Books: The Native Born

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24

"I tell you I haven't got so much with me," he mumbled. "I'll bring it
to-morrow, I promise."

Webb rose from his chair, stretching himself languidly.

"All right," he agreed. "To-morrow will do. By Jove, what a gorgeous
night it is!" He leaned over the balustrade, lifting his aristocratic
face to the sky. "Saunders, you don't want to go to bed, you old
cormorant. Come on with me, and we'll spend the night hours worthily."

"I'm game!" Saunders rejoined. "That is, if it's anything decent. I'm
not going to do any more tar-worshipping, that's certain."

"Don't want you to. I'm going to dress up and have a run around the
Bazaar, and if you want a little excitement, you had better do
likewise. You see things you don't see in the daytime, I can tell you,
and some of the women aren't bad. Come on! We can run round to my
diggings and change. Are you coming, Phipps and Geoffries?"

The weedy young man addressed as Phipps rose with alacrity.

"Anything for a change," he said. "Wake up, Innocence!" He brought his
hand down with a friendly thump on Geoffries' shoulder, but the boy
shook his head.

"No," he said, in the same rough, monotonous voice. "I'm done for
to-night. You fellows get on without me."

"As you like. Good night."

"Good night."

The three men went into the bungalow. Gradually their voices died away
in the distance, but the boy never moved, never shifted his blank
stare from the cards in front of him. It was a curious tableau. In the
midst of the darkness it was as though a lime-light had been thrown on
to a theatrical representation of despair, while beneath, hidden by
the shadow, a lonely spectator, to whom the scene was a horrible
revelation, fought out a hard battle between indignation and
disbelief.

Throughout the conversation Nehal Singh had stood rigid, his hand
clenched on the jeweled hilt of his sword, his eyes riveted on the
faces of the four men who were thus unconsciously drawing him into the
intimate circle of their life. Much that they said was incomprehensible
to him. The references to "Napoleon" and to the unknown individual
contemptuously dubbed "the fellow" were not clear, but they left him
a gnawing sense of insult and scorn which he could not conquer. The
subsequent chink of money changing hands had jarred upon his ears--the
final dispute concerning their further pleasure made him sick with
disgust. These "gentlemen" sought their amusement in a place where he
would have scorned to set his foot.

This fact obliterated for a moment every other consideration. Was it
to these that his hero-worship was dedicated? Were these the men from
whom he was to learn greatness of thought, heroism of action, purity
in life, idealism--these blatant, coarse-worded, coarse-minded cynics
to whom duty was a "bore" and pleasure an excuse to plunge into the
lowest dregs of existence? In vain his young enthusiasm, his almost
passionate desire to honor greatness in others fought his contemptuous
conviction of their unworthiness. Gradually, it is true, he grew
calmer, and, like a climber who has been flung from a high peak,
gathered himself from his fall, ready to climb again. He told himself
that as an outsider he did not understand either the words or the
actions which he had heard and witnessed, that he judged them by the
narrow standard of a life spent cut off from the practical ways of the
world. He repeated to himself Beatrice Cary's assurance--"All men do
not carry their heart on their sleeve." He told himself that behind
the jarring flippancy there still could lurk a hidden depth and
greatness. Nevertheless the received impression was stronger than all
argument. The climber, apparently unhurt, had sustained a vital
injury.

Nehal Singh was about to turn away, desirous only to be alone, when a
sound fell on his ears which sent a sudden sharp thrill through his
troubled heart. It was a groan, a single, half-smothered groan,
breaking through compressed lips by the very force of an overpowering
misery. Nehal looked back. The blank stare was gone, the boy lay with
his face buried in his arms.

In that moment the dreamer in Nehal died, the man of instant,
impulsive action took his place. He hurried up the steps of the
verandah and laid his hand on the bowed shoulder.

"You are in trouble," he said. "What is the matter?"

As though he had been struck by a shock of electricity, Geoffries half
sprang to his feet, and then, as he saw the dark face so close to his
own, he sank back again, speechless and white to the lips. For a
moment the two men looked at each other in unbroken silence.

"I am sorry I have startled you," Nehal said at length, "but I could
not see you in such distress. I do not know what it is, but if you
will confide in me, I may be able to help you."

