"A spindle of hazel-wood had I.
Into the mill stream it fell one day;
The water has brought it back no more."
ROUMANIAN BALLAD.
"But this is good. Santa Maria, it is good! So slight a thing;
yet--entirely alive. If you make not a picture of this, Sinclair,
talk no more to me of your aspirations. No longer I shall believe in
them."
Thus Andrea Martino, standing in a flood of afternoon light at his
third-floor window, and holding Nevil's sketch-book at arm's length
before him. His shock head of hair--jerked now this way, now
that--suggested an intelligent blackbird considering a worm; a
suggestion heightened by the beak-like nose that sprang boldly out
betwixt eyes cavernously set under one dense ink-smudge of eyebrow.
The single crease of concentration furrowed his forehead, and dull
patches of colour on his cheek-bones, accentuating the hollow
beneath, told their own tale. It was a fine head, too fine for the
lean, undersized body, producing at times a contrast that bordered on
the grotesque.
Sinclair, bestriding a bedroom chair, a cigarette balanced between
two fingers, was doing his best not to look foolishly elate, and
succeeding fairly well, thanks to a racial heritage of
self-repression. Martino's studio was a corner bedroom, roughly
metamorphosed by the removal of the washing-stand; a Turkish Djimjim
flung over the bed; easel, canvases and a bare deal table sticky with
paints. Two oval windows, looking west, framed sun-saturate visions
of the twinkling bay, and white villas of Cannes, backed by the
barren ranges and clean-cut peaks of the Alpes Maritimes. A third
window looked upon open sea and sky, the twin islands and the carven
outline of the Esterelles. Beside it, from a tall vase, rose plumes
of mimosa, breathing out faint fragrance.
The one arm-chair was amply filled by Cuthbert Broome, chewing a pipe
and correcting proof slips in the intervals of considering Sinclair's
profile and wondering which emotion struck deeper--the thrill of
Martino's unfeigned approval, or the thrill of laying siege to the
self-poised girl with the disconcertingly direct grey eyes. It was a
problem congenial to his psychological turn of mind. The girl--if
her looks belied her not--stood for politics and a fairly assured
parliamentary career. The picture, if achieved, stood for artistry
and vagabondage, for possible success, and probable family discord
and disapproval. For the moment, Broome felt doubtful which way
Sinclair--the essential Sinclair--leaned. Last night he could have
sworn to the girl. To-day, watching Nevil's face under Martino's
volcanic discharges of encouragement, his assurance wavered: nor
could he quite decide which way of leaning his own ripe, unbiassed
judgment would applaud.
Even from the unfinished sketch it was clear that Sinclair's sleeping
talent had genuinely caught fire. But one inspiration, however
genuine, never yet made an artist. It is continuity of power that
tells; as Broome had good reason to know. He knew, too, that the
keystone of all imaginative work worth doing is capacity for great
emotion--the furnace that fuses thought and inspiration, form and
colour, into one living whole. In a life packed with observation, he
had seen and noted how often lack of this very capacity stamps as
ineffectual the clever, complex, highly civilized young Englishman of
to-day; and, so far, it seemed as though Sinclair had not altogether
escaped the disability of his race and age. No doubt smooth going
along the line of least resistance had retarded development. But
once let him reach the cross-roads, the true man must out....
And while the subconscious brain of the novelist played with
probabilities, as a child with the pieces of a puzzle, his hand
travelled down the printed slips, scribbling hieroglyphics in the
margin with mechanical accuracy, while his ear missed little of the
talk, or rather the monologue by the window.
"And she is in the hotel, you say? Under the same roof with us--this
houri--this _bellissima_?" Martino had just demanded, slapping-to the
sketch-book on one of his extravagant prophecies that set Nevil
tingling to the roots of his hair. "And she walks in the garden?"
"Sometimes; not often," said Nevil, wondering amusedly, What next?
"Then why not have I seen her--I?"
