Books: The Native Born
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I. A. R. Wylie >> The Native Born
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The glance they had exchanged had pierced down to the very center of
her being, and if it had revealed nothing to her it had also revealed
everything. For she knew now that the strange bond which had linked
them together from the beginning united them still. Some reckless and
unscrupulous hand had sundered them outwardly, and her instinct,
guided by a hundred significant incidents, told her whose hand it
had been. She fled to her little gloomy sitting-room, with its
worn-out, tasteless furniture and drab walls, and fought her sorrow
and despair single-handed and in her own way. She had a man's dislike
for tears--though, being a woman, they came all too easily to her--and
she fought against them now with all the strength at her command, with
all the pluck which in happier days had made her so splendid a partner
in a "losing game." She had made a disastrous mistake in her life, but
it was not too late.
The cathedral should go on in its unseen growth, and every conquered
tear, every brave smile was a fresh stone bringing it nearer to
perfection. God be thanked for the fetishes with which the less
fortunate of us are still allowed to adorn the barren walls of our
life! The cathedral, the imaginary "sheltering-place for others," was
Lois' fetish, and the thought of it and of the strong-faced man with
whom she worked in spiritual partnership was a deep, inspiring
consolation. It stood at her right hand and helped partly to overthrow
the weight of dread and evil presentiment which had borne down upon
her all too sensitive and superstitious temperament as she had left
her husband and Stafford alone.
Thus it was that, when the curtains of her room were suddenly parted
and Beatrice stood on the threshold, she could face the new-comer with
a calm if grave demeanor. She remembered her husband's last
injunctions, but it was too late; and moreover, there was an
expression on Beatrice's face which told her that the visit was no
ordinary one. A woman's instinct is her spiritual hand feeling through
the darkness to another's soul. Beatrice and Lois watched each other
without smile or greeting. They forgot the outward formalities of life
in the suddenly aroused interest which they found in each other, in
the consciousness that in this, their first meeting alone, they were
to become closely united.
They were indeed striking contrasts. At no time had they seemed more
so than now, as they stood there silently facing each other--Beatrice,
tall, fair with the wonderful Madonna beauty; Lois, small and dark,
the quick and fiery temperament flashing to meet the other's dignity
and apparent calm. And yet at no time had the barrier between them
been so insignificant, so slight. Beatrice advanced slowly from the
door, where she had first hesitated.
"May I speak with you, Mrs. Travers?" she asked.
Lois nodded, mechanically holding out her hand. Her eyes were riveted
on the other's grave face, drinking in with a real admiration a
loveliness from which the old marring lines of mockery and cynicism
had been swept away.
"Won't you sit down?" she said gently. "You look tired and pale."
Beatrice seemed not to hear. She took the outstretched hand between
both her own. Her head was a little bent, and as she looked full into
Lois' face her expression softened and saddened.
"You, too, are unhappy!" she said.
Lois made no answer. She was overwhelmed by the directness of the
statement, but still more by the change in Beatrice's voice. It
sounded low and unsteady, as though a storm of feeling lay close
beneath the surface. "Do you wonder how I know?" Beatrice went on,
after an instant's pause.
"I don't know," Lois answered, "and for the moment we won't talk about
such things. I can't bear to see you look so--so ill. You must sit
there and let me get you something to drink. Have you walked?"
Beatrice yielded this time to the kindly persuasion. She sank down in
the proffered chair, but she retained Lois' hand.
"No, I drove. But I am tired. It was not easy work getting through the
crowd. They did not seem to want to let me pass. Once or twice I
thought they were going to attack me."
Lois laughed.
"They are only pilgrims. They come every year, and are quite harmless.
Hark at them now! There must be a band of them going past. Would you
like to watch from the verandah? It is really amusing--"
"No, no; this is not the time for amusement. I have something else to
do. Mrs. Travers, you are very kind to me. You have the right to hate
me."
"I--hate you? Why should I, Beatrice?"
"You call me Beatrice. But we have never been friends."
"Not till now."
"Do you think we are going to be?"
Lois drew up a stool and seated herself at Beatrice's side. Something
in the other's firm, gentle hold and in the low voice made her heart
ache.
"I don't know. I feel as though we were already."
"Don't feel that, because it is not possible. Mrs. Travers, do you know
who it was who came between you and John Stafford?" Lois' head sank.
"I see that you do. Yes, I did my best. I wanted his position--and
money. Are you still my friend?"
