"Oh, the little more, and how much it is!
And the little less, and what worlds away!
How a sound can quicken content to bliss,
Or a word suspend the blood's best play--
And life be a proof of this."
BROWNING.
For all her decision of character, Audrey Hammond fell asleep that
night in a painfully unsettled frame of mind. Obviously Lilamani's
story had shocked and perturbed Nevil Sinclair in no small degree.
But to what end, or with what probable result?
Heavy-laden with pain and perplexity, she had stood watching him as
he strode away from her toward the Cap, secure in the bitter
certainty that he would not dream of looking back; and upstairs, in
their sitting-room, fresh perplexity had been her portion. In place
of the passionate girl she had left, behold a smiling,
faintly-repressed Lilamani, who, after dinner, read to Sir Lakshman
from her favourite "Wisdom and Destiny"; discussing with him--in her
quaintly poetic turns of phrase--the roots of happiness and the
hidden springs of peace, as though the storm of two hours earlier had
never been. In the circumstances, Audrey had thought well to bid her
good night without their occasional after-talk over the day's events.
Whatever conclusions the girl had arrived at were best slept upon
before being submitted to the test of speech.
Not till she began setting out her books next morning did Audrey
broach the subject.
"Does this mean you have thought better of yesterday, child?" she
asked smilingly; and Lilamani bowed her head.
"I was too much mistaken," said she, still looking down and twirling
a pencil between fingers and thumb. "My father's heart cannot be
hurt just for the wandering of my brain. So please not say any more,
Audrey. I will try to keep my thoughts in chains. But if I am still
stupid--perhaps--some small punishment----"
"My dear girl! I may have been impatient with you, but I draw the
line at battering medicine into your head! We can try again, and see
how things go."
They did not go brilliantly that morning. Though Lilamani zealously
held her "thoughts in chains," and Audrey was patience incarnate,
each was aware of an invisible "Something" between them that made for
division. Lunch ended, Audrey excused herself on the plea of a
promised outing with Madame de Lisle: and Nevil, arriving well ahead
of his time, was relieved to find father and daughter alone.
They also were to have their first sight of his picture to-day; an
event made ten times more significant by his newly-awakened passion.
For the moment, artist and artistry were eclipsed by the natural
man's eagerness to gauge her share in the divine discovery.
At the first meeting of hands and eyes he knew himself predestined
victor: knew that the shy, virgin heart of her was astir, if not yet
awake; and gloried in the privilege, that would be his, of revealing
to her, by tender and delicious degrees, the golden secret that
gleams at the core of life.
In the meantime he must curb imagination, and sun himself in the
twofold triumph of the moment. For it was no less than a triumph to
lift the embroidered curtain from his canvas, to watch the dawn of
wonder and delight in the faces of those two, who had, in so short a
space, become the nucleus of his world.
To Lilamani it seemed that she beheld her very self leaning there
upon the balcony's edge, looking away out of the picture with
uplifted eyes, wherein--oh, miracle of miracles!--she caught
reflected glimpses of her own most hidden thoughts and dreams. Tint
of skin, sheen of _sari_, all her tender curves of budding womanhood,
were rendered with an astonishing delicacy and truth. For if
Sinclair's pencil had wrought excellently, his brush had verily been
inspired; so that he himself stood amazed; marvelling helplessly--as
every true artist marvels more than once in his life--how the thing
had come about, and whether he could ever hope to touch so high a
point of excellence again.
Before Sir Lakshman could find voice, Nevil had found Lilamani's
eyes, that gazed on him with a young, unveiled adoration; and even as
her whole face lit up in response to his smile, Sir Lakshman spoke.
"My dear Mr. Sinclair--it is many times more wonderful than I was
imagining. Almost, to me--she lives and breathes." Then, drawing
Lilamani nearer, he looked steadfastly from counterfeit to reality,
till the colour flooded her face.
Nevil took a deep breath to steady himself, and heard his everyday
voice make answer: "Honestly, I believe it's good; and I'm delighted
that it pleases you. If only Martino, the hypercritical, thinks half
so well of it----"
"That he will, beyond doubting: and then----?"
"Oh then, there shall be no more havering. All along I have looked
on this picture as the touchstone of my talent. So you see"--his
glance dwelt a moment on the girl, rejoicing in the swift warmth of
her cheek--"it has been yours to decide the question of my career!"
