CHAPTER XV

"O king, thy kingdom who from thee can wrest?

What Fate shall dare uncrown thee from this breast;

O god-born lover,--whom my love doth gird

And armour with impregnable delight

Of Hope's triumphant, keen, flame-carven sword?"

SAROJINI NAIDU.

And of her, who looked shyly for his return, what record through

those days of waiting; of quickened breath and fluttering pulse?

While Sinclair, with the restless energy that is the hallmark of the

male throughout creation, sought distraction in movement from the

fever of longing, Lilamani went softly down the days of her appointed

week, accepting it with all the fundamental woman's capacity for

still endurance and folded wings. While Sinclair looked without, she

looked within; marvelling, now at her own daring, now at her

unworthiness--unrepentant rebel as she was. The wonder of it all,

the miracle of unlooked-for escape from those grey studies dazzled

heart and brain, as Sir Lakshman had said. It was as if enclosing

walls had crumbled at a touch, setting her in a blaze of sunlight,

that warmed and cheered and--above all--gave promise of womanhood

made perfect through renewal of life. Yet it demanded no small

venture of faith to go forward, irrevocably, along this unknown, if

alluring, way of the heart. Like all ways leading to the next-door

House of Life it must needs have ups and downs; stones also, it might

be--and shadows.

The first of these--a mere cloudlet--blurred already her clear sky of

dawning. It had hurt her inexpressibly to realize that her lover had

taken for granted the unconsecrate marriage by law; that their

difference of religion affected him little, if at all. Tactfully and

delicately as her father had broken the truth to her, there had been

need of much silent wrestling and praying to induce the conviction

that she could endure all things sooner than face the blank of life

without him. To such fullness of knowledge she had attained in those

first bewildering days of his absence: and, recognizing this,

gloried, woman-like, in the wisdom of that dear father, who was her

"Wise Man, Truth-named"; father and Guru in one.

As for that other, chosen lord of her life--not yet to be named, even

in thought--her Eastern woman's instinct of worship, and skill in

glossing over flaws, convinced her finally that his ready acceptance

of mere legal marriage had arisen from reluctance to suggest the

supreme renunciation on her part that a religious ceremony would

involve. And through her secret pain and shrinking ran the one gold

thread of consolation that, loyalty at least would be permitted to

the faith of her country and her ancestors; excommunicate though she

would be from the rites, feastings, and sacrifices that absorb more

than half the Hindu woman's life. These she had learnt to regard as

garments of religion; and Sir Lakshman assured her that the gods, not

being man-made like priests, would surely not reject sacrifice and

incense of the soul. So he believed; while yet he prayed--with human

inconsistency--that if fatherly love had led him into "benevolent

falsehood," his lapse from accuracy might not be visited on her.

And she--having wrestled and overcome--quietly set about preparing

herself for the great consecration, in much the same spirit as a

novice might prepare for the veil. True, in her case no stricter

retirement would follow upon betrothal: yet could not a few months of

freedom dispel that instinct for purdah, so deeply ingrained in the

soul of her race, that the word has become a synonym for family

honour, modesty, prestige. Of the customary prelude--the colourful

pageant of sacrifice, feastings, and gift-bringings--she could have

none. Greater need therefore, to her mind, for personal purifying by

prayer, fasting, and meditation, that body might become subordinate

to spirit; even as she, Life-bringer, would become subordinate to

him, Life-giver, when the days were accomplished that she should be

his. Symbolism, always symbolism. It is the Hindu woman's breath of

being. For where complexities of outer life are denied, the soul

must live by thought and feeling, or die outright.

But East and West agree at least in this, that a good deed is twice

itself when the right hand knows not what the left hand doeth. So

did Lilamani, quite simply and instinctively, devote the night to her

spiritual preparation; reducing sleep to a minimum, and in reserving

only the first hour of the morning and the last hour of light for

reading, or meditation, alone in her House of Gods.

