The Native Born; or, the Rajah's People Part 21

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 b.u.t.t 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 uns.h.i.+fting 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 pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d--yes, a G.o.d; for there was not one of us that didn't wors.h.i.+p him and honor him. We would have followed him to the mouth of h.e.l.l. 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 friends.h.i.+p. 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sumes 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.