"If that means I am deciding you to paint more pictures, and always
more," she answered, plucking at the border of her _sari_, "then I
am--glad."
"It does mean that; if Martino approves," said he: and, Sir Lakshman,
glancing from one to the other, felt a sudden twinge of apprehension
that impelled him to draw his child away from this magnetic young
Englishman, and set her down in her usual seat.
Then he turned to Sinclair. "You are wishing, perhaps, to do some
work before they come?"
"I think not, to-day." He covered his canvas with a smiling glance
at the original. "I feel too restless. Besides--it would be a pity
to risk superfluous tinkering, till I've heard what Broome and
Martino have to say. They'll be here early, I know. And that
reminds me--a very old friend of mine, a Mrs. Despard, who arrived
yesterday, begged to come too. She's always been keen for me to take
up painting in earnest. So you can imagine my news pleased her.
Hope it wasn't very cool of me to invite her?"
"My dear sir, any friend of yours must be welcome to us.
Despard--you say? I must have known some relation of hers in India."
"Probably her husband. A civilian somewhere down your way. Had to
retire not long ago on account of heart-trouble, poor chap. But Mrs.
Despard was out there a good many years, and is naturally interested
to meet you and your daughter."
Sir Lakshman's smile had a hint of scepticism. "That does not always
follow. Anglo-Indians are of many kinds, and many minds. Not all
are so wide-hearted as to break through the official shell that
checks intimacy with the native of the country; less than ever,
strange to say, if he shall show any taste for ideals or education of
the West. But, as I said, there are many exceptions----"
"And Mrs. Despard is one," Sinclair broke in warmly. "They live
quite close to us at home. She and I have had endless talks about
India and its peoples; her favourite subject. There's no question
about how she will feel towards you and your daughter; or I assure
you I would not have asked her up."
"That I should have known. I think it is they who are coming now."
It was so: and three minutes later Lilamani looked upon the one
daughter of England destined to love and understand her, from the
moment of meeting; while her own soul--young, ardent, steeped in
poetic fancy--was bowed down in worshipful admiration before this
lissome slip of an Englishwoman, whose delicate-featured face, with
its softly shining eyes, was crowned with a mass of dull gold hair,
through which ran threads of fire. A clinging gown of tussore silk,
finely embroidered, such as Audrey never wore; and old lace at her
throat--where an aquamarine pendant hung from a silver
chain--completed a picture distinctive enough to impress brains and
hearts less susceptible than those of a Hindu girl of seventeen.
And she, scarce waiting for Sinclair's introduction, swept toward the
shyly smiling creature in the mother-o'-pearl _sari_, and took the
slender hand in both her own.
"Welcome to Europe," said she in a voice of singular sweetness. "How
brave and wise of you to cross 'the black water!' And how lucky for
my friend, Mr. Sinclair, that he happened to be here at the time!"
"Greatly I hope it is," Lilamani murmured with a fervour that even
shyness could not quite subdue.
"And I am sure it is!" the other declared, as she turned to greet Sir
Lakshman, who was shaking hands with Broome.
Then, while the four fell into friendly talk, Martino plucked
Sinclair by the sleeve, and, with an impatient jerk of his head,
signified his wish to have done with superfluities and come at the
real thing.
Lilamani, watching them covertly through the curtain of her lashes;
saw them move towards the easel; saw Nevil Sinclair fling back the
covering as before. Then--her heart leaped at the light that flashed
in Martino's eyes. With an inarticulate grunt he stepped back a
space, and stood so, looking, looking, and still looking, while the
other two hurried forward, eager to see that which had smitten the
volcanic Martino dumb.
Greater triumph Nevil Sinclair could not have desired: yet was there
pleasure almost as keen in Broome's curt tribute: "Good Heavens--what
a likeness!"
The words seemed to rouse Martino. His eyes flashed again.
"Likeness?--Sapristi! It is interpretation." Then he swung round on
Nevil. "Your handshake, _amico mio_. No further doubts now--is it?
I--Martino--salute the inspired artist!" the which he did with a grip
of steel. "Pity it cannot be shown. But after this--you are
pledged. There must be others."
"I hope to Heaven there may be," Nevil answered, overwhelmed. "But
the thing's not done yet. There must be faults; room for
improvement. It's criticism I want, man. You know that."
