The Native Born; or, the Rajah's People Part 51

Lois, I couldn't help hearing what Captain Nicholson said to you. It explained what you said to me about building on the ruins of the past.

That was what he did--he built a beautiful palace on me--and I wrecked it. I failed him."

"Have you really failed him?"

"Lois, I don't know--I am beginning to believe not. But it is too late. I meant to clear away the rubbish--and build. But there is no time."

"You have done your best."

"Oh, if I could only save him, Lois! He was the first man I had ever met whom I trusted, the first to trust me. I owe him everything, the little that is good in me. It had to come to life when he believed in it so implicitly. And he owes me ruin, outward and inward ruin."

Lois made no answer. With a warm, impulsive gesture she put her arms about the taller woman's neck and, drawing the beautiful face down to her own, kissed her. Beatrice responded, and thus a friends.h.i.+p was sealed--not for life but for death, whose grim cordon was with every moment being drawn closer about them.

The sound of firing had now grown incessant. One report followed another at swift, irregular intervals, and each sounded like a clap of thunder in the silent room. Mrs. Cary stirred uneasily in her sleep, a low, scarcely audible groan escaped the parted lips, as though even in her dreams she was being pursued by fear's pitiless phantom. Her self-appointed nurse continued to fan her with the energy of despair, the poor livid face twitching at every fresh threatening sound. Mrs.

Carmichael still pretended to be absorbed in her pinafore, but the revolver lay on the table, ready to hand, and there was a look in the steady eyes which boded ill for the first enemy who should confront her. Lois and Beatrice continued their fruitless task.

A woman's courage is the supreme victory of mind over matter. It is no easy thing for a hero to sit still and helpless while death rattles his bullet fingers against the walls and screams in voices of hate and fury from a distance which every minute diminishes. For a woman burdened with the disability of a high-strung nervous system, it is a martyrdom. Yet these women, brought up on the froth of an enervating, pleasure-seeking society, held out--held out with a martyr's courage and constancy--against the torture of inactivity, of an imagination which penetrated the sheltering walls out into the night where fifty men writhed in a death-struggle with hundreds--saw every bleeding wound, heard every smothered moan of pain, felt already the cold iron pierce their own b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The hours pa.s.sed, and they did not yield.

They had ceased from their incongruous tasks, and stood and waited, wordless and tearless.

As the first grey lights of dawn crept into the stifling room they heard footsteps hurrying across the adjacent room, and each drew herself upright to meet the end. Mrs. Carmichael's hand tightened over the revolver, but it was only Mr. Berry who entered. The little missionary, a shy, society-shunning man, noted for doing more harm than good among the natives by his zealous bigotry and ignorance of their prejudices, stood revealed in a new light. His face was grimed with dirt and powder, his clothes disordered, his weak eyes bright with the fire of battle.

"Do not be afraid," he said quickly. "There is no immediate danger. I have only been sent to warn you to be ready to leave the bungalow. The front wall is shot-riddled, and the place may become indefensible at any moment. When that time comes, you must slip out to the old bungalow. Nicholson believes he can hold out there."

"My husband--?" interrupted Mrs. Carmichael.

"Your husband is safe. In fact, all three were well when I left. If I wasn't against such things, I should say it was a splendid fight--and every man a hero. The Rajah--"

"The Rajah--?"

Mr. Berry looked in stern surprise at the pale face of the speaker.

"The Rajah has a charmed life," he said somberly. "He is always in the front of his men--we can recognize him by his dress and figure--he is always within range, but we can't hit him. Not that I ought to wish his death, though it's our only chance." He put his hands distractedly to his head. "Heaven knows, it's too hard for a Christian man! Every time I see an enemy fall, I rejoice--and then I remember that it is my brother--" He stopped, the expression on his face of profound trouble giving way to active alarm. "Hus.h.!.+ Some one is coming!"

A second time the door opened, and Travers rushed in. Lois saw his face, and something in her recoiled in sick disgust. Fear, an almost imbecilic fear, was written on the wide-open, staring eyes, and the hand that held the revolver trembled like that of an old man.

"Quick--out by the back way!" he stammered incoherently. "I will lock the door--so. That will keep them off a minute. They are bound to look for us here first. Nicholson is retiring with his men--they are going to have a try to bring down the Rajah. It's our one chance. It may frighten the devils--they think he's a G.o.d. I believe he is, curse him!" All the time, he had been piling furniture against the door with a mad and feverish energy. "Help me! Help me!" he screamed. "Why don't you help? Do you want to be killed like sheep?"

Lois drew him back by the arm.

"You are wasting time," she said firmly. "Come with us! Why, you are hurt!"

He looked at the thin stream which trickled down the soiled white of his coat. A silly smile flickered over his big face.

"Oh, yes, a scratch. I hardly feel it. It isn't anything. It can't be anything. There's nothing vital thereabouts, is there, Berry?"

The missionary shrugged his shoulders. He had flung open the gla.s.s doors which led on to the verandah, and the brightening dawn flooded in upon them.

"Come and help me carry this poor lady," he said. "We have not a minute to lose."

Travers tried to obey, but he had no strength, and the other thrust him impatiently on one side.