Lois met the grave, questioning eyes with a sudden energy.
"Yes. That is all over and past. I like you now. I liked you the
moment you entered the room. You seemed different."
Beatrice smiled faintly.
"And you, too, are different from any one I have ever known. Another
woman would not have been able to forgive as you have done. I have
spoiled your life. I can see that."
Lois pressed her hand.
"Hush! You must not say so. I am married--"
"Lois, I have spoiled your life. I have come here to tell you the
truth, and you also must be truthful. For pity's sake, let us put lies
and humbug on one side. I am sick of them!" For a moment she seemed to
fight desperately with herself, and then she went on more quietly: "I
have spoiled your life. I have spoiled the life of a man who trusted
me. I have spoiled my own. That is what I have done in the twenty-five
years given me to work in. I have lied and cheated my way through. And
this is the end--miserable bankruptcy."
"Yes," Lois said, nodding. "I heard about it."
"About what? Has your husband told you?"
"The Marut Company has failed."
Beatrice sat silent a moment. Her free hand supported the firmly
moulded chin, her eyes were fixed thoughtfully in front of her.
"I did not mean that sort of bankruptcy," she said at last. "That
doesn't count, Lois. I used to think it meant the worst sort of
misfortune, but it doesn't. The inner bankruptcy is worse. The loss of
self-respect, of honor, of the trust of those one--cares for--" Again
the low voice trembled dangerously, but she went on: "Don't
commiserate with me, kind-hearted little woman. I don't need your pity
--now. Bankruptcy isn't so bad. It is better than living on false
credit. When the crash is over, one picks oneself up again. Hope is
eternal, and on the ruins--"
"One can build cathedrals," Lois interposed dreamily.
"Yes, or palaces. But first the old rubbish must be cleared away. One
must pay one's debts. I have very many to pay. First to you, Lois--"
"Don't! I have told you that that is all over."
"--and then to Captain Stafford. Lois, I did want to take him away
from you, but I never succeeded. It was something else that did
it--something which I have never understood."
"But which my husband knows?"
Beatrice nodded. She was not there to spare Lois or herself. She was
there to tell the truth.
"Yes, he knows. But it is a mystery which we shall never penetrate. At
any rate, I have set Captain Stafford free."
Lois said nothing. Her thoughts were busy trying to piece together the
secret. With every moment distrust and suspicion were taking stronger
hold upon her.
"Lois," Beatrice went on, "that is the least of it all. The worst of
all is that I can not pay my debts alone. I must go on ruining others.
I must ruin you."
Lois stiffened. She sat upright, as though preparing herself for a
shock which she dimly anticipated.
"Tell me what you mean," she said.
"You remember it was I who tempted Rajah Nehal Singh into forming the
Marut Company--"
"That is not what you want to say. It was my husband's scheme."
"Very well, it was our scheme, if you like. At any rate, the whole
responsibility rests--or should rest--upon our shoulders. We have
ruined him, and we have ruined hundreds of others. It is only fair
that we should bear our share of the calamity."
"And haven't we done so? You have lost all your money. That is
punishment enough. And Archie, too--" She paused, a fierce note of
defiance ringing out with her last words. Beatrice made no answer, and
the two women looked at each other in significant silence. "You don't
mean that--that it was--dishonest?"
"I have no doubt Mr. Travers believed the mine was going to be a
success. But it has failed, and the whole burden of the failure rests
upon others, not upon him."
"My husband is ruined, too. All his money is gone."
"Yours remains."
"Yes, but--" She stammered and broke off helplessly.
Beatrice said nothing more. She saw the process of rapid thought on
her companion's working face. She knew there was no need to explain
further the careful precautions which Travers had made for his own
safety. She knew that for his wife there was only one action possible.
Lois rose to her feet.
"You must forgive me," she said, a new and dangerous light in her dark
eyes. "I am very slow and stupid about business matters, but I
understand what you have been trying to say to me. You have pointed
out a duty to me which otherwise, in my ignorance, I might have
overlooked. My husband has incurred responsibilities which must be
met--if not by him, at any rate by me. No third person shall take his
share of the burden--certainly not the Rajah, who was no more than the
tool which my husband used. I would be glad if you would let every one
know that of course my money will go toward refunding those whom the
failure of the mine has injured."
Beatrice rose also. She put her two hands on Lois' shoulders.
"You needn't do it," she said. "The money is yours. It is a thing that
is done every day. The world won't say much if you stick to what is
yours."