Martino's vigorous nod signified fullness of understanding. "The
last infirmity of the true artist--no? _Ebbene_, you shall have
it--without sparing. For by all the saints in the calendar your work
is worth it."
So they two, regardless of the rest, plunged into their private
jargon of tones and values and the critical nature of those last
touches that may spoil the whole: while the rest, being human,
gravitated to the tea-tray, that wooed them with gleam of polished
plate and delicate tints of _petits fours_, ordered daily by an
indulgent father for his daughter's special delectation.
Mrs. Despard, increasingly drawn towards this child of the
_purdah_--who seemed, yet, so fully a woman--laid a friendly hand on
her as they sat down.
"When I talked of Mr. Sinclair's luck just now, I had no idea that
you had actually done for him what he has failed to do for himself in
the last seven years. I am one of the few who have always urged him
to follow his natural bent in earnest; undutiful though it might
seem! Between money and position, one feared he would never achieve
anything. But now--through you--he has found himself. And I can't
tell you how delighted I am!"
Neither could the girl--with eyes demurely intent on three carnations
at her breast--tell this angel of the golden halo how delight
unspeakable sang within her like a hidden bird. She could only
answer in the same low tone: "You are mistaking. It is not I. It is
Mr. Sinclair who has done all."
Then, because the room was large, and the two behind the easel and
the two on the hearthrug much engrossed in their own talk, she drew
from her new friend, by a shy question or two, more of Nevil
Sinclair's home and history than she had yet heard; till he himself
joined them and the rest followed suit.
Seldom had there been so festal and frivolous a tea-drinking in the
quiet sitting-room, mainly dedicated to study and art. Martino's
triumph brimmed over in a fireworks display of his quaintly
characteristic English, whenever he could command the field; and Mrs.
Despard glowed openly when the East was her theme.
Sir Lakshman, stirred alike by her beauty and enthusiasm, cast aside,
for once, his mask of polite reserve. He spoke frankly, warmly, on
the subject that lies nearest the heart of all thoughtful Indians in
this our day of agitation and transition. His zealous championship
of British rule, and fervent belief in ultimate concord between
"mother and eldest daughter," woke an answering echo in the hearts of
two, whose fate hung upon his readiness to give personal proof of the
faith that was in him.
But it was Mrs. Despard alone who voiced her approval. "If only
there were more men of your mind on both sides," said she, and her
smile was in itself a reward, "how much disastrous friction we might
have been spared all round. But though you are in a minority, it is
you, and men like you, who may end in saving the situation, unless we
ourselves--or those who misgovern us--bring the whole Empire crashing
about our ears!"
"May the Great God forbid such calamity!" Sir Lakshman spoke with
unusual warmth. "Yet, my dear lady, because I have shown you all the
good feeling that is in my heart for that England who made India what
she is, you must please not to misjudge me in respect of my own
country. You must believe that I am as zealous for her welfare as
any Bengal agitators or inflammatory news-writers, who, in blind
perversity, are trying to break up the only influence which can make
possible that national unity they cry for, among the Indian peoples.
It is only that I see one manner of welfare: they another. In my
belief--and I am sharing it with scores of men better than myself--no
worse harm could befall to India than that Great Britain should cease
to be paramount power. But only this--in order for being paramount
she must be, in best sense, a power; not mere figure-head or rash
experimentalist, shifting now to this foot, now to that. Even in
your own Book is it not written, if the trumpet give an uncertain
sound, who shall prepare themselves for battle?"
"Who, indeed?" the daughter of England assented ruefully. "And of
late years the sound has been less imperious, less inspiring than it
should be if we are to hold our own."
"Unhappily--yes. I cannot help but agree. It is not that I am
disloyal, as you know. It is that we are troubled--we Indians, who
believe in England's power--to see how such a great land is seeming
to lose grasp on those noble ideals of straightforward strength and
courage that we learnt in early days to couple with the name of the
British Raj. Trouble it is also to see how blessings of
enlightenment and patriotic feeling are now made weapons against her
supremacy, that she won by those ideals, and cannot keep except
through the same. Let us hope it is only by appearance that she is
losing hold on them; that the true England, yes, and the true India,
may wake up and grasp hands together before it is too late."
"Hear, hear!" was echoed by all: then Martino thrust in his oar
again, and the talk became general.
