Books: The Native Born

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

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In the middle of the dinner the Colonel broke the news that the whole of
the English community had been invited by the Rajah to a reception in the
palace grounds. He made the announcement with evident reluctance, and
Beatrice was conscious that Stafford, who sat beside her, stiffened and
frowned. The sense of opposition and disapproval on the part of the man
whom she had set out to conquer put her on her metal, and with the verve
and _sang-froid_ of a woman too sure of her own power to know fear, she
related her adventure in the temple. Her hearers listened, according to
their sex, with amusement, curiosity and pious horror. Some were
unreservedly delighted, others--such as the Colonel and
Stafford--struggled between a certain admiration for her and a decided
disapproval of her action and its results. Yet Stafford at least was a
soldier before he was a conventionalist, and her bold, well-played comedy
in the temple of Vishnu, told simply, but with fire and energy, could not
fail to stir to flame the embers of his own daring. From that time he
ceased to rivet his attention to the other end of the table, where Lois
was sitting, and Beatrice was conscious that she had won the first move in
the great game which she had set herself to play. The next day the whole
Station was made aware of the startling change in the Rajah's attitude and
the means by which it had been brought about, but no one, not even those
who were disposed to judge the matter in its most serious light, guessed
what passed within the palace previous to the sending out of the now
famous invitation. For the greater part of the English community the whole
thing was rather a bad joke, with the Rajah for its victim. That a pretty
woman should have unbarred the gates which no other force, diplomacy or
cunning had been able to stir was a matter for light, somewhat
contemptuous laughter. Rajah Nehal Singh was nicknamed the Impressionable
Swain. He and Beatrice Cary were linked together either in good-natured
chaff or malicious earnest, and curiosity, thanks to the dullness of the
season, strained itself in expectation.

Thus, beyond the marble gates the world laughed, and inside Life and Death
had faced each other and for a moment hung in the balance.

It was toward the cool of the evening. Behar Asor and the prince paced
slowly backward and forward in the chief entrance hall of the palace,
plunged in a conversation which was to mark a final stage in their
relationship toward each other. Both knew it, and on both faces was
written the same determination--a determination curiously tempered and
moulded by the character of the man himself. On Behar Asor's furrowed,
withered face it was resolve, armed with treachery and all the hundred and
one weapons of oriental cunning. Nehal Singh's head was lifted in calm,
unshakable confidence. He had no need of weapons. He had seen his destiny,
and the obstacle which would be thrown in his path would, with equal
certainty, be thrown out of it. He felt himself extraordinarily strong.

His very surroundings seemed to fortify him with their splendor. Other
parts of the palace bore the grievous traces of a past devastating
race-hatred; crumbling pillars, images whose jeweled eyes had been made
dark and lifeless by robber hands; broken pavements, defaced carvings--all
these pointed to a period in human life which was gone for ever, a period
of mad fanaticism and passionate clinging to the Old in defiance of the
New. Here the New was triumphant. Hands still living had raised the mighty
golden dome; the fountain whose waters bubbled up from the Sacred Tank
within the temple was his own creation. The whole place became a sort of
outward and visible sign of the New Life, New Era, which was opening out
before him, and the old man at his side was nothing more than a relic, a
piece of clinging wreckage. Yesterday he had been a wise man whose
judgment and guidance was a thing to be considered.

But between Yesterday and Today there is occasionally a long night in
which much may happen. A life may go out, a life may come in; a devil may
become a saint, or a saint a devil; a man may swing from one pole of
opinion to another, and this last is perhaps the easiest of all. For it
does not require much to change a man's standpoint. A very little thing
will make him turn on his heel and look at a piece of the landscape which
he has hitherto chosen to ignore or despise, and probably acknowledge that
it is finer than his hitherto obstinately retained outlook. A very little
thing--like Columbus' egg--if one only knew just what it was! The little
thing in Nehal Singh's life had been a woman's face. It shone between him
and his old gods; it smiled at him from amidst the shadows of his
imagination, beckoning him unceasingly to follow. And he was
following--with the reckless speed of a man who had been kept inactive too
long at the starting point of life.

"I am weary of all that has hitherto been," he told Behar Asor. "My palace
has become a prison from which I must free myself. The very air I breathe
is heavy with sleep and dreams. It suffocates me. I must have life--here
and without."