"Rajah Sahib," stammered the young fellow, in helpless confusion, "if
I had known you were there--"

"You would not have revealed your trouble to me?" Nehal finished, with
a faint smile. "And that, I think, would have been a pity for us both.
If I can help you, perhaps you can help me." He paused and then added
slowly: "I have been standing watching you a long time."

"A long time!" A curious fear crept over the boyish face. "You saw us
playing, then--and heard what we said?"

"Yes."

"And you wish to help me?"

"If I can."

Geoffries turned his head away, avoiding the direct gaze.

"You are very kind, Rajah Sahib. I'm afraid I'm not to be helped."

The sight of that awkward shame and misery drove all personal grief
from Nehal's mind. He drew forward a chair and seated himself opposite
his companion, clasping his sinewy, well-shaped hands on the table
before him.

"Let us try and put all formalities aside," he said. "If you can treat
me as a friend, let nothing prevent you. We are strangers to each
other, but then the whole world is stranger to me. Yet I would be glad
to help and understand the world, as I would be glad to help and
understand you if you will let me."

Geoffries looked shyly at this strange _deus ex machina_, troubled by
perplexing considerations. How much had the Rajah heard of the
previous conversation, how much had he understood? Above all, what
would his comrades say if they found him pouring out his heart to
"this fellow," who had been the constant butt for their arrogant
contempt? And yet, as often happens, amidst his many friends he was
intensely alone. There was no single one to whom he could turn with
the burden of his conscience, no one to whom he did not systematically
play himself off as something other than he was. And opposite he
looked into a face full of grave sympathy, not unshadowed with
personal sadness. Yet he hesitated, and Nehal Singh went on
thoughtfully:

"There are some things I do not understand," he said. "You were
playing some game for money. I have heard of that before, but I do not
understand. Are you then, so poor?"

Geoffries laughed miserably.

"I am now," he said.

"Then it _is_ money that is the trouble?"

"It always is. At first one plays for the fun of the thing and
because--oh, well, one has to, don't you know. Afterward, one plays to
get it back."

"But you have not got it back?"

Geoffries shook his head.

"I never do," he said. "I'm a rotter at bridge."

"A hundred rupees!" Nehal went on reflectively. "That was the sum, I
think? It is very little--not enough to cause you any trouble."

"Not by itself," Geoffries agreed, with a fresh collapse into his old
depression. "But it is the last straw. I'm cut pretty short by the
home people, who don't understand, and there are other things--polo
ponies, dinner-races, subscriptions--"

"And the Bazaar."

Geoffries caught his breath and glanced across at the stern, unhappy
face. He read there in an instant a pitying contempt which at first
seemed ridiculous, and then insolent, and then terrible. Boy as he
was, there flashed through his easy-going brain some vague unformed
recognition of the unshifting national responsibility which weighs
upon the shoulders of the greatest and the least. He understood,
though not clearly, that he and his three comrades had dragged
themselves and their race in the mud at the feet of a foreigner, and
with that shock of understanding came the desire to vindicate himself
and the uncounted millions who were linked to him.

"You think badly of us, Rajah Sahib," he said fiercely. "Perhaps you
have a right to do so from what you have seen; but you have not seen
all--no, not nearly all. You've seen us in the soft days when we've
nothing to do but drill recruits and while away the time as best we
can. Think what the monotony means--day after day the same work, the
same faces. Who can blame us if we get slack and ready to do anything
for a change? I know some of us are rotters--especially here in Marut.
Most of us belong to the British Regiment, and are accustomed to
luxury and ease in the old country. I haven't got that excuse--I'm in
the Gurkhas--and what I do I do because I _am_ a rotter. But there are
men who are not. There are men, Rajah Sahib, right up there by the
northern provinces, who are made of steel and iron, real men,
heroes--"

Nehal Singh leaned forward and caught his companion by the arm.

"Heroes?" he said with passionate earnestness. "Heroes?"

Geoffries nodded. That look of enthusiastic sympathy won his heart and
awoke his soldier's slumbering pride.