Only Nevil, the ready of tongue, had singularly little to say. For
if Lilamani found her private ecstasy hard to conceal, her lover was
in much the same case. The hearts of both were too full for speech
of any kind. But though the door of the lips be locked, there are
windows through which the hidden self looks forth. The girl--a
little startled by her own emotions--kept her windows veiled. Not so
the man. Transported beyond pedestrian counsels of prudence, he
could not withhold his eyes from her face and form. Neither could he
compel hers to meet his own. Primitive instinct whispered that that
way danger lay. But Nevil was in no mood to be baulked; and now that
general conversation was in full swing again, he boldly drew a chair
up close to her, and spoke under his breath.
"I know you are almost as glad as I am. But I want above everything
to hear you say so."
The flagrant lover's folly of it, and the dawning sense of her
woman's power to give and to withhold brought her heart thrilling
into her throat.
"If you know it, that is enough. The rest is only nonsense!"
"It's not. It's truth, serious truth. I----" he checked himself,
realizing that this was no moment to unveil the shining secret.
"Well, to-day I've a right to be foolish!" he added more lightly.
"And you might do what I ask. Just to please me."
"Of course, if you make it like that, I could not be so discourteous.
And ... I am glad that your success has come ... through my picture:
much more than I could say. So it is no use trying."
Her shifting colour, and refusal to meet his gaze, pricked him to
further boldness. He knew, and gloried in the knowledge, that--by
every means of mute confession given to woman--this girl was showing
the very truth she strove to hide. Never before had he been quite so
close to her; and the fresh, faint scent of sandalwood that pervaded
her went to his head like wine. Once get the whole party down into
the garden, and he could trust himself to contrive some flying chance
of speech.
He set his hand on the tea-tray's rim within an inch of her own, and
noted how her glance travelled from one to the other while he spoke.
"It is just because this has come ... through you, that it means so
much to me. I never dreamed how it would be when I had the audacity
to begin. But I want one thing more to complete my great day. Can
you guess?"
"No." The full lower lip was indrawn demurely, and an uplift of her
lashes revealed laughter in her eyes.
"Perhaps you don't want to hear!" he challenged her with increasing
boldness.
"That is quite possible! All the same ... you will tell it!"
"Of course I shall. And you will grant it."
"That is not at all so sure."
"Oh, but it is. I want to end with a walk down by the sea ... all of
us. I've not bothered you much about coming down these few days.
But I want this immensely. Will you come?"
She drew in a quick, startled breath as if he had touched her.
"No--no, please. Not to-day."
"And why not to-day?"
His voice took a deeper note that filled her with nameless fear both
of herself and him.
"I cannot tell," she whispered, glancing instinctively towards her
father, who was too absorbed in his subject to be aware of the
magnetic young Englishman's latest move. "Only ... it has been very
wonderful ... for me also; and I am wanting to be alone with it all,
in my House of Gods, for sunset time. Please understand."
"I'm doing my best," he said ruefully. "But still--it's unkind to
disappoint me, and spoil everything."
"Oh, _don't_ say that! It hurts----"
Her hand went to the carnations at her breast, as if indicating the
point of pain; and that small gesture took the sting out of refusal
and disappointment alike.
"Not enough to make you say 'Yes'?"
She shook her head.
"Well, then ... to-morrow? You shall ride on the sea in my boat.
Your father shall come, and Mrs. Despard, and Broome. There now! In
common decency you can't say 'No' again."
"Then I can only say 'Yes'! If father will come."
"Promise!"
"How unbelieving you are! I promise."
Before he could answer, Sir Lakshman had become aware of them; and
the hand he laid on his daughter's arm had a movement, as though he
would draw her away.
"Mrs. Despard is suggesting a walk now it is cooler; and I have
agreed. Do you feel inclined?"
"Mr. Sinclair was just asking that same!" the girl answered with
admirable composure. "But I said ... not to-day."
"She has promised to come out in my boat to-morrow, instead," Nevil
hastened to add--unaware, as yet, of hidden antagonism.
"Only if you would like it, father," from Lilamani, in a note of
irresistible eagerness.
"Decidedly, I should like it; and there is good chance of my being
free, unless a heavy mail comes in. But then, no doubt, Miss Hammond
could go. I would not like you to lose a ride on the sea."