In addition to translations of her own sacred books, she renewed her

acquaintance with the Holy Book of her lover's country, choosing her

favourite Gospel of John and St. Paul's dissertations on wifely

submission and womanly modesty; finding in both, as always, fresh

confirmation of her father's teaching, that the light of the one

great Unseen dwelling behind the veil of the seen shines alike

through all forms of doctrine and worship.

Then with the quaint incongruity that belongs to transition, her

study of St. Paul would culminate in a form of prayer to Sarasvati,

Goddess of Wisdom: "She who, robed in white, sets far all ignorance.

She who abides with the Creator, may she abide with me----"; or Mai

Lakshmi, Goddess of Fortune, would be entreated to make her a wife

not less perfect in devotion and mighty in renunciation than Sita,

the ideal woman of Hindu legend, and heroine of India's great Epic

the Ramayāna. Even from dim days of childhood,

Rāma's unsullied queen had reigned supreme in Lilamani's

heart--had been, as it were, her chosen patron saint, upon whose

character she must strive to model her own. It is in this fashion

that India's two great Epics have become so closely inwoven with her

national life and religion. To be called by her father his little

Sita Dévi, had been, and still was, Lilamani's crowning reward for an

act of self-suppression, or a day well spent; so now it was Sita who

dwelt constantly in her thoughts during her hours of secret vigil.

But the fasting, not to be foregone, could by no means be achieved in

secret. Her father she could trust to see without seeing, and say no

word. Not so Audrey, who was bound in honour to protest on the score

of her own private godling--Health; and the girl shrank from speech

on the subject, with one who could not be expected to understand.

She supposed that even the unveiled bride of the West could not

approach so great an event without some form of sanctification. But

to her, the subject seemed too intimate for discussion.

With the smiling _insouciance_ of one who does quite the ordinary

thing, she drank tea at breakfast, milk at lunch, and ate no food

till after sundown. Even then her meal was of the lightest; and to

Audrey's anxious remonstrance she answered with sweet reasonableness:

"Why must I eat--if not hungry?"

Had not Audrey been herself in love with the prospective bridegroom,

it is possible she would have jarred the Eastern girl, by attributing

this to his absence. For, while we of the West profess to hold love

sacred, there remains the paradox that we hold it also fair game for

the most inept form of humour, aptly called "chaff." Happily,

Audrey's lips were sealed: but a repetition of no breakfast and no

lunch brought the direct question Lilamani dreaded. She gave the

direct answer, briefly as might be, with eyes downcast and cheeks

that burned; while Audrey, unversed in certain phases of Indian life,

realized, as never yet, that this poetic, passionate child, deeply

imbued with the primitive woman-soul of the East, could never have

been hers to mould and make into a student of medicine, a pioneer of

the brain. In that realization she could, and did, forgive Nevil

much; though her own disappointment was none the less keen.

"You are thinking me a too much foolish Lilamani?" the soft voice

ended on a note of pleading. "But with us--it is custom. Father

understands."

And Audrey recognized by now the finality of that last. She could

only counteract it by a tentative appeal to vanity, quite against her

principles. But of late these had been tumbling about her like a

house of cards.

"No, dear, I've never thought you foolish," she said with unwonted

gentleness. "Only remember you are marrying--an Englishman, who

won't understand such things. He will come back expecting to find

the same beautiful bright-eyed Lilamani. But if you starve you won't

sleep; and where will your bright eyes be then? Do what you think

right. But I advise you to eat and sleep normally the last two days;

or the very joy of it all may upset you, and make you ill. Not

pleasant for him; and as _I_'ve done my best to get you strong, it

would be sad to go away and leave you more or less of a wreck----"

"Leave me? But Audrey--why that?"

Her dark eyes echoed the question, in pained surprise; and Audrey

looked deep into them before answering. She had her own confession

to make.

"Dear child, what else?" she asked, forcing a smile. "No more

studies after next Saturday; so no more need of me. I met a friend

in Cannes yesterday, who is stopping at Mentone. She wants me to go

over and see her; and I thought of leaving on Friday----"

"So soon? Leaving your Lilamani, for always?"

Audrey Hammond's arm went round the girl's slender shoulders.

"Do you really mind as much as all that?" she asked.