"I understand thee too well," came the answer from compressed lips. "The
curse is on thee. Thou wilt go among my enemies, and it is I, with my
mistaken wisdom, who have opened thy path to them. It was I who taught
thee their tongue, their knowledge, their law, that when the time came
thou shouldst stand before them more than their equal. This is my
punishment."

"It is no punishment. It is the will of God."

"The will of God!" The old man threw up his hands with a wild laugh that
echoed among the pillars. "It is the will of the devil, who has been my
curse and shall be thine! Ay, ay, look not at me! It is true. Thinkest
thou that I have brought thee up in solitude without cause? Thinkest thou
that I have hidden thee like a miser his treasure, in the dark, unseen
places, for a whim? Son, I have suffered as I pray thou mayst not have to
suffer, and I have within my heart a serpent of hatred whose sting I would
thou couldst feel." He paused, biting his lip as though the pain he
described was actual and physical. "Go not among the Unbelievers!" he
continued vigorously. "Let not their shadow defile thee! For their breath
is poison, and in their eyes is a deadly flame--or if thou goest, let it
be with steeled breast and in thy right hand a sword of vengeance!"

"I can not," Nehal Singh answered impatiently. "Nor do I believe what thou
sayest. This people is surely brave and good. I know, for I have read--"

"Read!" the old man interrupted, with another burst of stormy laughter.
"What is it to read? To see with the eyes and feel with the body--that
alone can bring true wisdom. And I have seen and felt! Callest thou a
people 'good' who drink our hospitality and spit upon us--who hail us
with their unclean right hand and steal our honor with their left?"

Nehal Singh stopped short.

"What meanest thou?" he demanded.

"I have a meaning!" was the stern answer. "I will tell thee now what I
have never told thee before--I will tell thee of a young man who, like
thyself, was fearless, impetuous, a lover of the new and strange, who went
out into the world, and welcomed the White People as a deliverer and
friend. I will tell thee how he flung down caste and prejudice to welcome
them, drank in their Thought and Culture, trembled on the brink of their
Religion. Already the path had been broken for him. His mother's sister
had married out of her race--an Englishman--I know not how it came
about--and their child followed in her steps. I will tell thee how the
young man came to know this cousin and her husband, also an Unbeliever.
How often these two became his guests I will not tell thee. He took
pleasure in their presence, partly for his mother's sake, partly because
the white race had become dear to him. They brought others with them, and
among them an English officer. Hear now further.

"This young man had one wife, following the English custom--one wife more
beautiful than her sisters, whom he loved as a man loves but once in life.
In his madness, in spite of warnings of his priests, he gave her the
freedom almost of an English-woman. Wheresoever he went she followed him;
with her at his right hand he received his English guests; it was she who
sang to them--" He ground his teeth in a sudden outburst of rage. "Mad,
mad was I! Mad to trust a woman, and to trust the stranger! Son, the night
came when my wife sang no more to me, and the stranger's shadow ceased to
darken my threshold. Three years I sought them--three years; then one
night she came back to me. He had cast her from him. She lay dead at my
feet." His voice shook. "In vain I sought justice. There is no justice for
such things among the White People--not for themselves and not for us. I
drew my sword and in hatred and scorn as deep as my love and reverence had
been high, I slew my way to the false devil who had betrayed me. Him I
slew--and his pale wife I--"

"Who was this man?" Nehal Singh asked heavily.

"I know not. His name has passed from me. But the hate remains. For with
that act of treachery he drew back the veil from my blind eyes, and I saw
that they were all as he--bad, cruel, hypocrites--"

"Not all--not all!" Nehal Singh interrupted. He stopped by the splashing
fountain and gazed dreamily into the clear waters. His own face he saw
there--and another which was neither bad, cruel, nor hypocritical, but
wholly beautiful. "Not all," he repeated. "You judge by one man. There
are others, and it is those I will see and know, and--"

"I would rather see thee dead at my feet!"

"My father, I will judge them as I find them,"

Nehal Singh went on imperturbably. "If they be good and noble, I will
serve and love them. If they be bad, as thou sayest--then thou shalt live
to see me do thy will."

He heard a shrill cry, and his eyes, still fixed on the water, saw a hand
that swept upward, the flash of steel falling swiftly through the
sunshine. He swung round and tore the dagger from the nerveless hand.