"Because, my dear fellow," put in Broome with a friendly twirl of his
eye, "when _you_ walk in the garden your expansive soul spreads
itself over the whole sea and sky. Incidentally you may be aware of
rocks and trees in the foreground. But anything so infinitesimal as
a human being----!"
"Chut!" Martino waved him aside with a laugh that broke midway into
a cough and brought a crumpled silk handkerchief to his lips. "It is
to Sinclair I talk. You love not to speak your true meaning except
with your pen! I remember me now--I have seen a dark man in a
turban. He is her father--no?" Nevil nodded. "Then it is him you
have to make believe what a picture this will be. If you are too
modest, send him to Martino, who will have a tongue of gold at your
service. But, my friend, lose no time. In art you must strike while
your iron is hot. You wish in earnest to become an artist. But all
these years, I tell you, Sinclair, you have been playing fool with a
brush that was made for work. A spark from the fire of God burns in
you, waiting to spring into flame. But you have choked it with earth
that it cannot burn. And now, see--right out of heaven, this star
dropt at your feet. Waste no more time, making glowworms with your
eternal cigarette. Santa Maria! How can you with your insolence of
youth and health know--as I know"--he beat upon his damaged chest and
coughed again--"that time is gold and diamonds and all the riches of
the earth rolled into one mass. Know it or not, only hear this poor
devil with one lung and paint your picture while you can. Paint it
that it shall please me, and Jacques Lesseppes--and then----" He
stayed for breath, and again it was Broome who interposed,
instinctively keeping the balance of things by putting all his weight
into the opposite scale.
"You forget, Martino, that as the eldest son of an old English family
Sinclair owes it to his father to make an honest bid for a
parliamentary career----"
"Huh! Parliamentary candlesticks----!"
"Fiddlesticks, you mean, my dear chap!"
"_Ah, bene_! Fiddlesticks--candlesticks--it is all one."
"Oh, no; not quite!" Broome's twinkling gravity held its own.
"Structural differences, you know, to say nothing of value! Besides,
in this case----"
The Italian flung up his hands in an ecstasy of impatience, and
clapped them over his ears. "I am a deaf. I hear not anything!" he
declared, not all in jest; and Nevil, springing up, gripped his
friend by the shoulders from behind.
"What shall we do to him, Martino _mio_? Gag him with his own
proofs?"
"If--you--please," the small man answered with grave emphasis; and at
their joint shout of laughter his black brows went up. The gods who
gifted him at birth had overlooked the saving grace of humour. "You
are always making some kind of foolishness--you two," he said,
looking from one to the other with puzzled intensity. "But it
remains that for candlesticks or fiddlesticks, I care nothing; and
for fathers and parliaments not a great deal either. With art it
must be as with religion. To those who are called she speaks as the
Great Master to his disciples--'Leave father and mother, leave
all--and follow me.' You--Broome, you have written books to her
dictation. You know that is truth."
The man's ardour and sincerity were irresistible, and Cuthbert Broome
answered in all seriousness: "Yes, my dear Martino, I know it. But
like all councils of perfection it is 'more honoured in the breach
than in observance'; except among pseudo-artists, who find it a
convenient cloak for egregious disregard of others. And in any case,
a man must be very sure of his call."
"_Ebbene_--it is _I_ who am sure--for Sinclair. He doubts, because
he has modesty. But give him at least one chance to prove I am
right."
He turned briskly upon Nevil. "You will speak to that man?"
"Rather! But I believe they have odd prejudices--these Indians."
Martino dismissed them with a snap of the fingers. "You show him the
sketch, my friend. It will suffice. But when?"
"To-day, I hope. I'm to meet them at tea-time." He took out his
watch. "By Jove, it's late. I ought to go at once."
"Be off, then; and bring me word to-morrow that all is arranged."
"I thought of asking Sir Lakshman to dine with us to-night."
"Good! Better than all. Then Martino can get in his word--and the
thing is done. Go now--and the saints prosper you."
Nevil Sinclair went whistling along the passage and on down the wide
staircase to the first floor. In three days his world had grown
singularly interesting and stimulating. More than ever did he bless
the house-party that had driven him to Antibes.