"I'm no good at explaining," he said, "but I know of things that would
stir your blood. For a whole year--my first year--I was up north in a
mud fortress where there was only one other European officer. It was
Nicholson. You mayn't have heard of him--precious few people have--but
up there in that lonely, awful place, with wild hill-tribes about us
and a handful of sepoys for our protection, he was a god--yes, a god;
for there was not one of us that didn't worship him and honor him. We
would have followed him to the mouth of hell. He was young, only six
months a captain, and yet there was nothing he didn't seem to know,
nothing he couldn't do. Every day he was in the saddle,
reconnoitering, visiting the heads of the tribes, making peace,
distributing justice. Every day he went out with his life in his
hands, and every night he came back, quiet, unpretending, never
boasting, never complaining, and yet we knew that somewhere he had
risked himself to clear a stone out of our way, to win an enemy over
to our side, to confirm a friend in his friendship. Yes, he was a man;
and there are others like him. No one hears about them, but they don't
care. They go on giving their lives and energy to their work, and
never ask for thanks or reward. I--once hoped to be like that; but I
came to Marut--and then--" He stumbled and stopped short. "I'm a
ranting fool!" he went on angrily. "You won't understand, Rajah Sahib,
but I couldn't stand your thinking that they are all like me--"

Nehal Singh rose to his feet.

"Nicholson!" he repeated slowly, as though he had not heard. "I shall
remember that name. And there are more like him? That is well." Then
he laid his hand on the young officer's shoulder. "I am going to help
you," he said. "I am going to save you from whatever trouble you are
in, and then you must go back to the frontiers and become a man after
the ideal that has been set you. One day you can repay me."

The storm of protest died on Geoffries' lips. Prejudices, the
ingrained arrogance of race which scorned to accept friendship at the
hands of an inferior, sank to ashes as his eyes met those of this
Hindu prince.

"What have I done to deserve your kindness, Rajah Sahib?" he began
helplessly, but Nehal Singh cut him smilingly short.

"You have saved me," he said. "To-night my faith hung in the balance.
You have given it back to me, and in my turn I will save you and give
you back what you have lost. And this shall be a bond between us. You
will hear from me to-morrow. Good night."

"Good night, Rajah Sahib--and--thank you." He hesitated, and then went
on painfully: "You have shown me that we have behaved like cads. I--am
awfully sorry."

He was not referring to the Bazaar, as Nehal supposed.

"The past is over and done with," Nehal Singh answered, "but the
future is ours--and the common ideal which we must follow for the
common good."

Hugh Geoffries stood a long time after the Rajah had left him,
absorbed in wondering speculation. Who was this strange man who a few
weeks ago had been but a shadow, and to-day stood in the midst of
them, sharing their life and yet curiously alone? He had met other
Indian rulers, but they had not been as this man. They had also joined
the European life, but they had come as strangers and had remained as
strangers. They had learned to assume an outward conformity which this
prince had not needed to learn. And yet he stood alone, even among his
own people alone. Wherein lay the link, wherein the barrier? Was it
caste, religion?

Hugh Geoffries found no answer to these questions. He went home
sobered and thoughtful, dimly conscious that he had brushed past the
mystery of a great character, whom, in spite of all, he had been
forced to reverence.

CHAPTER XII

THE WHITE HAND

It is an old truth that things have their true existence only in
ourselves. A picture is perfect, moderate, or indifferent, according
to our tastes; an event fortunate or unfortunate according to our
character. Thus life, though in reality no more than a pure stream of
colorless water, changes its hue the moment it is poured into the
waiting pitchers, and becomes turbid, or assumes some lovely color, or
retains its first crystal clearness, in measure that the earthenware
is of the best or poorest quality.

In Travers' pitcher it had become kaleidoscopic, only saved from dire
confusion by one steady, consistent color, which tinged and killed by
its brilliancy the hundred other rainbow fragments. Such was life for
him--such at least it had become--a gay chaos in which the one
important thing was himself; a game, partly instructive, partly
amusing, with no rules save that the player is expected to win. Of
course, as in all matters, a certain order, or appearance of order,
had to be maintained; but Travers believed, and thought every one else
believed, that it was a mere "appearance," and that, as in the
childish game of "cheating," the card put on the table has not always
the face it is affirmed by the player to possess. Doubtless it is
sometimes an honest card--Travers himself played honest cards very
often--but that is part of the game, part of the cheating, one might
be tempted to say.