Tears welled up into the great brown eyes. Caresses from Audrey were

rare enough to make both feel a little shy of them; and Lilamani

looked down again, choking back her "foolishness."

"How could I not mind?" said she. "It is all through you--this

wonderful thing. But it will not be yet! Father said so. And--I

was hoping----"

She hesitated; and Audrey caught her breath. "What were you hoping,

child?"

"If only--you could come too, for a little time--and teach me, that I

should not feel so strange for that lonely fashion--of English

marriage. Oh, are you angry? I didn't mean..."

For Audrey had looked up sharply, white to the lips. "Lilamani,

that's impossible. You don't understand." Then seeing a quiver of

pain on the sensitive face, she added more quietly, "Is it only that

you are afraid of the strangeness, or--that you want me a little too?"

"It is half--I am afraid; and half, I am greedy, wanting you too.

But if that is wrong, then I must not make storms in the tea-cup,

like you say. Only when I am trying to think it all, my mind comes

quite in a fog. No mother-in-law to teach new-made wife. No

brothers and sisters--of him. No women-peoples for companion or for

home-duties----" She smiled a little wistfully, shaking her head.

Even here in the hotel, with studies for home-duties and one

"woman-person" to replace the small colony of relations--by blood and

marriage--she had missed, at times, the cloistered seclusion and

intricate etiquette and deference to the claims of others that are

the key-notes of Hindu home-life; and Audrey, recognizing this, felt

the more anxious as to the outcome of Nevil's daring leap in the

dark. But for Lilamani's sake at least she would do her best to make

the crooked straight and the rough places plain.

"You will have women-peoples in time, dear," said she. "If you

manage to make friends. But, though the Englishman denounces purdah,

he has his own variation of it. If an Indian wife may not go abroad,

your joint-family system gives you a little world of life under your

own roof. The English wife has her world of people outside; but in

the home her husband, if he loves her, wants her for himself,

especially in the first few years. You see, with us marriage is a

much personal affair. An English husband wants more than a mother

for his sons. He wants a woman companion, specially devoted to him."

Lilamani nodded pensively, though still with puzzled brows.

"Yes. That I have come to know a little, from your novel stories.

It is beautiful; and--I must learn. But sometimes, I am

thinking--with us it is even more beautiful; to become, by sacredness

of bond, even from childhood, so truthfully one that both are almost

seeming to forget each other, in welfare of family. Only in their

secret hearts they carry the light."

Moved beyond her wont, Audrey Hammond drew the girl closer and kissed

her forehead.

"Well, child, whatever happens, I believe you will always carry your

light," said she; and Lilamani, shyly, in the midst of her blushes:

"Perhaps one day--you also----

"No, no. I'm not the type."

A hint of bitterness in her tone saddened the girl, who was herself

so essentially "the type," primal yet eternal, that inspires, through

the ages, the worshipful love of men.

"Is it that you really like better the way of the brain?" she

hazarded gently, surprised and pleased at such intimate talk with

Audrey, the inaccessible. "Or--have you no father to make

arrangement--to give dowry?"

A smile, half-amused, half-wistful lightened Audrey's gravity. "No,

I have no father. And if I had, he would not 'make arrangement'! We

English think we believe in marriage. But we believe still more in

personal freedom; and our women are left to shift for themselves. As

for the compulsory dowry--in that matter we might very well take a

lesson from India. If English fathers were bound to provide for

their daughters, the Woman Question might be less acute than it is."

"Woman Question? What is that?"

"Happy little ignoramus! It's a disease of modern civilization. A

riddle without an answer; and I'm a part of it. But don't trouble

your pretty head about me, dear. After all, the life I've chosen

gives me a kind of satisfaction it could never give you. When my

leave is up, I shall go back to Hyderabad; and perhaps find another

brave girl among your women-folk to help me with my work."

"Yes, yes--there are so many in these nowadays, eager for way of the

brain. You will surely find a much more commonsense Lilamani, not so

troubled by ugly words."

