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TITLE: THE NATIVE BORN
AUTHOR: I. A. R. WYLIE
EBOOK: E06835 (O'Briens Book Cellar)
LANGUAGE: ENGLISH

[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

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