A suspicious opponent becomes shy of accusing a player who has been
able to refute a previous accusation, and those people whose doubts
had been aroused by one of Travers' transactions, and had been rash
enough to conclude that all Travers' works were "shady," had been
badly burned for their presumption. After one indignant vindication of
his methods Travers had been allowed to go his way, smiling,
unperturbed, with a friendly twinkle in his eye for his detractors
which acknowledged a perfect understanding. On the whole he had been
successful. A Napoleon of finance, he never burned his bridges. If any
of his campaigns failed, as they sometimes did, he had always a safe
retreat left open; and if his bridge proved only strong enough to
carry himself over, and gave way under his flying followers--well, it
was a misfortune which could have been averted if every one had taken
as much care of himself as he had done. When well beyond pursuit, he
would hold out a helping hand to the survivors, and received therefor
as much gratitude as on the other occasions he received abuse. Which
filled him with good-natured amusement, the one being as undeserved as
the other.

His last enterprise, the Marut Campaign, thanks to a happy
constellation of circumstances, promised an unusual degree of success,
and his enthusiasm on the subject was not the less real because he
kept hidden his usual reserve for unforeseen possibilities. According
to the Rajah's invitation, he repaired early on the second day after
their momentous conversation to the palace. He was received there by
an old servant, who told him that Nehal Singh had gone out riding
before sunrise, but was expected to return shortly.

"The Rajah Sahib remembers my coming?" Travers asked.

"Yes, Sahib. The Rajah Sahib commanded that the palace should be at
the Sahib's disposal while he waits."

The idea suited Travers excellently. He shook himself free from the
obsequious native, who showed very clearly that he would have
preferred to have kept on a watchful attendance, and began a languid,
indifferent examination of the labyrinth-like passages and deserted
halls. But the languidness and indifference were only masks which he
chose to assume when too great interest would have thwarted his own
schemes. In reality there was not a jewel or ornament which he did not
notice and appraise at the correct value. The immensity of the
palace's dimensions and its intricate plan made it impossible to
obtain a complete survey in so short a time, but at the end of half an
hour Travers' original theory was confirmed. Here was a power of
wealth lying idle, waiting, as it seemed to his natural egoism, for
his hands to put it into action.

In his imagination he saw the jeweled pillars dismantled and the
inlaid gold and silver changed into the hard money necessary for his
campaign--not without regret. The man of taste suffered not a little
at the changed picture, and since there was no immediate call upon his
activities, he allowed the man of taste to predominate over the
speculator. But the punishment for those who serve God and mammon is
inevitable. There comes the moment when the worshiper of mammon hears
the voice of God calling him, be it through a beautiful woman, a
beautiful poem, a beautiful sculpture, or a simple child, and the
soul, God-given, struggles against the bonds that have been laid upon
it.

So it was with Travers as he stood there in the Throne Room, gazing
thoughtfully out over the gardens to the ornate towers of the temple.
He was fully conscious of the dual nature in him, and it gave him a
sort of painful pleasure to allow the idealistic side a moment's
supremacy, to imagine himself throwing up his plans, and leaving so
much loveliness and peace undisturbed. It was a mere game which he
played with his own emotions, for it was no longer in his power to
throw up anything upon which he had set his mind. Without knowing it,
he had become the slave of his own will, a headlong, ruthless will,
which saw nothing but the goal, and to whom the lives and happiness of
others were no more than obstacles to be thrown indifferently on one
side. Yet in this short interval, when that will lay inactively in
abeyance, he suffered.

He had lost Lois, among other things, and the loss stung both sides of
him. He wanted her because he loved her, and because she had become
necessary to his plans. He had wanted her, and in spite of every
effort she had seemed to pass out of his reach. Seemed! As he stood
there with folded arms, watching the sunlight broaden over the
peaceful terraces, it pleased his fancy to imagine that the loss was
real and definite, and that he stood willingly on one side, resigning
himself to the decree that ordained her happiness. With a stabbing
pain came back the memory of their brief interview together. He had
talked of praying for her future. Had he been wholly sincere or, as
now, only so far as a man is who concentrates his temporary interest
upon some sport, only to forget it as soon as it is over? Possibly,
nay, certainly. He did not believe in himself--not, at least, in the
generous, self-sacrificing side. He called that sort of thing in other
people "pose" and in himself a necessary relaxation. For it was one of
his maxims that a man may act as heartlessly as he likes, but to be
successful he must never let himself grow heartless. From the moment
that he ceases to be capable of feeling, he loses touch with the
thoughts and sensibilities of others. And his power of feeling "with"
others was one of Travers' chief business assets.