"But, never, I think, one with such a talent for creeping into other

people's hearts!" Audrey answered with so rare a tenderness that--for

the first time, in months of close intercourse--the girl's arms went

round her in a young spontaneous caress.

"Please not quite leave me," she whispered. "Since I was coming from

India, you have been for me like--like Mataji; and I can't forget you

ever."

That was Audrey Hammond's good minute; though Lilamani guessed it

not; a reward quite other than she looked for, as is the way of

rewards; the gain through loss, in which it is so difficult to

believe till the heart responds to its touch. Persistence along the

stormy paths of study would have ended in alienation; but one touch

of nature, shared unconsciously, though decreeing separation, drew

them closer than either could have believed three weeks ago.

Thus, illumined by the white joy of a closer understanding, the days

slipped peacefully by. Audrey made no further protest; though her

medical conscience pricked her at sight of paling cheeks and

darkly-shadowed eyes. But when Friday brought the parting, she

pleaded once more for normal meals, these last two days, if only on

account of someone, never directly named between them: and Lilamani,

feeling not a little unstrung by recent austerities, could not say

her nay. Mrs. Despard had gladly undertaken to "mother" her during

Audrey's absence; but so soon as dates were fixed she would write,

and Audrey must come back. Audrey would. She promised. And so an

end.

Lilamani had meant to sleep that night, having given her word. But

habit prevailed; and she lay, acutely awake, with sealed lids,

counting the hours, that seemed to elongate, like stretched elastic,

as they neared the dawn. Then she slept heavily; and Sir Lakshman,

who guessed at the week's programme, allowed her to sleep till noon.

It was tea-time--thronged tables under the white, wide awning

proclaimed the fact--when a much-travelled motor drew up at the foot

of the hotel steps. Broome grasped the wheel--having refused to

trust the life of an invaluable parent to the hands of an accepted

lover; and Sir Lakshman met them in the deserted hall.

"I may go up and claim her?" Sinclair demanded eagerly, when Broome

had passed on.

"You may. That is her wish."

"And yours, I hope?"

"Yes--mine also. Since she is trusting you from her heart, I am

agreeing to trust you also, with biggest proof father can give."

"Thank God you see it that way, sir----" They were nearing the lift

now. "My thanks to you I can only prove--through her."

"That is how I look for you to prove them," the other answered almost

sternly, his hand upon the doors.

"I'll do my utmost. On my honour, I will. And--I may see her alone?

It's our way, you know."

"Yes. But it is her wish that first there should be some small

formality of giving. With us betrothal is not mere personal promise;

but religious ceremony. It is, in fact, true marriage, sanctifying

union--if consummated or no--through all lives to come. This it will

mean for her. Therefore she is wishing that first I make my gift,

joining your hands, in our own fashion; then, conforming to your

custom, I leave her with you."

On that understanding they went up together, and along the passage to

the corner room; Sir Lakshman ahead, Nevil following, his thumb and

finger at the waistcoat pocket where two rings were nestling--merely

to assure himself they were there.

Then the door opened and he had the desire of his eyes....

Alone upon the hearthrug she stood, her drooping head turned from the

door, _sari_ drawn forward, as of old, half hiding her face, restless

fingers shifting her bangles up and down the bare slenderness of her

arms. There were more bangles than usual--in honour of his coming;

delicate trifles of jade and glass and gold. Above the soft silk

under-robe of palest green, shot through with golden light, was wound

and draped a _sari_, quite new to Nevil, of true deep indigo, like

the night sky, gold-bordered and flecked with golden stars. No shoes

upon the small feet, slender and shapely as her hands; silk stockings

only, green like her skirt, and anklets of gold; the first he had

seen. For she had learnt the unfitness of wearing them over English

shoes.

Very still she stood, and from the whole of her, from curved instep

to veiled head, emanated the peculiarly Eastern mingling of demure

aloofness with a delicately direct appeal to the senses and the

heart. Possibly some instinct had impelled her, before it was too

late, to bid him remember the gulf between; and he, who had drawn so

close to her in spirit, since that day of mutual revealing, was

arrested by a sudden sense of strangeness, of the veil down-dropt

between them, as at first.