"Thou dost wrong, my father," he said, with unshaken calm. "To learn
treachery from treachery is a poor lesson. And thou canst not stay me.
What I will do I will do. Do not cross me again."

The old man, who had shrunk back, gasping and staring, against the marble
basin, pulled himself painfully upright.

"Ay, I did wrong," he said. "With my old hands I tried to forestall the
sword of Fate. For, mark me, the hour will come when thou wilt curse
thyself that thou didst stay my knife!"

He tottered slowly away, vanishing like a curious twisted shadow amidst
the deeper shadows of the columns.

Nehal Singh watched him till he was out of sight, and then, snapping the
dagger across his knee, flung the pieces into the water. They lay there,
at the bottom of the marble basin, sparkling and twinkling in the
sunshine. When he looked in, trying to conjure up once more the beautiful
face, it was always the dagger he saw. It was always the dagger he saw
when the memory of that short, violent scene came back to him--and it
came back often, springing up out of his subconscious self like an evil,
slinking shade that could never be wholly brought to rest. Yet he went on
resolutely. One barrier had given way--one more remained, and he flung
himself against it with a reckless determination which would have overcome
any resistance. But there was none. The old priest who had been his guide
and teacher welcomed him as he had always done, seated cross-legged at the
edge of the Sacred Tank, motionless, rigid, like some handsome bronze
statue of Buddha, whose eyes alone spoke of a fierce flowing life within.
He bowed his head once in return to Nehal's greeting, but as he began to
speak he interrupted him, and in a low, chanting voice uttered the last
words he was ever heard to address to any living creature:

"Speak not to me, Son of the Night and Day, for the Spirit of the Holy Yog
is on me, and his tongue speaketh through my lips. Behold, mine eyes see
with his into the wells of the future--my heart stands still for fear of
the things that are to be. I see a Holy Temple and hear the ring of
Accursed Footsteps. I see a young man at daybreak, beautiful, strong and
upright, and I see him stand beneath the high sun like a blade of withered
grass. I see him go forth in the morning with laughter on his lips, and at
nightfall his eyes run blood. A voice calleth him from the thicket, and
wheresoever the voice calleth him he goeth. He standeth on the banks of
Holy Ganges, and behold! the waters burst from their course and pour
westward to the ocean. Behold, then shall he draw his sword against his
people, and from that hour he shall serve them and become theirs. Then
shall the doors of the temple be closed for ever, and the lips of Vishnu
silent. Go forth, son of the Evening and Morning Star! That which is to be
shall be till the stream of the Future ceaseth to flow from the mouth of
Heaven!"

Nehal Singh listened to this strange, disjointed prophecy in perfect
silence, his eyes following the fierce stare of the old Brahman into the
oily waters of the Sacred Pool. Amidst the hundred reflections from the
temple he seemed to see each separate picture as the monotonous voice
called it up before his mind, and always it was his own face which
shimmered among the shadowy minarets, and always it was a familiar voice
calling him through the ages which whispered to him from the trembling
leaves of the Bo-Tree as it hung its branches down to the water's edge.

"Tell me more, for thy words have drawn the veil closer about the future!"

His pleading received no response. The priest remained motionless,
passive, indifferent, seemingly plunged in an ecstatic contemplation; and
from that moment his lips were closed, and he passed his once loved pupil
with eyes that seemed fixed far ahead on a world visible only to himself.
Neither in his words or manner had there been any anger or reproach, but a
perfect resignation which walled him off from every human emotion, and
Nehal Singh went his way, conscious that the world lay before him and that
he was free. The great dividing wall had turned to air, and he had passed
through, satisfied but not a little troubled, as a man is who finds that
he has struck at shadows.

Afterward he told himself that the walls had always been shadows, the
links that bound him always mere ghostly hindrances, part of the vague
dreams that had filled his life and bound his horizon. Now that was all
over. The more perfect reality lay before him and was his. The dim figures
of his childhood's imagination gave place to definite forms. And each bore
the same face, each face the same grave goodness--that of the woman
destined for him by Heaven.

CHAPTER VII

THE SECOND GENERATION

Thus it came to pass that after more than a quarter of a century the gates
of the palace were thrown open, and strange feet crossed the threshold in
apparent peace and friendship.

