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.
"That's about it." He smiled down at her, and they suddenly forgot the
Rajah in that curious happiness of two beings who need no words to tell
them that each is understood by the other, and that a secret current of
thought and feeling flows beneath every word and touch. "Come," he went
on. "It seems that we are to have the run of the place. Shall we explore?"
She nodded a quick agreement, and they started off, thus following the
example of others of the party who had already made use of the Rajah's
suggestion that they should visit the chief and most interesting portions
of the palace. Nehal Singh himself stood alone, and thankful for his
loneliness. For the last ten minutes Colonel Carmichael and he had stood
side by side, and found no word to say to each other. The past, which
might have been a link, proved itself a barrier which neither could scale,
and presently, on some excuse, the Colonel had hurried off to join his
wife. As though guided by a sure instinct, Nehal Singh turned in the
direction where Beatrice was standing with her mother and Travers. Without
hesitation he went up to her.
"I have waited to be your guide," he said. His words sounded amusingly
decided and matter-of-course, and a smile of not very sympathetic meaning
passed over the faces of those within earshot.
"You can be sure she went a lot further than she cared to say," Mrs. Berry
whispered to her daughter. "You can see how everything was made up
beforehand. I wonder what she expects to get out of him?"
Though the remark did not reach her, Beatrice's instinct and bitter
experience supplied her with a sure key to the look that was exchanged
between the two women. She smiled gaily.
"I shall be only too pleased," she said. "What I have seen has made me
thirst for more."
"Indeed, Your Highness," Mrs. Cary broke in eagerly. "I must not forget to
thank you for the really very kind assistance you lent my reckless
daughter the other day. I do not know what would have happened to her if
it had not been for you!"
Nehal Singh looked at her with a grave wonder.
"You are her mother--?" he said, and then stopped short. The wonder was
reflected so clearly in his tone that an angry flush mounted to Mrs.
Cary's fat cheeks.
"I have that honor, Your Highness," she said acidly.
"Mrs. Cary!" Travers called from the flower-bed over which he was leaning.
"If the Rajah Sahib can spare you, do come and look at these flowers. They
are extraordinary."
With her head in the air, her plumes waving, a picture of ruffled dignity,
Mrs. Cary swayed her way in the direction indicated, and Nehal Singh and
Beatrice found themselves alone.
"Will you come with me now?" he asked. "I have still so much to show you."
She saw the look of self-satisfied "I-told-you-so" horror written on the
faces of Mrs. Berry and her friends, who stood a little farther off
whispering and nodding, and if she had felt the slightest hesitation, she
hesitated no longer.
"Lead the way, Rajah Sahib," she said coolly. "I follow."