All the week long he had been picturing over and over this moment of

vision: the first glance, the first words, the first rapture of

reunion: nor was he analytical enough to realize how the very

intensity of anticipation robs reality of its due. For the space of

a heart-beat or two, he saw this marriage as through the eyes of

Jane: and for that space--he was afraid.

Then--hearing them enter--she turned with an audible catch in her

breath, and fear fled, stricken and shamefaced, once for all.

Framed in the dusk of the _sari_ her beauty shone out with a

moon-like pallor that intensified the red of her lips, as the faint

shadows, left by sleepless nights, intensified the deeps of her eyes,

when they flashed a smile at him for greeting. Four rows of pearls

made a gleaming collar round her throat; and beneath it on a fine

chain one great diamond shone out, five-pointed, like a star.

Clearly she no more dreamed of speaking at such a moment than an

English bride would dream of bidding her groom good morning at the

altar rails. If her wedding must perforce be an affair of

registration, she could, and did, impart to this simple ceremony of

giving her own deep sense of the moment's sanctity; while Nevil

Sinclair, touched to the heart, was thankful to defer speech till he

could have her to himself.

And now her head was bowed again; for Sir Lakshman had taken her

hand, joining it with her lover's, and enclosing them in both his own.

"Nevil Sinclair," he said with simple dignity, looking the Englishman

in the eyes, "I, Lakshman Singh, give you this most priceless

daughter of mine, confiding that you will cherish and protect her

through your whole life; and in fervent belief that she will fulfil

to you all duties of wifehood with loyal and loving heart. Give both

hands, Lilamani, in token that nothing is kept back."

Both hands she gave him, and Sinclair, bereft of words, could only

press them to his lips; while Sir Lakshman conferring a mute

benediction on his daughter's head, went quietly out, leaving them

alone.

For a space they stood so, in a throbbing silence, that enfolded them

like a spell of enchantment, difficult to break. Then very softly,

Sinclair spoke her name.

"Lilamani."

For answer came her passionate murmur: "Live for ever, my Lord and my

King."

The sheer unexpectedness of it unloosed his tongue.

"Beloved! You shame me to earth!" he cried in genuine distress.

"I'm no fit subject for a woman's worship. Yours less than any."

Smiling, though without looking up, she shook her small wise head.

"That is no matter at all. In my country--husband of every true

woman is even as her God."

"It's not so in mine, by any means," he answered drawing her close,

yet restraining himself because of the delicate tremor that ran

through her.

"No? How pity! The woman is losing so much----" the right to serve

and worship and the glory of it, that was her Eastern view. "But

with me you will permit----? You could not prevent----!"

"I'm afraid I wouldn't, if I could," he said with sudden fervour.

Then, taking out the ring, that had delayed his coming a full hour,

he slipped it gently on to her marriage finger. "That is my form of

betrothal, Lilamani. The ring of promise."

It was a heart-shaped aquamarine, limpid as a drop of sea-water, set

in brilliants: and at sight of it she caught her breath.

"Oh, but how kind! How beautiful beyond telling! Like Mrs.

Despard's pendant that I must be looking at--always."

"You shall have one--soon," he told her, exulting in his power to

please her every way. "But now"--she was drawn closer still--"I want

something in return for my ring of promise. Something you would not

give me under the arch. I've been wanting and waiting for it a whole

week. Tell me I may have it now--Jewel of Delight!"

She told him. And he, taking her veiled head between his hands, set

the seal of their compact first upon her down-dropped lids, and last

upon her lips, claiming to the full their shy, soft passion of

surrender. Then, with a low, broken sound, she withdrew them and

fell sobbing on his breast.

Lightly lifting her in his arms, as if in fear that she might break

on too strong pressure, he carried her to a low chair that looked

upon her balcony, and away, over tree-tops to the sea. There he set

her down, kneeling beside her, and whispering persuasively at her

ear: "My Bride of the Rain--is it only a sun shower? Or is she

broken-hearted, at having promised herself to a barbarous English

husband?"

