"Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment."
SHAKESPEARE.
No sign of Broome in the lounge-hall; and Sinclair, passing out on to
the wide balcony-verandah, scanned the seats where smokers and
newspaper readers basked in the strong unclouded sun of early March.
Two of the benches on the path below had been transformed into
open-air stalls; and toward these Sinclair was lured by the lover's
imperious need of giving, that is, in its essence, divine. But
choice was difficult, for a beloved so far removed from the usual
type. The trinkets were too trumpery; hairpins, combs and brushes a
trifle too intimate--as yet; paper-knives, and their like, too
impersonal, too prosaic.
Then--while the rival pedlars volubly assailed him with
impossibilities, his eyes lighted on a pair of oval buckles in
mother-o'-pearl. By divine right of fitness, they were made for her
small golden shoes; and pushing aside the human flies that buzzed at
his ears, picked up his treasures.
While he stood so, querying the man's preposterous demands, behold
Audrey, emerging from the olive wood, where she had been remodelling
her "sacred programme," and metaphorically fighting the beasts, like
any early Christian, without the stage properties of arena, audience,
and the martyr's crown.
At sight of Nevil, appraising those shimmering trifles on his open
palm, she set her lips and stood still. Escape were impossible, nor
was she in the mood for it now. There are moments when
self-chastisement dulls the edge of self-pity. Besides--she wanted
to know.
He looked up and recognized her.
"Hullo, Audrey," he said, flushing awkwardly and closing his left
hand.
"Too late. I saw them!" she rallied him, with a forced lightness
that had its undernote of pathos and pluck. "Has the modern dandy
progressed from striped silk socks to buckles on his pumps?"
"Not yet! No doubt he will--in time! But--if you saw them----" his
boyish awkwardness was vexatiously engaging--"you must know--they
weren't the right size----!"
"Yes. It puzzled me. Does it mean--congratulations?" she moistened
her lips. "I understood you were to be banished for a week."
"So I am--bad luck to it."
"And yet----?"
"Oh, hang it all, it comes natural to a man. And I thought--I'd give
a hostage to fortune. You might wish me luck, Audrey," he went on,
paying for his hostages, and moving away with her, "though I have so
egregiously upset your apple-cart. It's awfully tactless of me; and
I apologize humbly. But one couldn't foresee--this."
"No, indeed!"
"Well then----? Are you quite too angry to wish me well? Or do you
disapprove, as usual--root and branch?"
She lifted her shoulders. "Yes. I disapprove. But I'm not angry.
I've no right to be. Only disappointed, for the moment. Though I
don't see that my disappointment or disapproval need matter much--to
either of you."
She had turned down toward the sea in speaking; preferring the pain
of his nearness to the pain of his absence; and she stepped beside
him in resolute fashion, with long leisurely strides. But the calm
of her tone did not carry conviction; and Nevil scrutinized her
well-cut profile with troubled gaze.
"I wonder why you say that, Audrey?" he asked in the voice of
sympathy against which she steeled herself in vain. "Seeing that we
owe pretty nearly everything to your pluck, in persuading Sir
Lakshman to bring her home. And yet--I'm hanged if I know what's
gone wrong with you!" he broke out in honest bewilderment. "A
fortnight ago we were such good friends, I'd have sworn nothing could
come between us. But ever since I started the picture----"
"My dear Nevil, it's not like you to make mountains out of
molehills!" Only a show of anger and open speech could save her from
betrayal. "Naturally I was anxious about Lilamani when I saw what
was happening to her. I never believed for a moment you would dream
of asking her to become--the future Lady Sinclair; and I dreaded
another emotional crisis, that would upset her studies and her
health----"
"Well, then--now, you ought to be satisfied. And you're not."
"No. You've only turned my anxieties into a fresh channel. To me
such a marriage seems little short of madness--for you both."
"You think I'll not understand her--that I'll make her unhappy?"
