The Native Born; or, the Rajah's People

by I. A. R. Wylie

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.