It was as Audrey had foreseen; his invitation to tea in the verandah
the day after the dance had been refused on the score of Lilamani's
shyness. Also, on that afternoon Sir Lakshman had promised her two
hours out in a boat with himself: but he hoped Mr. Sinclair would
come to them for tea on the following day. Mr. Sinclair had accepted
with alacrity; and--Audrey being "off duty"--had suggested a walk
with her along the sharply indented coast to the picturesque old town
of Antibes, returning, as of old, via the Lighthouse hill, highest
view-point of the headland. No word of the picture had been spoken;
Martino being too ill, for the moment, to be troubled with such
matters; and Nevil preferring to await his verdict before taking any
definite steps in the matter. Both had thoroughly enjoyed the easy
sense of comradeship, the picking up of dropped threads, and not
least the pleasant flavour of reminiscence running through it all.
Only when Audrey had left him to stroll awhile on the gravel path
with his cigar, did the wandering thought slip into Sinclair's brain
that there went a woman who would make a man "sit up and do things,"
if she cared for him; a wife such as Jane would surely approve, had
he any leaning toward marriage in the abstract, which he had not.
Hitherto, at all events, the modern man's dread of responsibility and
the artist's need of individual freedom had proved stronger than any
vagrant impulse of the heart.
Yet the impression made on him by this girl was no light one. In
many ways he found her eminently to be desired; and now, looking
backward, he wondered vaguely why he had not fallen in love with her
years ago. Nor did he guess that other men, who also found her
eminently to be desired, had wondered the same thing without
stumbling on the discovery that, like many admirable girls of her
type, Audrey Hammond lacked altogether that indefinable essence
called charm, atmosphere. Even as a landscape at noon fails to
thrill the imagination as at sunset or dawn, so does the clear-cut,
self-complete woman of transition fail to stir the tumultuous deeps
of passion. In one respect, at least, evolving man remains eternally
the same--"it is mystery that he chases finally, not beauty or love
or any success." Like to like is for friendship. For love--that can
lift a man's heart near to worship--the charm that eludes, and by its
very elusiveness, holds him fast.
Not that Sinclair, even now, realized all this any more than the rest
had done; but at least it was with a glow of satisfaction that--on
entering their sitting-room--he found Audrey alone, standing by the
tea-table in broad straw hat and cream serge coat.
"You're not long in, then?" he said as they shook hands. "I thought
I was late."
"You are late! So are we. Lilamani begged for another 'ride on the
sea'; though the glare was terrific and it gave her a headache."
"She's coming in, though--I hope?"
"Oh, yes. Are you so keen?" Her amused eyes scrutinized his face;
and in another moment the tale of the picture would have been told.
But lo, the door opened and the living picture appeared: simplicity's
self this time, in the creamy, clinging softness of Indian muslin;
only her _sari's_ hem threaded with the gold she loved.
At sight of the tall fair man, whom she had scarcely taken in on that
bewildering evening, her head drooped delicately, while the blood
glowed under the clear olive of her cheek and throat. For an instant
it seemed as if she would turn and fly; then Audrey's protective arm
enclosed her, and Audrey's kindly voice of decision was at her ear.
"Come, child, and shake hands with Mr. Sinclair. You mustn't be shy
with him. He is an old friend. Almost like my brother. I have been
telling him how you love riding on the sea in spite of glare and
headaches!"
At the magic word her smile flashed on him like a light; and she
spoke with the eager spontaneity of a child while Audrey poured out
tea.
"Oh, yes--yes. I love it! And to-day--it was wonderful, past
telling. No waves to ride upon; only a blue, blue bigness and
stillness, like gliding through the sky. How could I mind a little
ache of my head when my heart inside was 'kuroo-koo-ing' like a dove
in spring!" Sinclair's smile at the pretty conceit puzzled her, and
she added with shy apology: "You know there is not any sea in Central
India where I come from. It is only since these few weeks I have
known it for the first time. When you have known it always, perhaps
it does not seem so wonderful."