"God knows! If Lilamani were more like the average Indian girl--a
precocious little woman, graceful and gentle on the surface, sensuous
and subtle underneath, my chief concern would be--for you. But she
has a personality, a rare spiritual power that may just possibly
enable her to transcend the limitations of race. I'm not
over-fanciful or impressionable; and at first I looked upon her
simply as an attractive child, with brains that I was keen to develop
for the service of her country-women. But of late I have been
compelled to recognise--quite against my will!--that this mere child,
ten years my junior, could teach me deeper things than I could ever
teach her. Nevil--when that girl gives herself, she will give all,
without reservation or stint, as few English girls can, or will, in
these days. It's this that makes me tremble for her: and I confess I
half resent such a complete burnt-offering of personality being made
for the sake of--any man."
"Even if he feels his own unworthiness in every fibre?" Sinclair
cried out with sudden fervour: and for a second or two--her own pain
forgotten--she regarded this new Nevil of Lilamani's making.
Then: "If you honestly feel that," she said slowly, "if I could only
believe you might continue to feel it--after the gift has been given,
my own loss would be easier to bear. It will be a big loss in many
ways; how big I hardly knew--till I read that."
Obedient, for once, to an impulse she did not stay to analyze, Audrey
Hammond handed Lilamani's note of the morning to Lilamani's lover,
and watched him while he scanned it; the ache of jealousy clashing
with the ache of mother-love.
Nevil Sinclair read the note twice through, lingeringly, before
handing it back.
"Hindu or no--she's an angel of God," he said under his breath.
"Thank you for letting me see it. But it makes me feel madder than
ever at being banished for a whole week!"
"The best thing that could happen, all the same," said she. "I
admire Sir Lakshman's wisdom. When d'you go?"
"This afternoon, I think; if I can fix it up with Broome. I came out
to look for him. But I'm glad I stumbled on you first. It's been a
relief, and a pleasure, to have a friendly talk with you again. Have
you seen anything of Broome?"
"Yes. He went past, while I was in the wood, with Mrs. Despard and
Signor Martino, who had his easel. I believe he's painting on the
Cap."
"Good. Let's join them."
"You can. I'll turn back."
"Why? Don't you like Mrs. Despard?"
"Yes. She's charming. But we don't see life from the same angle.
She'll prophesy much smoother things to you, and wipe out all the
effect of my foreboding! Good-bye!"
"No--not that: _au revoir_! And you won't wish me luck--even now?"
"I can only wish--what is best, for you and her; and honestly I don't
yet know what that is."
"But you won't frighten her off with your forebodings, will you,
Audrey? You'll play the game?"
"I've too much of the boy in me to do anything else," she answered,
half proudly, half in bitterness. "If she is really--yours, nothing
will keep her from you."
The last words gave an added warmth to his hand-clasp. "If you
believe that, Audrey, it should soften your disappointment. She
wasn't yours from the start. I'm convinced you brought her all the
way from India, simply that we might meet. And some day what is
really yours will come to you for a reward."
"Will it? I wonder."
Her eyes and tone had a strange softness.
"Take my word for it," he assured her, smiling: and again, as on that
first night of revelation, she stood watching him while he left
her--alone.
Yet was Sinclair thinking more of her, in that moment, than of his
banished love. This was not the Audrey who had greeted him, and
rated him, less than a month ago. There were new inflections in her
voice; and, just now, he could have sworn to the gleam of tears in
her eyes. Then--a sudden suspicion darted into light. Did it
mean----? Could it be ... that she...? Nonsense! He thrust away
the thought as an impertinent ebullition of masculine vanity; and
hurried on to the gleaming headland where Martino's easel and small
figure were silhouetted against the blue, while Broome and Mrs.
Despard lounged near at hand on a fragrant cushion of lentisk.
They waved letters and newspapers at his approach, and Helen Despard
patted the empty space at her side.
"Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. Come and laze with us on the most
luxurious spring couch in Europe! How that Colossus of industry,
Signor Martino, can stand and paint, hour after hour, in this
lotus-eating atmosphere is beyond me altogether. But you have earned
the right to loaf; and I want you to talk to me about that charming
girl."