"It is not mine. My husband's responsibilities are my
responsibilities." She paused, and then went on quietly: "Thank you
for explaining to me. I should never have understood myself, and
Archie--no doubt dreads having to tell me that of course my money must
go, too." She looked Beatrice full in the face, and they understood
each other. There are some lies which a loyal woman must carry with
her to the grave. Beatrice bent and kissed the cold face.
"You do right," she said. "I knew you would. That is why I came to
you. I have helped to bring down all this misfortune on Marut. I have
helped to lower us all in the eyes of those--those who used and ought
to look up to us. Now you are going to lift us out of the mire--Lois,
what was that?"
The two women clung to each other. Hitherto there had been no sound in
the adjoining room save the regular rise and fall of two voices. Now
the startled listeners heard the report of a revolver, followed by a
sudden, absolute silence. Lois shook herself free from Beatrice's
instinctive clutch.
"It is in my husband's room!" she said hoarsely. "Stay here! I will
go--"
She hurried across the room and, thrusting open a curtained door,
disappeared. The next instant Beatrice heard a cry which overcame
every hesitation. Horror and despair called her in that sound, and the
next moment she followed Lois' footsteps. She did not know what she
expected to see. Afterward she believed that at the back of her mind
there had been some thought of suicide. But it was not Travers' head
that she saw pillowed against Lois' knee. Travers stood on the
verandah, the smoking pistol still in his hand, his face livid and
damp with fear. At his feet his wife was bending over the body of a
man whom Beatrice recognized with a shock of pain.
"What has happened?" she asked breathlessly. "What has happened?"
Travers turned and stared at her. His eyes were glazed, and for the
moment he did not seem to know who she was.
"Captain Stafford has--been murdered!" he stammered. "He was going
down the steps when a native attacked him. I--fired, but it was too
late. Oh, thank God! Here is Colonel Carmichael!"
True enough, it was the Colonel himself who sprang up the verandah
steps. From beyond the ill-kept garden they heard the tramp of men and
a low, continuous sound, like the threatening moan of the wind. On the
verandah reigned a complete and awestruck silence. Colonel Carmichael
bent over the unconscious man.
"This is the beginning," he said somberly. "How did it happen?"
"A native must have been lying in wait for him," Travers answered. "He
struck at him with this." He held out a three-inch blade in a hand
which shook like a child's. "I tried to save him, but I couldn't. The
man escaped, though I think I hit him."
The Colonel knelt down by Lois' side, and drawing out his brandy-flask
tried to force a few drops between the purple lips.
"We were expecting him every minute," he said, "but we couldn't wait.
The danger was too pressing. Here, man--it's all right. Look up."
Captain Stafford's heavy eyelids had wavered. The Colonel shifted him
into a higher position, his head still resting against Lois' knee.
When the dying eyes opened they fell straight on the sweet dark face
bent over him in loving pity.
"Lois!" he whispered faintly. "Lois--my--kiss me!"
Lois looked up at her husband. He nodded without meeting her eyes. Her
lips rested on the chilly forehead.
"Dear John!"
"Lois--you--tell the Rajah----" He struggled fiercely for breath and
his raised hand pointed piteously at Travers. "Tell him--not--his own"
--The words died into a choked silence.
"Brandy--here! He's trying to say something. What is it, man?"
Stafford turned with a last effort, his lips parted. A second time he
pointed with a desperate insistency at Travers--then with a sudden
quick-drawn sigh he sank back, his face against Lois' shoulder.
Colonel Carmichael, who knew death too well, rose heavily to his feet.
"It's all over," he said. "We can do nothing more for him, and we must
leave him. Come, Lois."
His stern command roused her from her stupor of half-incredulous
sorrow. Gently she laid the lifeless head upon the cushions which
Beatrice had brought, and crossed the hands over the quiet breast.
This time she fought in vain against the blinding tears. They fell on
the face of the dead man, and, moved by an irresistible impulse, she
bent once more and kissed him.
"God bless you, John!" Then she rose and faced her husband. "I can not
help it," she said. "He is dead."
Travers said nothing. He was clinging to the verandah, and his face
was grey. Outside the noise and confusion had increased. They could
hear yells and imprecations, and a stone whizzed through the trees,
falling a few feet short of where the little party stood. Colonel
Carmichael shook Travers by the arm.
"Don't stand there like that!" he said, his voice rough with contempt.