"Yes--oh yes--she is too much broken-hearted!"--laughter gleamed

suddenly through her tears--"and also--too much foolish. A little,

how Audrey calls 'run down,' by not sleeping a great deal, these few

nights----"

"Thinking of me?"

"Yes," she answered, with truth; then veiling her eyes: "And ... how

to make myself good wife in such unknown fashion, hard to

understand----"

"Not so very hard. Trust me to make it easy for you, darling, once

you give me the right. When is that to be, Lilamani--when? I've an

ideal home all ready for you."

"A home?"

"Yes, true. That good chap Broome has offered me his villa on Lake

Como for the summer. A little lone place, under a great rock, close

to the water's edge, opposite Cadenabbia, in Italy, where Martino

lives. Think of that: a real home, waiting for the bride. When will

she come? Next week?"

"Oh no--no! How you are impatient!" She put forth a shy hand and

caressed the dull gold of his hair. "Have you not spoken with

father?"

"Only a word or two. I came back to claim his child. What's the

delay? What must we wait for now?"

"Oh, so much; and you must please not make trouble for that. Father

wishes that first I should get stronger; and I wish, from home, our

Indian wedding-ring: bangle of iron, covered in gold; also--other

things for this kind of other life so different to my expecting.

That must mean five weeks, or six."

"A lifetime! But at least I shall be here. I shall see you."

"For two weeks--yes. After that he is thinking better for both if

you go to Paris for studying, and put this troublesome Lilamani a

little from your head----."

Sinclair sighed. "He's a horribly wise man, that father of yours.

And does this troublesome Lilamani honestly wish to be put out of my

head, even for a little?"

"No. Not for one smallest minute," she murmured, and was caught

close again for reward. And again her exquisite fragility held his

ardour in restraint. So yielding, so unsubstantial a creature was

she, in her soft natural draperies, that it was as if he enfolded

some fragrant ethereal essence of the eternal feminine rather than a

woman of flesh and blood.

This he told her, in lover's language, his lips at her ear: and

she--drawing herself away from him with pretty dignity: "At the same

time it is truthfully a woman; and inside it ... there is fire ... of

so great love that not all the waters from my beautiful sea could put

out ever--ever----. That is what my _sari_ has been telling you,

without speech, all this while. But your eyes are still too deaf for

language of colour----"

"They're not blind anyway! They saw, and admired. What is it

telling me, Lilamani, this beautiful new dress? I want to know."

"Listen then--lord of my life," she answered very softly. "With us,

indigo is for constancy of love, because it is dye that nothing will

remove. This green of my skirt, like young leaves, is for hope--for

new life. Gold and pearls are for purity: and this"--touching the

star that flashed like a prisoned sunbeam--"gift of my father, is for

happiness with ... with..."

Shyness overwhelmed her.

"Nevil?" he prompted tenderly.

"Yes."

"Well then, let me hear you say it. I've been waiting--all this

time."

"With us, it is not custom even when married to take the name

of--beloved," she told him with averted eyes; and stooping he kissed

her with sudden passion.

"Beloved's good enough for me. But still ... as the promised wife of

an Englishman, it's only fair--isn't t?--that you should study our

customs a little, too?"

"Yes--yes. With all my heart I am wishing it--Nevil." And at that,

he kissed her again.

END OF BOOK I

BOOK II

THE BLOSSOMING

CHAPTER I

"And now my cheek is warm against thy cheek;

Yet, is Love satisfied? Nay,--evermore

Thy hands are full of promise;...

Joy hath joy in store

And heaven another heaven within its skies."

J. H. COUSINS.

Every detail in the little room--save the well-grate with its plain

oak mantel--breathed of India, even to the warmth and fragrance of an

atmosphere charged with spices, sandalwood and attar of rose.

Over one door a Punjab _phulkari_ made a blaze of gold. Over another

hung a priceless embroidered panel--green and purple cunningly

inwrought. On the walls, two pictures only; one of Sir Lakshman

Singh, in State dress, and an old Indian painting of the sacred

three--Rama, Sita, and the devoted Lakshman--setting out, in "coats

of bark," for their fourteen years of banishment. Over the

mantel-piece, with its gleaming rows of _lotahs_, a square of vellum,

gold bordered and lettered in gold, "There is no likeness of Him

whose name is great glory. Deathless they become who, in heart and

mind, know him as heart-dwelling."