"Mrs. Carmichael, you are a strong woman," he appealed. Between them they managed to bring Mrs. Cary's heavy, unconscious frame down the steps. It was a nerve-trying task, for their progress was of necessity a slow one, and the sound of the desperate fighting seemed to surround them on every side. It was with a feeling of intense relief that the little party saw Nicholson appear from amidst the trees and run toward them.

"That's right!" he cried. "Only be quick! They are at us on all sides now, but my men are keeping them off until you are out of the bungalow. The old ruin at the back of the garden is our last stand.

Carmichael is there already with a detachment, and is keeping off a rear attack. I shall remain here."

"Alone?" Berry asked anxiously.

"Yes. I believe they will ransack the bungalow first. When they come, the Rajah is sure to be at their head, and--well, it's going to be diamond cut diamond between us two when we meet. I know the beggars and their superst.i.tion. If I get in the first shot, they will bolt. If _he_ does--"

"You are going to shoot him down like a rat in a trap!" Beatrice burst out pa.s.sionately.

The others had already hurried on. With a gentle force he urged her to follow them.

"Or be shot down myself," he said. "Leave me to do my duty as I think best."

She met his grave eyes defiantly, but perhaps some instinct told her that he was risking his life for a poor chance--for their last chance, for without a word she turned away, apparently in the direction which her companions had already taken.

As soon as she was out of sight, Nicholson recharged his smoking revolver, and stood there quietly waiting. His trained ear heard the firing in front of the bungalow cease. He knew then that his men were retiring to join Colonel Carmichael, and that he stood alone, the last barrier between death and those he loved. The sound of triumphant shouting drew nearer; he heard the wrenching and tearing of doors cras.h.i.+ng down before an impetuous onslaught, the cling of steel, a howl of sudden satisfaction. His hand tightened upon his revolver; he stood ready to meet his enemy single-handed, to fight out the duel between man and man. But no one came. A bewildering silence had followed upon the last bloodthirsty cry. It was as though the hand of death had fallen and with one annihilating blow beaten down the approaching horde in the high tide of their victory. But of the two this strange stillness was the more terrible. It penetrated to the little waiting group in the old bungalow and filled them with the chill horror of the unknown. Something had happened--that they felt.

Lois crept to the doorway and peered out into the gathering daylight.

Here and there, half hidden behind the shelter of the trees, she could see the khaki-clad figures of the Gurkhas, some kneeling, some standing, their rifles raised to their dark faces, waiting like statues for the enemy that never came. A dead, petrified world, the only living thing the suns.h.i.+ne, which played in peaceful indifference upon the scene of an old and a new tragedy! Lois thought of her mother. By the power of an overwrought imagination she looked back through a quarter of a century to a day of which this present was a strange and horrible repet.i.tion. For a moment she lived her mother's life, lived through the hours of torturing doubt and fear, and when a stifled cry called her back to the reality and forced her to turn from the sunlight to the dark room, it was as though the dead had risen, as though her dreams had taken substance. She saw pale faces staring at her; she saw on the rusty truckle-bed a figure which rose up and held out frantic, desperate arms toward her. But it was no dream--no phantom. Mrs. Cary, wild-eyed and distraught, struggled to rise to her feet and come toward her.

"Where is Beatrice?" she cried hysterically. "Where is Beatrice? I dreamed she was dead!--It isn't true! Say it isn't true!"

Lois hurried back. In the confusion of their retreat she had lost sight of Beatrice, and now a cold fear froze her blood. She called her name, adding her voice to the half-delirious mother's appeal; but there was no answer, and as she prepared to leave the shelter of the bungalow to go in search of the lost girl, a pair of strong hands grasped her by the shoulders and forced her back.

"Lois, stand back! They are coming!"

Colonel Carmichael thrust her behind him, and an instant later she heard the report of his revolver. There was no answering volley. A dark, scantily-clad figure sprang through the trees, waving one hand as though in imperative appeal.

"Don't fire--don't fire! It's me!"

The Colonel's still smoking revolver sank, and the supposed native swayed toward him, only to sink a few yards farther on to the ground.

Carmichael ran to his side and lifted the fainting head against his shoulder.

"Good G.o.d, Geoffries! Don't say I've hit you! How on earth was I to know!"

"That's all right, Colonel. Only winded--don't you know--never hurried so much in life. Have been in the midst of the beggars--just managed to slip through. O Lor', give me something to drink, will you?"

Colonel Carmichael put his flask to the parched and broken lips.

"Thanks, that's better. We got your message, and are coming on like fun. The regiment's only an hour off. You never saw Saunders in such a fl.u.s.ter--it's his first big job, you know." He took another deep draft, and wiped his mouth with the corner of his ragged tunic. "I say--don't look at me, Miss Lois. I'm not fit to be seen." He laughed hoa.r.s.ely. "These clothes weren't made in Bond Street, and Webb a.s.sured me that the fewer I had the more genuine I looked. I say, Colonel, this is a lively business!"

Colonel Carmichael nodded as he helped the gasping and exhausted man into the bungalow.

"Too lively to be talked about," he said. "I doubt if the regiment isn't going to add itself to the general disaster."

"Oh, rot!" was the young officer's forgetful lapse into disrespect.

"The regiment will do for the beggars all right. They didn't expect us so soon, I fancy. Just listen! I believe I've frightened them away already. There isn't a sound."

Colonel Carmichael lifted his head. True enough, no living thing seemed to move. A profound hush hung in the air, broken only by Mrs.