"Indeed it does," he assured her. "More wonderful the better one
knows it; at least to those who have enough imagination to wonder at
anything. Audrey must let me introduce you to my artist friend, who
has been painting it for fifteen years; and declares he would not
come to the end of it if he could paint for a hundred. Then look at
sailors, who live on it, year in, year out----"
"Ah, that would be better than all!" she broke in softly. "I feel
always I want to get out far, far, where it is all blue, over and
under; not even a trimming of land round the edge."
Shyness had fallen from her like a cloak. Her serious eyes dwelt
confidently upon his face. The subject, the reassuring word
"brother"--most flexible in the Indian language--had wrought like a
charm; and Sir Lakshman Singh, entering while she spoke, had a shock
of surprise and pleasure, vaguely tinged with apprehension.
"Glad to see you have made friends with my daughter," he said
genially as Sinclair rose to greet him. "And I hope you will justify
to her my high opinion of your country. For her, at present, you are
representing the whole English race; which I have taught her to
admire as I do myself."
"A poor look-out for England if she's to be judged by me!" Sinclair
retorted, laughing. "The sooner I introduce your daughter to my
friend, Mr. Cuthbert Broome, the better. I shall hardly dare open my
lips to her now."
"Oh, please--please," Lilamani murmured so distressfully that
everyone laughed, and that sent the blood tingling into her cheeks.
"He was praising the sea, father," she added, bravely ignoring her
discomfiture. "He could not begin better, could he?" The words were
for her father; but her shy glance was for Sinclair, who answered it
forthwith.
"It's easy talking. But what will you think when I say that my
father wished me to serve my country on the sea, and--I refused."
She shook her head incredulously at the slab of cake she was
crumbling with nervous fingers.
"It is hard to believe. But--how can I tell? There might be
difficulties----"
"Oh, there were--there were! One of the biggest was that I would
rather paint the sea than live on it, any day----"
"Ah," she looked up again, all eagerness. "You also paint
pictures--like your friend?"
"Yes. I paint pictures; but not like my friend. I wish I could," he
answered ruefully, scanning as he spoke the radiantly receptive face,
and wondering how he--the "double-distilled amateur"---dared aspire
to render its quicksilver quality in the lifeless medium of paint and
canvas.
Yet the resolve to aspire remained; and mention of his art having
slipped in, by a happy chance, he dwelt upon it guilefully in view of
that which was to come. To Sir Lakshman the subject was a congenial
one. The two men were soon deep in animated talk; while Lilamani sat
entranced, drinking it all in as an opening flower drinks in sun and
dew; and even taking her own small share in it without a trace of the
overwhelming shyness that had baffled and disappointed Nevil at the
start. Her intelligence amazed him. Audrey was right. She was more
than a picture, after all; more than a child, too, it seemed, though
even now he scarce regarded her as woman.
A memorable tea-drinking it was for all; though at the time none
guessed its significance save Nevil himself, increasingly aware as he
was of hidden depths stirred by the wind of the spirit, that bloweth
where it listeth, making music through the children of men as the
wind of earth through an Æolian harp.
The invitation to dinner, lightly given and lightly accepted, the
suggestion--Lilamani's--that when next they rode upon the great deep
he should come also, filled him with a boyish exultation out of all
proportion to the bare facts; and the dinner itself confirmed his
hopeful mood. Sir Lakshman, having spoken once or twice to Broome,
and read much of his work, welcomed a chance of closer intimacy; and
Martino, mindful of the hidden houri, plied his tongue of gold to
good purpose throughout the meal.
But the subject of the evening was not broached till privacy and the
congenial atmosphere of the "studio" paved the way for confidential
talk. Broome had not yet come up, and Martino was rummaging in the
adjacent bedroom for a couple of Italian studies, when Nevil took his
courage in both hands--and spoke.
"Sir Lakshman Singh, I have a confession to make--and a favour to
ask," he said simply.