"I'm ready!" Nevil answered, sinking easefully down beside her, and
sniffing the aromatic sweetness of crushed leaves.
Broome, leaning round on one elbow, eyed him keenly.
"Thought I noticed a glorified air about you this morning," said he.
"What is it, my son?"
"The best it could be. I've asked Miss Lakshman Singh to be my wife."
"Good Lord, Nevil! You don't mean that! I thought----"
"You thought I was amusing myself--legitimately?" All a lover's
indignation burned in his tone. "I've just been trying to persuade
Sir Lakshman to let me marry her at once."
"Well?"
"He's turned me off the premises for a week to think things out with
a cool mind, and give her a chance of doing the same."
Broome nodded three times decisively. "'A Daniel come to judgment!'
You mean to leave the Cap?"
"Yes. A week's spin in the motor would meet the case, if it suits
you."
"Right. I'm your man. The last of my proofs went off yesterday,
which leaves me a free agent--till next time!"
Helen Despard, prone upon her cushion, looked from one to the other
with sympathetic interest, awaiting her cue. But Martino, hearing
vague snatches of their talk, suddenly caught the drift of it and
pounced round upon them as a dog upon a bone.
"_What_ is that you are talking, Sinclair? Not enough that you have
painted such a wonderful picture, but you are marrying the _houri_
herself?"
"The minute her father gives me leave," Nevil answered, proudly
content.
"_Sapristi_! But that is true romance; too seldom seen in this age
of dry bones! And I applaud your choice. I--Martino--would have
done same myself, only that I have--lost my one lung."
It was as if he had said "I have lost my umbrella"; and his stoical
coolness smote so sharply upon Nevil's sensitized heart that it cost
him an effort to answer, laughing: "No fear, Martino _mio_! Not
while I was alive and could wield a pistol!"
The Italian shrugged his lean shoulders. "_Ebbene_! The better for
my art; even like my lame inside, that forbids me from
unfaithfulness, such as you will fall into, my friend, when that
_houri_ makes you the necklace of her arms, and you cannot see the
stars of heaven for the shining in her eyes."
But for Sinclair the vision eclipsed the warning.
"It's my belief I shall see them ten times more clearly," said he.
"Ah, the incomparable lover! For that I shall petition the Holy
Virgin and all the Saints. Only through some great emotion, some
lightning-flash into Heaven or Hell--small matter which--is great
achievement born. So! If you can make full surrender, you gain the
more. For myself, I paint for your bride a sea-piece--the finest
that Martino's brush can achieve. It would please her--no?"
"Beyond everything!" Nevil glowed visibly, Englishman though he was.
"Let it be all sea and sky, Martino. That's how she likes it best."
It was then that Helen Despard leaned forward, laying a hand on his
arm.
"This makes the fairy-tale sound astonishingly real," she said, with
softly smiling eyes. "I was charmed at first sight. I always found
Indian women curiously appealing: but I have met few of her quality.
I had my suspicions on Thursday--about you both; and I wondered very
much how far the Bohemian element in you would dominate the average
Englishman's instinct for the beaten track. It's a daring venture.
But, like Signor Martino, I applaud your choice."
"Thank you. I felt sure you would," Nevil said simply. But though
his words were for Mrs. Despard, his eyes were questioning Cuthbert
Broome.
"You don't feel quite so sure of me--eh, old chap?" quoth the
novelist, pensively tapping his pipe against a rock.
"Well, it's always been the trouble--hasn't it?--the Bohemian element
under your Park Lane surface! I admit the girl's attractive enough
to knock any man off his centre. But still--what of Sir George?"
Sinclair winced. "My affair, surely," said he, with a touch of
constraint. Then, because Broome was Broome, and licensed to say
what others might not, he added in a changed tone: "It's rough luck
on the old man, of course. But I'm free to choose for myself. He'll
admit that, if I know him, when the first vexation's over; and I
shan't take her home till it is. Once get 'em together, I can trust
her for the rest."
