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[Illustration: "Miss Cary has consented to become my wife."]
THE NATIVE BORN
or
THE RAJAH'S PEOPLE
by
I. A. R. WYLIE
1910
with Illustrations by
JOHN NEWTON HOWITT
PREFACE
In earlier days a preface to a novel with no direct historical source
always seemed to me somewhat out of place, since I believed that the
author could be indebted solely to his own imagination. I have learned,
however, that even in a novel _pur sang_ it is possible to owe much to
others, and I now take the opportunity which the despised preface offers
to pay my debt--inadequately it is true--to Mr. Hughes Massie, whose
enthusiastic help in the launching of this, my first serious literary
effort, I shall always hold in grateful remembrance.
I. A. R. W.
May 9th, 1910
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTER
I WHICH IS A PROLOGUE
II THE DANCING IS RESUMED
III NEHAL SINGH
IV CIRCE
V ARCHIBALD TRAVERS PLAYS BRIDGE
VI BREAKING THE BARRIER
VII THE SECOND GENERATION
VIII THE IDEAL
IX CHECKED
X AT THE GATES OF A GREAT PEOPLE
XI WITHIN THE GATES
XII THE WHITE HAND
XIII THE ROAD CLEAR
XIV IN WHICH MANY THINGS ARE BROKEN
XV THE GREAT HEALER
XVI FATE
XVII FALSE LIGHT
BOOK II
I BUILDING THE CATHEDRAL
II CATASTROPHE
III A FAREWELL
IV STAFFORD INTERVENES
V MURDER
VI CLEARING AWAY THE RUBBISH
VII IN THE TEMPLE OF VISHNU
VIII FACE TO FACE
IX HALF-LIGHT
X TRAVERS
XI IN THE HOUR OF NEED
XII HIS OWN PEOPLE
XIII ENVOI
THE NATIVE BORN
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
WHICH IS A PROLOGUE
The woman lying huddled on the couch turned her face to the wall and
covered it with her hands in a burst of uncontrollable horror.
"Oh, that dreadful light!" she moaned. "If it would only go out! It will
send me mad. Oh, if it would only go out--only go out!"
Her companion made no immediate answer. She stood by the wall, her
shoulders slightly hunched, her hands clasped before her in an attitude of
fixed, sullen defiance. What her features expressed it was impossible to
tell, since they were hidden by the deep shadow in which she had taken up
her position. The rest of the apartment was lit with a grey, ghostly
light, the reflection from the courtyard, in part visible through the open
doorway, and which lay bathed in all the brilliancy of a full Indian moon.
"When the light goes out, it will mean that the end has come," she said at
last. "Do you know that, Christine?"
"Yes, I know it," the other answered piteously; "but that's what I
want--the end. I am not afraid to die. I know Harry will be there. He will
not let it be too hard for me. It's the suspense I can not bear. The
suspense is worse than death. I have died a dozen times tonight, and
suffered as I am sure God will not let us suffer."
Margaret Caruthers bent over the cowering figure with the sympathy which
education provides when the heart fails to perform its office. There was,
indeed, little tenderness in the hand which passed lightly over Christine
Stafford's feverish forehead.
"You give God credit for a good deal," she said indifferently. "If the
light troubles you, shall I shut the door?"
Christine sprang half upright.
"No!" she cried sharply. "No! I should still see it. Even when I cover my
face--so--I can still see it flickering. And then there is the darkness,
and in the darkness, faces--little John's face. Oh, my little fellow, what
will become of you!" She began to cry softly, but no longer with fear.
Love and pity had struggled up out of the chaos of her despair, rising
above even the mighty instinct of self-preservation. Margaret's hand
ceased from its mechanical act of consolation.
"Be thankful that he is not here," she said.
"I am thankful--but the thought of him makes death harder. It will hurt
him so."
"No one is indispensable in this world."
Christine turned her haggard, tear-stained face to the moonlight.
"How hard you are!" she said wonderingly. "You, too, have your little girl
to think of, but even with the end so close--even knowing that we shall
never see our loved ones again--you are still hard."