"It can't be helped, and I dare say we shan't any of us be much better
off by to-morrow. I have a patrol outside waiting to take the ladies
over to my bungalow. Mrs. Cary and Mrs. Berry are already there. There
isn't a moment to be lost. Rouse yourself and look to Lois. I will
escort Miss Cary." He turned to Beatrice with a stiff bow. "The enemy
must at least find us united."
"The enemy!" exclaimed Beatrice sharply.
"The Rajah is our enemy," was the bitter answer. "You and Travers best
know why."
The two women exchanged one brief glance. Lois crossed the intervening
space and took her husband's arm.
"Archibald," she said, slowly and emphatically, "if this trouble has
anything to do with the mine, it would be well to let the Rajah know
that we also take our share. There must be no suspicion that--that we
have not acted honorably or have shirked our responsibilities."
He stared at her with dull, listless eyes.
"What do you mean, Lois? He knows I haven't a brass cent."
"But I have. And of course my money must go to refund those whom you
have unintentionally ruined."
That roused him. He flung her on one side, with a desperate, goaded
curse.
"Your money! How dare you! It's not your money. Half of it is mine. I
settled it on you."
"If it is yours, I will give it back to you. You will use it as I say.
If not, I shall use it for you."
Colonel Carmichael had reached the garden. He turned now, and there
was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
"That's spoken like an honorable woman, Lois!" he said. "God bless you
for it. But it's too late. Nicholson has already gone to Nehal Singh.
If he fails, there won't be any time to explain. Come on, or we shall
have to fight our way through."
He hurried on through the garden, Beatrice at his side. Husband and
wife stood an instant alone, the body of poor Stafford between them.
Lois' face was grave and contemptuous.
"I do not know what you have done," she said--"I do not understand
what part you played in John's life or in mine, nor how far you are
innocent or guilty of bringing about all this misfortune--but I know
this much--we shall take our share of trouble."
"Lois, you are my wife! You have no right to go against me."
"I have the right where my honor--where your honor--is concerned. I
have the right to refuse to commit an act of gross injustice." She
glanced down once more at the quiet face of the man who had held so
persistently upon her life and heart, and her firmly compressed lips
trembled. "Oh, Archie, was it worth while--just for a little bit of
gain? Was it worth while? We might all have been so happy!"
He said nothing. His rage had sunk into a sullen, dogged defiance. The
roar of voices beyond the compound suddenly subsided. They heard the
Colonel's voice issuing a sharp command and the thud of grounded
rifles.
"We must go," she said.
He followed her down the steps, his face painfully averted from the
figure that lay motionless upon the ground. The world is but a
reflection of ourselves. The sunshine is sad or joyful according to
our moods. We read threats and promises in the smiles of others as our
own heart is hopeful or distrusting. And for Travers, with the
bloodstained hand, the poor lifeless body of his enemy had become the
towering shadow of an approaching Nemesis.
CHAPTER VII
IN THE TEMPLE OF VISHNU
Nicholson rode his horse slowly through the crowd of dark, threatening
faces. He did not hurry or show any sign of impatience, anger or fear.
In his left hand he carried a riding-whip, but he made no use of it
except as an encouragement to his well-trained charger, whose nose and
broad breast forced a passage, like a ship through the waves of a
turbulent sea, and otherwise he was absolutely unarmed. A spectator
ignorant of the truth might have taken him for an officer riding out
on some ordinary duty, so little did the weight and seriousness of his
real errand appear written on the strong face beneath the shadow of
the helmet.
There was no opposition to his progress. His keen eyes noticed as he
passed out of the residential quarter that, on the contrary, the crowd
formed a sort of disordered escort which surged restlessly but
silently about him. One man even laid hold upon his hanging bridle and
led the horse through the less dense passages; but the action was not
a friendly one, and though no threats were uttered, Nicholson read a
passionate bitterness and distrust upon the faces that thrust
themselves across his path or sprang up unexpectedly at his knee. For
the most part they were men well known to him by sight. They belonged
to working caste whose circles had supplied Nehal Singh with his best
workmen, though here and there Nicholson caught sight of the turbaned
head of a small merchant or the naked body of a yogi.