It is dangerous, however, to play with emotions that are never to be
allowed an active influence. They have a trick of growing by leaps and
bounds, and before the will has time to realize that an enemy is at
its gates, to fling their whole force against the citadel and
overwhelm the dazed defenses. How near Archibald Travers came that
morning to yielding to himself he never knew. Lois' happy, thankful
face hovered constantly before his eyes. He felt very tender toward
her. He felt that he should like to be able to think of her in the
keeping of a good man--like Stafford--who, if pig-headed and bigoted,
was yet calculated to stick to a woman and make her happy. Looking
straight at himself and his past, Travers could not be sure that he
would stick to any one. Also there was the Rajah, optimistic, and
trusting, so much so that it left an unpleasant taste in the mouth to
fool him.

But above all else, there was Lois. Lois recurred to him constantly,
overshadowing every other consideration. He thought of her in all her
aspects: Lois, the enterprising, the energetic, plucky, daredevil
comrade; Lois, the ever-ready, untiring, uncomplaining partner in the
hunt, on the tennis-court, in the ball-room; Lois, the woman, with her
gentle charm, her tenderness, her frankness, her truth. He bit his
lip, turning away from the sunshine with knitted brows and fierce
eyes. No, it is no light matter to trifle with the heart, even if it
is only one's own. Nor is it wise for a man, set on a cool,
calculating task of self-advancement, to call up waters from his
hidden wells of tenderness, or to allow a nature strangely susceptible
(as even the worst natures are) to the appeal of the good and
beautiful to have full play, if only for a brief hour. Another five
minutes undisturbed in that splendid hall, with God's divine world
before him and the highest, purest art of man about him, and Travers
might never have waited to meet Nehal Singh. He might have gone
thence, and taken his schemes and plans and ambitions to another
sphere of activity. Five minutes! One second is enough to change a
dozen destinies. A straw divides an act of heroism from an act of
cowardice.

Archibald Travers turned. He had heard no sound and yet he was certain
that he was no longer alone, that some one stood behind him and was
watching him. For a minute he remained motionless; the bright sunlight
had dazzled him and he could only see the shadows in which the back of
the chamber was enveloped. Yet the consciousness of another presence
continued, and when suddenly a shadow freed itself from the rest and
came toward him, he started less with surprise than with a reasonless,
nameless alarm. It was a woman's figure which came down toward the
golden patch of light in which he stood. He could not see her face for
it was completely shrouded in a long oriental veil, but the bowed
shoulders, the slow, unsteady step indicated an advanced age or an
overpowering physical weakness. She came on without hesitation,
passing so close to Travers that she brushed his arm, and reached the
hangings before the window. There she paused. Travers passed his hand
quickly before his eyes. Her movements had been so quiet, so blindly
indifferent to his presence that he could not for the moment free
himself from the fancy that he was in the power of an hallucination.
Then she lifted her hand, drawing the curtain back, and he uttered an
involuntary, half-smothered exclamation. The hand was thin, claw-like,
white as though no drop of blood flowed beneath the lifeless skin, and
on the fourth finger he saw a plain band of gold.

"Who are you?" Travers demanded. The question had left his lips almost
without his knowledge. She turned and looked at him, and in spite of
the veil he felt the full intensity of a gaze which seemed to be
seeking his very soul. How long they stood there watching each other
in breathless silence Travers did not know. Nor did he know why this
strange, powerless figure filled him with a sickening repulsion and
held him paralyzed so that he could only wait in passive, motionless
expectation. Suddenly the hand sank to her side and he shook himself
as though he had been awakened from a nightmare.

"Who are you?" he repeated firmly.

"You are not the one I seek," she answered. "Why do you keep me from
him? He is mine--my very own. Where is he? I am always seeking for
him--but he is like the shadows--he vanishes--with the sunshine. In my
dreams I see him--" Her voice, thin and low-pitched, died into
silence. She seemed to have shrunk together; she swayed as though she
would have fallen, and Travers took an involuntary step toward her.

"You speak English--perfect English," he said. "Who are you? Whom do
you seek? Perhaps I can help you--?" His words electrified her. She
caught his arm in a grip of iron and drew close to him so that her
hot, quickly drawn breath fanned his cheek.

"Help me?" she whispered. "Who can help me? Don't you know that I am
dead?"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24