For the rest, an octagonal table, bearing a sandalwood casket and the

Bhagavad Gita; velvet-soft prayer-rugs on the matted floor; a native

bedstead of red lacquer, and a low square stool of the same, whereon

sat the guardian spirit of the place, in pearl-white robe, and _sari_

golden-edged: Lilamani Sinclair, bride of six weeks' standing. The

magic circlet of gold gleamed beneath the drop of sea-water shaped

like her heart; and upon her slender wrist, the wedding-bracelet of

her own land. At her throat hung the promised pendant, shimmering

drops of water and light; and her father's star of happiness

transformed into a brooch fastened the drapery on her left shoulder;

a modern innovation, worn for the first time.

Little of the West about this girl-bride beyond her ring and her

English name. But even had she chosen to exchange her _sari_ for a

Paris "coiffure," and her simple robe for a Paquin "creation," her

doings would have bewrayed her. Crouched upon the stool before a

primitive brick oven, set up under her own supervision, she was

absorbed in cooking her lord's dinner; a service so sacred to the

Hindu wife that a special garment of silk fibre is reserved for that

function and for prayer.

Europe nominally endorses the Divine command: "He that is greatest

among you let him be your servant." Asia acts upon it. In a Hindu

household domestic service--as the West understands it--is not. All

home duties, save the most menial, are carried out by sisters,

daughters, daughters-in-law, under supervision of their

ruler-in-chief--the mother; though here, as elsewhere, change is

creeping in. Drudgery? She of Asia would resent the implication.

Her law of life rests upon one basic principle: The highest may serve

the lowest, but may accept service only from the highest.

And woman stands, spiritually, higher than man, because "she alone is

capable of conquest--for others." Logically, then--and Asia is

nothing if not logical--"to accept service and devotion of any is the

highest honour you can pay her." That is the core of the Indian

woman's credo; the lamp hidden in her heart; and by the light of it

many perplexities are made plain.

But when a woman, for whom service and worship are birthright and

crown of glory, mates with a man in whom the Western idea of chivalry

has not been quite crushed out by the haste and pressure of an

unchivalrous age, complications are born.

That the wife of Nevil Sinclair of Bramleigh Beeches should cook her

husband's dinner--only his dinner, she urged, deeming the request a

modest one--did not square with his British sense of fitness,

Bohemian though he was. What is more, he distrusted amateur cookery;

little dreaming of the talent he bade her hide under a bushel; and of

which she had been too shy to speak. "What would his valet think?"

he had asked, "and Broome's Italian _chef_ and the little

waiting-maid?" Dread questions, for which she could find no answer.

Only, beneath her wifely submission, had dwelt a faint hope that

possibly, when he should see the contents of those boxes from

India----!

Two weeks after their first shy home-coming these had arrived; and

from out of them had come the store of simple home belongings, that

had brought a sense of familiar sweetness into her new nest. Then

had she laid before him the shining row of brass plates and _lotahs_,

the boxes of spices, of shredded cocoanut and herbs.

"All the way from India they came for you. Must they not be used

ever? Even if only sometimes for game of play?" Then, with a

captivating honesty and confusion of face, she denied that last.

"No, for me it is not play. With us, I have told you, worship of

husband is worship of Life-force. And if food is fuel for keeping

that flame alight, shall it not be sacred duty and privilege for wife

to prepare it?"

And he, without waste of words, had set the seal of permission upon

her lips.

"Not every day," had been his sole stipulation; "once or twice a

week; or on great occasions"; thus instinctively annulling domestic

comment. Intermittent ebullitions of cookery might be accepted as an

Indian lady's whim.

