact
with the present Rajah. I distrusted him, and it is obvious now that
my distrust was well founded. What do you say, Stafford? You, too,
were against having anything to do with him."

To his surprise and annoyance, Stafford did not respond. He stood
there with his hands clasping the back of the chair, his brows knitted
in painful thought.

"Come, Stafford, what have you to say?" the Colonel repeated
impatiently.

"I think there is a good deal in what Nicholson says," Stafford
answered, speaking as though he had only just heard that he was being
addressed. "The Rajah has not been well treated. He has a right to
feel bitter. And he seemed a fine sort of man. Without prejudice,
Colonel, one can not withhold a certain admiration for him. He has
behaved better than some of us."

Colonel Carmichael frowned, but his sense of justice forced him to a
reluctant admission.

"Yes, he has a few showy virtues. Yesterday, for instance. Under
the circumstances, he behaved like a gentleman and a man of honor.
Before nightfall the English share-holders in the mine got their
money back in gems and rupees--he must have pulled the palace to
pieces. In fact, everything might have gone off smoothly if it hadn't
been for that--that--" He coughed and glanced at Stafford, not without
a touch of malicious satisfaction.

"You are alluding to Miss Cary, Colonel," Stafford said, returning his
glance with dignity, "and you are at liberty to say what you like, for
I have no longer the right to champion her. At her request, our
engagement is at an end. But as her friend I can not refrain from
saying this much--she has not spared herself, and, God knows, she also
has not been treated well."

What memories passed before the Colonel's mind as he stood there gazing
absently in front of him! Recollections of mean and envious criticisms,
ugly underhand slanders, petty intrigue, his own shame-faced patronage!
And then the vision of a lovely, white-faced woman making her desperate
self-accusal, and of a terrible, vulgar mother trying to hold her back
with threats and pleadings! He turned at last to the two men, his own
face red and troubled.

"I apologize," he said. "I apologize all around. I seem to have been
insulting everybody in turn. I dare say you are all right. The Rajah
may be ill-used and Miss Cary well-meaning. I don't know. And what on
earth does it matter? The fat is in the fire, and here we stand
chattering like old women about how it got there. Something must be
done. The regiment is a day's march from here, and with a company of
your Gurkhas, Nicholson, we shan't do much--scarcely hold out if they
dare attack us."

"They will dare," Nicholson answered. "So much I know for certain, and
it will probably be to-night. I can vouch for my men, and we must do
our best until help comes. But--" He paused rather significantly.

"But what, man? Don't you think it will come in time? I have already
telegraphed. They will be here in twenty-four hours. Surely we can
manage so long."

"Colonel, if you had seen what I saw last night, you would not count
much on help. It isn't the rising of a few unarmed men. It is the
revolt of a fanatic, warlike nation led by a man. They call him God.
His godhead does not matter to us. As a god we have no need to fear
him; but as a man and a born leader of men, with hatred and revenge as
an incentive, armed with unlimited power, he is an enemy not to be
held at bay by a handful of Gurkhas and not to be conquered by a
regiment."

His words had their quiet, fatal significance. Colonel Carmichael and
Stafford looked at each other. Hitherto they had faced the situation
coolly enough, with their eternal national optimism and self-confidence.
This man had wrenched down the veil, and they stood before a chasm to
which there seemed no shore, no bottom. It was the end, and they knew it.

"You mean, then, that it is all over?" the Colonel said casually. "You
know more than either of us. You ought to be able to tell."

"Yes, Colonel, I should judge that it was all over, unless a miracle
happens."

"We might fight our way through."

"On my way early this morning the roads were already guarded. They did
not recognize me, otherwise I should not be here."

"And the women?"

All three men had grown cool and indifferent. Death had stepped in,
and from that moment it was not seemly to show either trouble or
excitement.

"According to my idea, the women had better be lodged here in your
bungalow," Nicholson said. "The surrounding walls make it a good place
of defense. The barracks are too open."

The Colonel nodded. Quite unconsciously he was letting the reins of
command slip into the younger and stronger hands.

"They must be brought over at once," he assented. "Thank Heaven most
of them have gone to the hills. Mrs. Berry and that--that other woman
had better not be told what's up. They will only make a fuss. My wife
will understand--and Lois will be all right. We must get hold of
Travers, if it is only for her sake. It would serve him right if we
left him to his fate."

Stafford took a step forward.

"I have a suggestion to make, Colonel," he said.

Colonel Carmichael looked at him. Throughout the interview Stafford
had acted and spoken like a man who is weighed down by a burden of
terrible doubt and perplexity. He alone of the three men had shown the
first sign of emotion, and emotion in the face of death was for the
Colonel no better than fear. His face hardened.

"Well," he said, "what is it?"

"Rajah Nehal Singh is not a barbarian," Stafford began. "I believe he
would listen to reason if one of us could get hold of him. He seems to
have his country's welfare at heart, and if it was explained to what
horrible bloodshed he was leading it--"

"There must be no cringing!" Colonel Carmichael interrupted sharply.

"It will not be a case of cringing. We could simply put the matter
before him."

"There is something in what Stafford says," Nicholson agreed. "From
what I know of the Rajah, he seems both reasonable and humane. He may
have yielded to his father's importunities in a fit of anger, and is
perhaps already wishing himself well out of the mess. For the women's
sake, Colonel, we ought to have a shot--and not all for the women's
sake, either. Heaven knows what this business will cost England if it
comes to a head!"

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