"A confession--to me? On so slight acquaintance?" the Indian asked
with his kindly smile.
"Yes. It sounds odd. But, you see--it's like this----"
A moment of tingling hesitation, then it all came out in
straightforward, boyish speech--the vision, the temptation, the
resulting sketch, and--with a fresh access of boldness--the final
aspiration fostered by Martino's praise.
Sir Lakshman listened with contracted brows, and Martino, returning
while the tale was in progress, could scarce restrain his good word
till their guest had spoken his mind: no easy matter for a man torn
between clear vision of the Western standpoint, and innate recoil
from its application to his Jewel of Delight.
"I fear you will not understand me in this matter, so well as I
understand you," he said at last, courteously, yet not without
constraint; for the high-caste Hindu does not speak of his women folk
to other men. "If I were English, doubtless I should feel flattered
by your request. As it is--well--I have allowed my daughter, for
good reasons, to break through the customs of my caste and country.
But to remove a screen is not miraculously to remove all--that the
screen implies. For the women of India the significance of Purdah is
deeper and more complex than we can ever hope to make Westerns
believe. It is ingrained in the soul of the race. It is----" He
paused, looking from one to the other, increasingly reluctant, and
all that was best in Sinclair sprang spontaneously to his aid.
"If the notion distresses you, Sir Lakshman," said he, "please think
no more of it. In fact--if you really wish it---I will tear up my
sketch----"
"By God, Sinclair, you shall do no such madness!" Martino broke in
hoarsely; then turning upon the Hindu, twin flames in his eyes: "Sir,
you do not understand what it means for him to say that. He has in
him the divine spark. I know it--I. And beauty like that of your
daughter----"
"Shut up, Martino, for God's sake!" Sinclair cried out, goaded to
irritability by the uncertainty that racked him, as the artist was
swift to understand.
"Then talk no more madness," said he, with less heat. "And at least
show your work to Sir Lakshman Singh, that he may judge if I have not
right in what I say."
"Yes--yes, let me see what you have done." Repressed eagerness
lurked in the father's tone; and Nevil, too perturbed for speech,
took up his book, doubled it backwards, and handed it to the arbiter
of his Fate. For the moment, he felt as though all things worth
anything hung upon Sir Lakshman's "Yes" or "No": and in truth more
hung upon it than either guessed.
"Thank you," he said quietly; and rising, went over to the electric
light near the bed. Here he stood, with his back half turned,
considering the handiwork of this bold young man, who could dare to
reproduce his Lilamani--daughter of his heart.
Followed a tense silence, that would have been broken by Martino but
for an imperious gesture from his friend. Then Sir Lakshman faced
them again, his features schooled to a composure that was far from
him. "It is herself," he said, as quietly as he had said "Thank
you." "Signor Martino is right about your gift. You must use
it--use it. But--there are other beautiful subjects; and that you
should make a living picture of--of her, for all the world to look
on..."
"No--no, not that," Nevil interposed, and the sympathetic
understanding in his voice brought him nearer his heart's desire than
all that had gone before. "I am not a professional. If you allow me
to paint a figure study of your daughter, I would only ask leave to
show it to Signor Martino and his friend, a noted painter in Paris;
also perhaps, to my father; because their opinions might just prove
the turning-point in my life. For the rest, the picture remains my
private property; or--if it proves worth accepting--yours, to do with
as you please."
"Mine!" Sir Lakshman echoed in amaze. "But, my dear sir, I, a
stranger, have no right to accept your work--that may be of value----"
"Only in so far as it may justify my choice of a career. If it does
that, I can do no less than offer it to you as a token of gratitude
for your permission, and as a reminder of your daughter, while she is
away from you at college."
It was a few seconds before the Indian could command his voice;
then--"You know too well how to tempt a father, Mr. Sinclair," he
said feelingly. "And I can do no less than accept, gratefully, your
offer and your gift; unless my daughter should shrink altogether from
the idea. I would not for the world subject her to such an ordeal
against her will. But I will speak to her."
