The Native Born; or, the Rajah's People Part 22

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 grat.i.tude as on the other occasions he received abuse. Which filled him with good-natured amus.e.m.e.nt, the one being as undeserved as the other.

His last enterprise, the Marut Campaign, thanks to a happy constellation of circ.u.mstances, 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 pa.s.sages and deserted halls. But the languidness and indifference were only masks which he chose to a.s.sume 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 G.o.d and mammon is inevitable. There comes the moment when the wors.h.i.+per of mammon hears the voice of G.o.d calling him, be it through a beautiful woman, a beautiful poem, a beautiful sculpture, or a simple child, and the soul, G.o.d-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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sets.

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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 G.o.d'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, pa.s.sing so close to Travers that she brushed his arm, and reached the hangings before the window. There she paused. Travers pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sive, 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 suns.h.i.+ne. 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?"

Travers shuddered; he tried to free himself from the clutch of the white, bloodless hand, but she clung to him desperately, despairingly, while her voice rose in an agonized crescendo.

"Don't you know that I am _dead?_"

Footsteps came hurrying down the corridor. A sudden impulse, a reawakening of the spirit of action and enterprise, which had carried him through his life, bade him grasp her hand and drag from it the loosely fitting ring.

"I will see you again--dead or living, I will help you," he said.

The next instant he drew quickly back. A white-bearded native servant had entered and was moving swiftly with cat-like stealth toward the veiled figure by the window. He was breathless, as though with hard running, and seemed oblivious of Travers' presence until, with an exclamation of relief, he had grasped the unresisting figure by the wrist. Then he turned, salaaming profoundly.

"May the Lord Sahib forgive his servant!" he said with a humility which in Travers' ears rang curiously ironical. "The woman is possessed of a devil who speaketh lies out of her mouth. It would cost thy servant dear if she were found with the Lord Sahib."

Travers a.s.sumed an air of indifference.

"Who is she?" he asked carelessly.

"My wife, Lord Sahib. The devil has possessed her these many years."

Travers caught the flash of the cunning, suspicious eyes and knew that the man had lied. But he said nothing, dismissing him and his captive with a gesture. Only for an instant, governed by an irresistible instinct, he glanced over his shoulder. He saw then that the woman's head was turned toward him and that one white hand was raised as though in mingled appeal and imperative command. Travers nodded almost imperceptibly and she disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

For some minutes Travers remained motionless, then, as though nothing unusual had happened, he resumed his critical survey of the precious stones with which the pillars were adorned, apparently so absorbed that he did not notice the sound of approaching footsteps. Only when he was called by name did he look up with a start of pleased surprise.

"Ah, Your Highness!" he exclaimed.

The young prince stood in the curtained doorway, dressed as though he had just returned from riding. He was dusty and travel-stained and, in spite of his energetic, upright bearing, he looked exhausted. There were heavy lines under the keen eyes, and Travers noticed for the first time that his cheeks were slightly hollow, giving his whole appearance an air of haggard weariness. He lifted his hand in return to Travers' salute, and came forward with a welcoming smile.

"My servants told me I should find you here," he said. "I hope the time of waiting has not been too long?"

"Indeed, no!" Travers returned, as he descended the throne steps. "I have been amusing myself right royally. You have surely the most perfect collection of stones in India."

"They are well enough," Nehal answered, his smile deepening. "Have you been calculating how many rupees they will bring in?"

The remark, which at another time would have called a frank laugh of agreement from Travers, caused him instead a faint feeling of annoyance.

"Perhaps I have," he said, not without a suggestion of bitterness, "but I am still sufficiently alive to beauty to be able to appreciate it apart from its intrinsic value."

Nehal Singh motioned him to take his seat at the low table which a servant had at that moment brought in.

"Forgive me," he said. "I fear my remark hurt you. I thought as a business man you had only one standpoint from which you judged--you told me as much."

"Yes, and I told you the truth," Travers said, after a moment, in which he bent frowningly over his cup of coffee. "I am a business man, Rajah, and for a business man who wants to make any sort of success of his life there must be only one standpoint. If he has another side to his nature, as I have--the purely artistic and emotional side--he must crush it out of sight, if not out of existence, as I do." He looked up with a sudden return of his old tranquil humor. "You must not count it as anything if the beauty of these surroundings for a moment lifted the unpractical side of me uppermost," he said, laughing. "It was purely _pro tem.,_ and I am once more my normal, hard-headed self, at your disposal, Rajah."

Nehal Singh nodded absently.

"I believe what you say is true," he said. "A man who goes out into the world and enters into her conflicts must have only one side--the strong, hard, practical side; otherwise he can do nothing, neither for himself nor others. The idea came to me already the other night after I left you."

"Indeed?" Travers murmured. "What made you think of that, Rajah?"

Nehal gave a gesture which seemed to put the question to one side.

"Something I heard--saw," he said. "It does not matter. It made me hesitate. That is all."

"Hesitate?"

"To enter into the conflict. I felt for the moment that I was not fit--that it would overwhelm me. I had made a picture of the world, a picture which after all might not be the true one. I did not believe that I could bear the reality."

He bent his head wearily on his hand, and there followed an instant's silence in which Travers thoughtfully studied his companion. He was wondering what cross-current of influence had flowed into the stream on which he meant to sweep the prince toward his purpose. Any idea of relinquis.h.i.+ng his plans had evaporated; the very suggestion of another influence having been sufficient to put him on his mettle and call to life the full energy of his headstrong ambition. He had the tact, however, to remain silent, and to leave Nehal's train of thought uninterrupted. And this required considerable patience and self-control, for the Rajah seemed to forget his existence, and sat staring vacantly in front of him, his head still resting on his hand.

"Yes," he went on suddenly, but without changing his position, "that is what I felt two nights ago. The practical, hard side of me seemed lacking. I felt that I was a dreamer, like the rest of my unfortunate race, and that to enter into battle with the world, as you suggested, could only bring misfortune. I did not realize then that, at whatever cost, it was my duty."

"Duty?"

"Yes. A dreamer has no right to his dreams, be they ever so beautiful, unless he changes them into substance. In my dreams I have loved the world and my fellow-creatures. But what does that avail me if I do nothing for the suffering and sorrow with which the world is filled? I must go out and help. I must put my whole wealth and strength to the task, even if I lose thereby my peace. I must 'sell all that I have.'

Is not that the advice your Great Teacher gave to the young man seeking to do his duty?"