"H'm. It's conceivable--after a time. What's more, if you leap into
fame with a picture or two, as Martino prophesies, and turn up in
town with a beautiful Eastern wife, it's quite on the cards that, in
this day of volatile fads and crazes, she might become the rage. I
can just picture certain hyper-cultivated, esoteric hostesses of my
acquaintance thrilled to the tips of their French suede gloves over
'a new find,' and discovering, with enthusiasm, that _saris_ and
Hindu philosophy are the only wear--
"Confound you, Broome!" Nevil broke in hotly--a new Nevil indeed.
"D'you think I'd let her be exploited by a parcel of society women?"
"No, no, my dear boy, he doesn't think anything of the kind!" Thus
Helen Despard extinguishing the egregious author with wave of her
hand. "He's only talking ribald nonsense because it is his nature
to! Let him alone, and listen to me. I didn't spend fifteen years
in India with my eyes glued to one side of the picture, as some of us
do. I made many friends among high-caste native ladies and girls,
who are entering on a phase of transition as full of disadvantages
and difficulties as our own; and even more fertile in distressing
incongruities. Anklets jingling above heavy Oxford shoes. Saris
draped over unspeakable 'English jackets.' A smattering of music,
and a veneer of education from Zenana schools. But this girl--like
most Indian women of real distinction--seems to have been educated
mainly by her father, a very remarkable specimen of the Anglicized
native. Still--if you _do_ marry her, don't Westernize her more than
you can help. Keep her away from superficial English influences----"
"Yes, yes, that's my notion," Nevil assented eagerly, with a
triumphant glance at Broome, the extinguished, who was consoling
himself with a second pipe. "I wouldn't change one iota of her
unique, delicately-poised personality. Her pretty poetic fancies and
her quaint turns of phrase are as much a part of her as the scent and
colour are of a flower."
"Happy for her that you are poet enough to discern the essence of her
charm--once lost, never to be recaptured. Again and again I have
been puzzled and distressed to see how all that is vivid, beautiful,
and alluring in the Indian woman's personality becomes crude,
inartistic, and inadequate through too close contact with Western
things: the wrong things, no doubt. But it's hard to discriminate.
Keep your _houri_ Eastern, in thought and feeling--_and dress_, Mr.
Sinclair, and it's possible you may learn much from her that will
make you a better man and a finer artist. There's rank heresy for
you!"
"Then you may write me down the rankest heretic that ever stepped."
And while Broome chuckled in his beard, Mrs. Despard patted the
artist's sleeve.
"In that case it won't shock you if I add that we have more to learn
from the East--especially perhaps from its women-folk--than our
native arrogance will let us admit. There! my sermon's over; and I
shall see all I can of Miss Lakshman Singh while you're away. When
d'you go? At once?"
"This afternoon; eh, Broome?"
"M--yes. By the way. I promised to run over to Monte Carlo for the
night, on the trail of that mis-begotten lunatic, de Lisle, who went
off three days ago with some infallible new system in his pocket, and
every penny of his wife's spare cash. Not a line from him since; and
she seems afraid he might make away with himself if he lost it all.
Best thing that could happen for her, in my private opinion."
"Poor soul! But how is she managing without the spare cash?"
It was Helen Despard who spoke; and Broome, studying the horizon with
interest, made answer gruffly: "Oh, that's been squared--for the
present. And, for her sake, I've agreed to hunt for a needle in a
hay-stack. It's worth trying on the chance. You don't mind, Nevil?"
"Rather not. We can put in the week-end there; and then take a run
into the low hills--Cagnes, La Tourelle, Gorge du Loup. Good to see
all the old places again, with new eyes."
"That's fixed up, then. Two o'clock sharp."
And on the stroke of the hour a snorting motor whirled them forth
upon their pilgrimage, through the iron gates of the Cap Hotel; while
a girl in a primrose _sari_ looked after them from the corner
balcony, and knew, for the first time, that strange and terrible
feeling, as of the heart being dragged out of the body and flung
quivering into space.