"I have no loved ones, and life has taught me to be hard. Why should death
soften me?" was the cold answer. Both women relapsed into silence. Always
strangers to each other, a common danger had not served to break down the
barrier between them. Christine now lay quiet and calm, her hands clasped,
her lips moving slightly, as though in prayer. Her companion had resumed
her former position against the wall, her eyes fixed on the open doorway,
beyond which the grey lake of moonlight spread itself into the shadow of
the walls. In the distance a single point of fire flickered uneasily,
winking like an evil, threatening eye. So long as it winked at them, so
long their lives were safe. With its extermination they knew must come
their own. Hitherto, save for the murmur of the two voices, a profound
hush had weighed ominously in the heavy air. Now suddenly a cry went up,
pitched on a high note and descending by semitones, like a dying wind,
into a moan. It was caught up instantly and repeated so close that it
seemed to the two women to have sprung from the very ground beneath their
feet. Christine started up.
"Oh, my God!" she muttered. "Oh, my God!" She was trembling from head to
foot, but the other gave no sign of either fear or interest. There
followed a brief pause, in which the imagination might have conjured up
unseen forces gathering themselves together for a final onslaught. It came
at last, like a cry, suddenly, amidst a wild outburst of yells, screams,
and the intermittent crack of revolvers fired at close quarters.
Pandemonium had been let loose on the other side of the silver lake, but
the silver lake itself remained placid and untroubled. Only the red eye
winked more vigorously, as though its warning had become more imperative.
Christine Stafford clung to a pair of unresponsive hands, which yielded
with an almost speaking reluctance to her embrace.
"You think there is no hope?" she pleaded. "None? You know what Harry
said. If the regiment got back in time--"
"The regiment will not get back in time," Margaret Caruthers interrupted.
"There are ten men guarding the gate against Heaven knows how many
thousand. Do you expect a miracle? No, no. We are a people who dance best
at the edge of a crater, and if a few, like ourselves, get swallowed up
now and again, it can not be helped. It is the penalty."
"If only Harry would come!" Christine moaned, heedless of this cold
philosophy. "But he will keep his promise, won't he? He won't let us fall
into those cruel hands? You remember what happened at Calcutta--"
"Hush! Don't frighten yourself and me!" exclaimed Margaret impatiently.
"Does it comfort you to hold my hand? Well, hold it, then. How strange you
are! I thought you weren't afraid."
"I shan't be when the time comes--but it's so very lonely. Don't you feel
it? Are you made of stone?"
Margaret Caruthers set her teeth hard.
"I would to God I were!" she said. All at once she wrenched her hand free
and pointed with it. Her arm, stretched out into the light, had a curious,
ghostly effect. "Look!" she cried.
The red eye winked rapidly in succession, once, twice, three times, and
then closed--this time for ever. An instant later two dark spots darted
out into the brightly lighted space and came at headlong pace toward them.
Christine sprang to her feet, and the two women clung to each other,
obeying for that one moment the instinct which can bind devil to saint.
But it was an English voice which greeted them from the now darkened
doorway.
"It's all over!" Steven Caruthers said, entering with his companion and
slamming the door sharply to. "We have five minutes more. Mackay has
promised to keep them off just so long. Stafford, see to your wife!" He
spoke brutally, in a voice choked with dust and pain. The room was now in
pitch darkness. Harry Stafford felt his way across, his arms outstretched.
"Christine!" he called.
She came to him at once, with a step as firm and steady as a man's.
"Harry!" she cried, her voice ringing with an almost incredulous joy. "Oh,
my darling!"
He caught her to him and felt how calm her pulse had become.
"Are you afraid, my wife?"
"Not now. I am so happy!"
He knew, strange though it seemed, that this was true and natural, because
her love was stronger than life or the fear of death.
"Do you trust me absolutely, Christine?"
"Absolutely!"
"Give me both your hands--in my one hand--so. Kiss me, sweetheart."
In the same instant that his lips touched hers he lifted his right
disengaged hand, and something icy-cold brushed past her temple. She clung
to him.