"When?" The eager question leapt from Sinclair's lips and eyes, and
the older man smiled.
"You are young--therefore impatient." He drew out his watch. "If I
go now, I can talk with her to-night; then you shall have your answer
the first thing in the morning."
"And if all's well--I could start in the afternoon?"
"Yes; in the afternoon."
"I shan't sleep for thinking of it!" Nevil declared as they shook
hands.
But, being young, he did sleep--soundly; though impatience waked him
long before his usual hour; and, once awake, the turmoil within gave
him no rest. He breakfasted alone with the waiters and one English
girl--pretty, and fresh-looking, clearly a lover of the morning.
Then, while the tables were filling, he paced the empty pathway to
the sea, making glowworms with his cigarette--to no purpose. For the
first time in his life the fire of genuine enthusiasm burned in him;
and he knew that until now he had not truly lived; that now, if the
chance were given him, he could not fail of success. Like most men
of the age he had early lost the habit of prayer: but intensity of
hope and desire brought him nearer to it than he had been for years.
On turning for the second time in his caged-lion walk, he sighted
Audrey's grey figure at the foot of the steps, and hurried forward.
Not so she; and her smile, as she drew near, had a touch of
constraint as yet unknown to him.
But he could not stay to consider that.
"You have brought Sir Lakshman's consent?" he cried in one breath.
"Yes," she answered coolly. He had never dreamed her eyes could look
so hard.
"And you don't approve?"
Her straight brows went up ever so little.
"I? Do I count at all?"
"Of course you do. But still----"
"But still--not enough to matter; which amounts to not at all. Yet
it is I who brought her here, Nevil. It is I who am devoting my
hardly-earned leave to her. Surely you might have consulted me
before making a proposal that is bound to distract her from studies,
on which I have trouble enough to hold her attention as it is----"
"I thought so!" Nevil cried, triumphant and quite unrepentant.
"She's not the type. And if they are uncongenial, why press them on
her?"
"For very good reasons--that are no concern of yours," she answered,
looking him straight in the eyes. But he wore his elation like a
shirt of chain mail, and merely asked with interest:
"Does she mind much--about sitting to me?"
"Yes. She rather dreads it; I can see that. But her father could
not conceal his pleasure at the idea, and for his sake she made light
of her natural recoil from it. We talked of it afterwards, she and
I; but she begged me not to let him know. I confess I did my best to
make her retract her consent; you may think what you please of me.
But I didn't see why my carefully thought out plans should be put out
for the mere whim of an idler----"
He winced. "I say, Audrey, don't hit so hard. It's more than a
whim. You know that. And I do think you're a bit selfish----"
"Selfish? Of course I am!" she flashed out with her formidable
directness. "We're all selfish, whether we admit it or not. It's
the main motive power of human achievement. You've as much right to
yours, after all--as I have to mine. But still--it does seem hard
that the child's studies, which are important for her and may mean a
great deal to me, should be interrupted--perhaps upset----"
Genuine emotion checked her, and roused at once the natural
kindliness of the man. "Aren't you making more of it than you need,
Audrey?" he asked gently, and she drew in her lips, hiding their
tendency to soften at his tone. "A sitting every other day will do
for me, and in between you can cram as much into her as you please.
The whole thing won't take much more than a fortnight. I'm no
portrait painter; it can only be a study. Then you can wipe me out
of your sacred programme altogether, if you choose!"
"That remains to be seen!" she answered, forcing a smile as she
turned away. He made as if to go along with her, but she waved him
back. "You're very nice about it, Nevil, or you wouldn't be you.
But just at present I shouldn't be good company. We'll be ready for
you this afternoon."
"And will you ask Miss Lakshman Singh to wear that mother-o'-pearl
_sari_?"
"Oh, yes."
"Much ado about nothing," he mused, looking after her. "Queer
creatures women--even the soundest."
Then he sauntered back again toward the grey rocks and the myrtle
bushes and the many-twinkling smile of ocean, seeing visions and
dreaming dreams.