It was a significant fact that the worst of Marut's population--the
beggars, thieves and vagrants--was mostly lacking. These men were the
hope upon which Nehal Singh had built his Utopia, the industrious,
intelligent minority, and these were they whom he was now calling
about him by the power of personality and superstition. Nicholson knew
enough of the Hindu character to be well aware that it was not the
loss of employment nor of their small savings which had brought them
together and put their knives in their hands ready to strike. The
Hindu accepts misfortune with the languid stoicism of the fatalist;
injury and wrong rarely rouse him, especially, as in this case, when
it comes too indirectly for him to trace the real injurer. But to
touch his religion is to touch the innermost sanctuary of his being,
where are stored the hidden fires of fanatic energy, hatred and
reckless courage. And Nehal Singh was their religion, their Messiah,
the Avatar for whose coming their whole nation waited. Hitherto he had
led them in peace, and they had followed, though other influences had
been at work.
Even in this moment he still controlled them. Nicholson felt that a
strong unseen hand held the crowd in that strange silence beneath
which rumbled and groaned the growing storm. He had seen dark hands
finger the unsheathed knives; he had seen them reluctantly fall away.
The hour had not yet come. Nehal Singh waited. For what? For him? The
idea seemed absurd, and yet, as Nicholson felt himself being swept on,
it took stronger hold upon his mind and his faint hope of success
revived. He believed that, once face to face with the prince, he would
be able to check the headlong disaster which was bearing down upon
them all. They had been friends in a curious unacknowledged way. Nehal
Singh would listen to him. He would be made to understand that one
adventurer and one heartless woman do not make a nation; that the
injury done him was far from irreparable.
A low exclamation close at hand roused him from his rapid
considerations. He saw that the man who had hold of his horse's bridle
had turned and with one outstretched hand was pointing over the heads
of the crowd.
"Look, Sahib, look!"
Nicholson glanced in the direction indicated. They were passing the
site of the old Bazaar, now a black, scarred waste of machinery and
disembowelled earth over which brooded a death-like quiet. Nicholson
remembered vividly the day he had ridden there at Nehal Singh's side.
A breathless, eager humanity had worked and slaved beneath the
scorching sun, redoubling every effort as the fine commanding presence
of the young ruler appeared among them. Then the clank of busy
machinery had mingled with the shouted orders of the English
overseers, and Nehal Singh had turned to him with a grave pride and
happiness.
"See what your people have taught my people," he said. "They have
taught them to seek their bread from the earth and to leave their
dreams. This is only the beginning. The time shall come when they
shall stand shoulder to shoulder with their white brethren!"
How had the over-sanguine prophecy been fulfilled! The native at
Nicholson's side pointed a finger of scorn and anger at the silent,
ruined waste.
"Devil--English devil!" he said laconically, and continued on his way.
Nicholson's lips tightened. His own words came back to him with a new
significance: "In a strange country no one is an exception." This
Travers, this one unscrupulous fortune-hunter, heedless of everything
save his own advancement, had branded them all. He had undone, with
the help of a heedless woman, the work of generations of heroic,
honest labor. Truly the chain of individual responsibility is a long
one!
Nicholson had left Colonel Carmichael's bungalow at twelve o'clock.
The increasing crowd and Stafford's prolonged absence had urged him to
instant and independent action. In the best of cases, he had little
faith in the brother-officer's secret mission. Stafford was not the
man to exert any influence over the native mind. He was the type of
the capable and well-meaning English officer who, excellent leader in
his own country, is of small use when face to face with Indian
problems of character and prejudice. Nicholson had judged himself the
better advocate, and having obtained the Colonel's reluctant
permission, he had at once started for the royal palace. But his
progress had been painfully slow, and he had made no effort to hurry.
Any sign of anxiety or excitement would have looked like fear to the
suspicious, hate-filled eyes of the men who swarmed about him, and
whatever else happened, they should not see an Englishman afraid. The
knowledge that he rode there alone, the representative of his nation,
added a greater dignity, a greater firmness to his already calm and
upright bearing. It was no new situation for him--it is never an
exceptional situation in a country where Englishmen are always in the
minority--and it inspired him, as it had always done since his
earliest lieutenant days. He knew that as he acted, looked, and spoke,
so would the image of his country be stamped upon the minds of a
hundred thousand and their children's children. There was no vanity,
no self-importance in this conception of his duty. It was a stern,
unbending acceptance of his responsibility; and as in the lonely fort
upon the frontier where he had dominated, unaided, month after month,
over wild, antagonistic races, so now, unarmed and unprotected, he
dominated over the fanatic rabble by the pure force of a complete
personality. He was to all intents and purposes their prisoner, but he
rode there as their conqueror; and that most splendid triumph of all
triumphs--the unseen victory of will over will--filled him with a new
confidence and hope.
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