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?"
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 assumed 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
relinquishing 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?"
Travers started, and then smiled.
"Is there anything you do not know or have not read, Rajah?" he said,
with an amused admiration.
"I have read a great deal," was the earnest answer, "but it seems to
me as though I had known nothing until yesterday. Yesterday, in an
hour, a new world was revealed to me." He leaned forward, extending
his hand. "I ask you as a man of honor," he said, "before you show me
your plans, before I definitely engage myself in this great work, tell
me, do you believe that it will be for my people, what you say? Will
it lift them from their misery; will it make them prosperous and
happy?"
Travers took the hand in his own. For a moment he studied it intently,
curiously, as though it had been the sole topic of their conversation.
Then his eyes met those of the Rajah with unflinching calm and
decision.
"As far as I can be sure of anything, it will do for your country all
that I have said," he answered. And therein he was sincere--as
sincere, that is, as a man can be whose retreat is already secured.
With a sigh of relief Nehal Singh drew the table closer.
"Show me your plans," he said.
For three uninterrupted hours the two men sat over the papers which
Travers had brought. Now and again he lifted his head and glanced
toward the doorway through which the strange apparition had
disappeared, half expecting to see once more the white extended hand,
half believing that he had been the victim of a delusion, a fantasy
born of the mysterious veil with which the whole palace seemed
shrouded. Then he glanced at the ring which sparkled on his own
finger, and he knew that it was no delusion, but that a corner of the
veil lay perhaps within his grasp.