"Not yet, Harry! Not yet! Oh, don't think I don't understand. I do, and I
am glad. If things had gone differently the time must have come when one
of us would have been left lonely. Now, we are going together. What does
it matter if it is a little sooner than we hoped? Only, not yet--just one
minute! We have time. Do not let us waste it. Let us kneel down and say
'Our Father,' and then--for little John--" Her voice broke.
"Afterward--when you think fit, husband, I shall be ready."
He put his arm about her, and they knelt down side by side at the little
couch. Christine prayed aloud, and he followed her, his deeper voice
hushed to a whisper.
The two other occupants of the room did not heed them. They, too, had
found each other. At her husband's entrance Margaret Caruthers had crept
back to the wall and had remained there motionless, not answering to his
sharp, imperative call. He groped around the room, and when at length his
hands touched her face, both drew back as one total stranger from another.
"Why did you not answer?" he asked hoarsely. "Are you not aware that any
moment may be our last?"
"Yes," she said.
"I have something I wish to say to you, Margaret, before the time comes."
"I am listening."
"I wish to say if at any period in our unfortunate married life I have
done you wrong, I am sorry."
She made no answer.
"I ask your forgiveness."
"I forgive you."
The sound of firing outside had grown fainter, the shrieks louder, more
exultant, mingling like an unearthly savage chorus with the hushed voices
By the couch.
--"Thy will be done--" prayed Christine valiantly.
Margaret Caruthers lifted her head and laughed.
"Don't laugh!" her husband burst out. "Pray now, if you have ever prayed
in your life. You have need of prayers." He lifted his arm as he spoke;
but, as though she guessed his intention, she sprang out of his reach.
"No!" she said, in a voice concentrated with passion. "I am not going to
die like that. Stafford can shoot his wife down like a piece of blind
cattle if he thinks fit--but not you. I won't die by your hand, Steven. I
hate you too much."
"Hush!" he exclaimed. "The account between us is settled."
"Do you think I can begin to love you just because we are both about to
die?"
"You are my wife," he answered, grasping her by the wrists. "There are
things worse than death, and from them I shall shield you, whether you
will or not."
"Is it not enough that you have taken my life once?" she retorted.
"What do you mean? How dare you say that!"
"I say it because it is true. I have never lived--never. You killed me
years ago--all that was best in me. Save your soul from a second murder."
"If you live, do you know what may lie before you?"
"You talk of things 'worse than death.' What shame, what misery could be
worse than the years spent at your side?"
"You are mad, Margaret. I shall pay no attention to you. I must save you
against your will."
All through the hurried dialogue neither had spoken above a whisper. Even
in that moment they obeyed the habit of a lifetime, hiding hatred and
bitterness beneath a mask of apparent calm. Without a sound, but with a
frantic strength, Margaret wrenched herself free.
"Leave me to my own fate!" she demanded, in the same passionate undertone.
"You have ceased to be responsible for me."
He made one last effort to hold her. In the same instant the firing ceased
altogether. There followed the roar and crash of bursting timber, the
pattering of naked feet, the fanatic yells drawing every second nearer.
"Margaret!" he cried wildly, holding out his revolver in the darkness.
"If not at my hands, then at your own. Save yourself--"
"I shall save myself, have no fear!" she answered, with a bitter,
terrible laugh.
From the couch Christine Stafford's voice rose peacefully:
"Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!"
Another voice answered, "Amen!" There was the report of a revolver and a
sudden, startling stillness. It lasted only a breathing space. Furious
shoulders hurled themselves against the frail, weakly barred door. It
cracked, bulged inward, with a bursting, tearing sound, yielded. The
moonlight flooded into the little room, throwing up into bold relief the
three upright figures and the little heap that knelt motionless by the
couch.
The crowd of savage faces hesitated, faltering an instant before the
sahibs who yesterday had been their lords and masters. Then the sahibs
fired. It was all that was needed. The room filled. There was one stifled
groan--no more than that. No cry for mercy, no whining.
Little by little the room emptied again. The cries and bloodthirsty
screams of triumphant vengeance died slowly in the distance, the grey
moonlight resumed its peaceful sovereignty. Only here and there were
dark stains its silver could not wash away.