Broome and Mrs. Despard accepted readily: but Martino, who worshipped
the sea as a Titanic force, rather than a means of locomotion,
refused point-blank.
In the leave-taking that followed, Nevil--with a lover's
ingenuity--contrived to secure the last touch, the last word; and
that small cool hand, once captured, was singularly hard to
relinquish.
"To-morrow ... whatever happens," was all he dared to say. For
answer he had the rose-flush on her half-averted face; and he went
forth as one who goes to victory; secure in his belief that the
morrow could not pass till her lips had confirmed the avowal of her
cheeks and eyes. Almost, in that moment, he felt capable of bidding
the sun stand still and expecting it to obey him.
And she?
So soon as the door had closed behind them all, she went swiftly to
the threshold of her shrine, and stood there, cooling her face
against the glass of the open door, one hand upon her heart that
throbbed and sang as though it would burst the bounds of flesh.
What it all meant, whither it would lead them, she dared not ask
herself in set terms. As yet it sufficed that she shared his
triumph; and he, in turn, shared with her the nameless thrill of
touch, and speech, and glance. Nor was that all. Something within
whispered that he craved more than this sublimated essence of
emotion, so satisfying to her. Was it conceivable that he craved
all--might even dare to ask all?--he, the inspired English artist, of
her, the Indian girl-student, divided from him by immovable barriers
of country and creed?
Then the door was flung open briskly; and she turned to meet Audrey's
inquiring eyes.
"It's all over, then?" was her greeting, and her very voice brought
Lilamani to earth with a thud. "Was it a success? What's come to
you, child? You look transfigured!"
"Do I?" Lilamani tried to smile, but tears sprang unbidden from the
deeps. "It has all been so wonderful! Signor Martino spoke such
praises. And--I am so happy----"
Her voice broke.
"What is there to cry about, then?" asked practical Audrey: and the
girl swept a hand across her lashes.
"Oh, how can I tell? You would never understand."
She made as if to go, but Audrey's hand closed upon her arm.
"Don't run away, dear, the minute I come back," she said a little
wistfully. "I'm not so stupid as that amounts to; and I want to hear
about this afternoon. Signor Martino is pleased? And your father?"
"Yes. He says--it lives and breathes."
Audrey's hand was on the silken covering. "I suppose I may look
since everyone else has seen it?" said she; and proceeded to look,
long and silently, defying the ache within; while Lilamani, in
broken, half-coherent phrases, told her of Martino's enthusiasm, of
Mrs. Despard's conviction that through this--her picture--Mr.
Sinclair had "found himself" at last.
Audrey listened without interruption. Then she nodded, compressing
her lips.
"Yes. It's a very remarkable bit of work. But still----"
"But still--_what_?" Lilamani spoke almost sharply. The cool tone
maddened her so. Yet now she must endure the worse ordeal of the
cool glance that discerned something, at least, of the agitation
within.
"What I mean is this----" Audrey handled her words steadily, as the
surgeon his knife. "It is a cruel kindness for them all to inflame
Nevil with their enthusiasm on the strength of one exceptional
success. They only make it harder for him to remember his _real_
duty----"
"What is that?" The low voice was toneless now, the sweet submissive
face a mask.
"The duty he owes to his father and his family at home; as you, a
daughter of Hindu tradition, very well understand. Nevil is the
eldest son of a distinguished house----"
"Mrs. Despard told me that; and all his father's wishes. Only--she
thinks----"
"In my opinion she thinks too much of Nevil, and of his art; which
makes it a pity she turned up just now. No right-minded person can
doubt that it is high time for him to drop philandering with paint
and canvas, and knocking aimlessly about the Continent, achieving
nothing. He ought to go home, and stand for Parliament, and then
marry the right sort of girl--in his own position. The marriage of
an eldest son is an important matter in England. He is less free to
choose haphazard than other men."
Then, kindly but inexorably, she enlarged upon the subject; doing her
own duty by friend and pupil without stint: and while Lilamani
listened meekly, expressing a mild interest from time to time, all
her vague rose-coloured possibilities shrivelled and died.
No sunset peace was to be hers. Better had she accepted the walk by
the sea. The afternoon had quickened all her deepest sensibilities
into passionate life; and Audrey's dutiful dissertation was like a
chill hand upon her quivering heart.