A crowd of memories flooded Colonel Carmichael's mind as he followed the
guide along the narrow paths. There was a difference between his last
entry and this--a difference and an analogy whose bizarre completeness
came home to him more vividly with every moment. Then, too, he had been
led, but by a dark figure whose flaming torch had sprung through the
darkness like an unearthly spirit of destruction. Then, too, he had
followed--not, as now, old and saddened--but impetuously, and behind him
had raced no crowd of laughing pleasure-seekers, but men whose bloody
swords were clasped in hands greedy for the long-deferred vengeance. He
remembered clearly what they had felt. For a year they had been held at
bay by a skill and cunning which outmatched their most heroic efforts, and
now, at last, the hour of victory was theirs. He remembered how the thirst
for revenge had died down as they stormed the marble steps. No living
being barred their course. Stillness greeted them as they poured into the
mighty hall, and a chilly awe sank down upon their red-hot rage as they
searched an emptiness which seemed to defy them. It was the Colonel
himself, then only a young captain, who had heard the piteous wailing cry
issuing from a side apartment. He had rushed in, and there a sight greeted
him which engraved itself on his memory for ever. The place was almost in
darkness, save that at the far end two torches had been lit on either side
of what seemed to be a throne--a beautiful golden chair raised from the
floor by ivory steps. Here, too, at first all had seemed death and
silence; then the cry had been repeated, and they saw that a tiny child
lay between the high carved arms and was watching them with great,
beautiful eyes. Around his neck had hung a hastily-written message:

"This is my son, Nehal Singh, whose life and heritage I intrust to my
conquerors in the name of justice and mercy."

And he had taken the boy in his arms and borne him thence as tenderly as
if he had been his own.

Since then twenty-five years had passed. The throne had been given to the
tiny heir under the tutelage of a neighboring prince, and the spirit of
forgotten things brooded over the wreck of the tempest that for over a
year had raged about Marut. But the Colonel remembered as if it had been
but yesterday. Others had forgotten the little child, but, perhaps because
he had no children of his own, the memory of the dark baby eyes had never
been banished from his mind. He caught himself wondering, not without a
touch of emotion, what sort of man had grown out of the minute being he
had rescued; but curiously enough--and typically enough of the
contrariness of human sympathy--from the moment he caught sight of the
tall figure advancing to meet him from the steps of the palace, all
kindly, gentle feelings died out of him, and his old prejudice of race
awoke. Possibly--nay, certainly--the child had had less need of sympathy
than the man, but the Colonel's heart froze toward him, and his formal
response to his host's greeting was icy with the unconquerable
consciousness of the gulf between them.

Yet, for eyes unblinded by preconceived aversion, Nehal Singh was at that
moment good to look upon. He was simply dressed in white, with no jewels
save for a great diamond in his turban, and this very simplicity threw
into strong relief his unusually well-built figure and the features to
whose almost classical perfection was added a strength, a force of
intellect which classical beauty is too often denied. Quietly and
modestly, conscious of his own worth, ignorant and inexperienced of the
world, he was utterly unaware of the stone barrier that his guests
presented to his own open-hearted welcome. For him the whole of his past
life concentrated itself on this moment when the gates of the Universe
rolled back, and he advanced to meet the representatives of its Greatest
People. He thought, in the simple, natural egoism of a man who has lived a
life cut off from others, that they would understand this and feel with
him.

What his own feelings were he hardly knew--perhaps among them, though
unrecognized, was the faintest chill of disappointment. He had had no
definite expectations, but his imagination had unconsciously been at work,
and touched with its illuminating fire the sons of the heroes whose deeds
had filled his quiet existence with romance, painting his picture of them
with colors which the reality did not justify. Certainly the little
Colonel had nothing either romantic or heroic in his appearance, and what
was good and kindly in his bronzed face was hidden behind the mask of his
racial pride.

His first words were delivered in a harsh voice, which betrayed only too
clearly his real feelings, though Nehal Singh recognized nothing but its
disagreeableness.

"Rajah Sahib, you have honored us with the wish to become acquainted with
the English people dwelling in your State," he began, "and it is therefore
my pleasure and duty to present to you the officers of the regiments--" He
stumbled awkwardly, the strangeness of the situation, the direct and
searching gaze of his host, throwing him completely out of whatever
oratory powers he possessed. It was Nehal Singh himself who saved the
situation.

"It is my pleasure to receive you," he said, in his slow, painstaking
English, "and I am honored by the readiness with which you have complied
with my desire to meet the Great People to whom my land owes so much.
Though hitherto I have lived apart from them, I am not wholly ignorant of
their greatness. I know, for my fathers and my books have shown me, that
there is no other nation so powerful nor whose sons are so noble.
Therefore I welcome you with all my heart as a brother, and if such
entertainment as I have tried to prepare for your pleasure is not to your
taste, I pray you to forgive me, for therein am I indeed ignorant."

For a few among the English party his words, spoken slowly and with a
simple sincerity, were not without their charm. Yet, little as he knew it,
he had succeeded in one short speech in touching two dangerous spots in
his relationship to his guests--his ancestry and his equality. But here
again his ignorance veiled from him what was written clearly enough on a
dozen frozen faces.

"I should be glad to be made personally acquainted with each of your
officers," he went on. "For men who serve under one flag should know each
other well."

Colonel Carmichael obeyed, thankful for any occupation which saved him the
necessity of replying; and one by one the solemn, unmoved faces came under
Nehal Singh's eager gaze, bowed, and passed on. Each resented in turn the
intense scrutiny of their host, and none guessed its cause. For them it
was the insolent stare of a colored man who had ventured to place himself
on an equality with themselves. They could not have known that he was
seeking familiar features, nor that, as one after another passed on, a
cold chill of disappointment was settling on a heart warm with
preconceived admiration and respect. They could not have known that his
unconscious presumption had hidden a real desire to find among them the
hero to whom his man's worship of courage and greatness could have been
dedicated. He was too young--and especially too young in worldly
wisdom--to realize that the outside man is not of necessity the man
himself. He merely felt, as each wooden face confronted his own, that here
was surely no Great Man, no Hero. Only when it came to the civilians his
eyes rested with some degree of satisfaction on Travers' well-knit figure
and fresh-colored face. For the first time during the whole proceedings
the prince smiled, and in turn received a smile.

The ladies had by this time arrived, and the presentations continued.
There was no change in Nehal Singh's demeanor when he stood before
Beatrice Cary--no change, at least, visible to the curious eyes that
watched. If there was any hidden meaning in his expression during the
brief instant that they looked at each other, only she herself could have
read it; and this she apparently did not do, for her face retained its
Madonna peace and dignity.

"I think Rajah Sahib and Miss Cary have already met?" remarked Travers,
who was acting as master of the ceremonies.

"Yes, we have met," Nehal Singh answered, and passed on.

If any hesitation showed itself in his manner, it was before Lois
Caruthers. A swift shade of puzzled surprise clouded his features.

"You have been a long time in India?" he asked, after the first words of
introduction. The question sounded as though he merely sought her
affirmation to something he already knew.

"Almost all my life, Rajah Sahib," she answered. Possibly it was a natural
shyness which made her voice sound troubled and nervous. She seemed to
heave a sigh of relief when he once more moved on. Yet he had impressed
her agreeably.

"Is he not handsome?" she said in an undertone to her companion, Stafford.
"I think he is quite the handsomest man I have seen, and he has the
manners of an Englishman. I wonder where he got them from."

"I don't know," Stafford returned. "These people have a wonderful trick of
picking up things. At any rate he realizes Miss Cary's curious
description--beautiful; though, with Miss Berry, I do not care for the
word as applied to a man. He seems a nice sort of fellow, too, quiet and
unaffected, and that is more to me than his good looks. It's rather a
pity."

"What is a pity?" she asked, surprised.

"Oh, well, that he is what he is. Don't look so pained. It's not only my
'narrow-hearted prejudice,' as you call it. It's more than that. I'm sorry
for the man himself. It all confirms my first opinion that it is rather
bad luck."

"Why?" she demanded obstinately.

"Don't you understand? If you had seen Webb's face when he talked about
'as a brother a brother,' you would have understood well enough. He has
been made a fool of, and sooner or later he will have his eyes roughly
opened. As I say, it seems bad luck."

"You mean he would have done better to keep to his old seclusion?" she
said thoughtfully.

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