And Lilamani, lifted far beyond thought of comment, had enjoyed her

small triumph to the full. Her first curry and _pillau_, her

irresistible sweets and lightly-tossed chupattis had been a

revelation to Nevil, shaming his distrust; and upon the third great

occasion, when she had won leave to cook all three courses of their

simple meal, he had laughingly warned her that it might end in his

refusing to eat a dinner prepared by any hands but her own.

"That is how it should be for true honour of the house," she had

answered, smiling demurely.

And this golden 14th of June, that completed her eighteenth year and

her sixth week of marriage, was a day of privilege, past question.

Six beatific weeks, sun-filled and love-enchanted, they had spent in

Broome's chalet, set in a shelving cove, under the lee of a rugged

hill, its balconies and verandah overlooking Como's blue stillness,

now blurred with pearl-white films, now pierced by a million

quivering points of light. Too still almost, it seemed to Lilamani,

after the changeful majesty of her sea. Yet that very stillness, as

of some harmonized Yogi purged from passion, spoke to her heart of

the palm-girt lakes in her own Hyderabad; and through them, of dear,

far and familiar things never again to be seen, or heard, or felt

while breath remained in her body. What this completeness of

severance meant to her she dared not admit even in her most secret

thoughts. There were inevitable moments when the prick of

remembrance intruded upon her joy. Yet each day that passed deepened

her conviction that she had chosen aright; and this "lonely fashion

of English marriage" proved itself not so hard to understand, after

all.

But even the devotion of a new-made husband had not availed to soften

the wrench of parting from that father, who had been parent, comrade

and spiritual guide in one. Each smallest happening of that last

unwedded week was graven upon the tablets of her heart: a week of

tangled emotions, overlaid with a smiling stillness that had almost

deceived Sir Lakshman himself. Once only had her self-control gone

to pieces. The mail that brought her wedding-bangle and other

necessaries, had brought no word to her from Mataji. How should it?

Yet, with the divine inconsistency of human nature, she had hoped

against hope. She could not know that all Mataji's bitterness had

been vented in a vehement, incoherent letter to Sir Lakshman that had

cut her husband to the heart, while it revivified all the devils of

misgiving he had trampled under foot in the days following upon

Nevil's declaration. Not for a kingdom would he have spoken of it to

his child, who was sufficiently upset by her sole word of greeting

from home.

Even Ram Singh, favourite elder brother and playmate could not write

otherwise than in sorrow of an event that, at one stroke, cut every

thread binding his sister to home and country. Some day, perhaps,

Destiny would bring him to England. There they might meet, if her

English husband would permit. Till then he would write without fail:

and, in a tear-blotted postscript, Vimala--blowing her a kiss across

the "black water"--promised to write also, though pens were not her

favourite toys, and it was not letters she wanted, but her "dear own

Lilamani" who would never come home again.

Impossible to hide from Sir Lakshman the turmoil wrought by such

letters and by Mataji's tacit repudiation of her child. But at least

he should not see her tears. It was on Audrey's shoulder that she

had cried till the black demons of fear and disloyalty had been

washed clean out of her anguished heart.

For Audrey, true to her word, had come back just before Nevil started

for Paris, and had left again--upon a flawless pretext--on the eve of

his return. Her going broke yet another link with India, and the

pain of it was acute. But with the coming of Nevil, love's warmth

and light had enveloped the girl, till the day of days, arising out

the East, called on her to quit her dream Paradise and grasp the

shining, implacable facts of life; to make good her irrevocable gift,

and break the last link, the last link--

Something of this final pang Sir Lakshman had foreseen, and his had

been the happy idea of shipping home the modest contents of her room

in India, supplemented by rugs and embroideries of his own bestowing.

On that day of days Mrs. Despard had been all a mother to the

tremulous girl-bride, deprived alike of mother's blessing and bridal

rights. Together they had hidden away all trace of what Lilamani

called her "Hindu-ness" under the hood and long cloak devised by

Audrey for her first flight. A fine lace veil tied beneath her hood

shielded the girl from curious eyes; and in the after-hours she had

blessed that kindly veil from her heart.

Vividly it all came back to her, while she sat alone, in her shrine:

the early start; the motor-drive to Nice; the brief, unromantic

formalities, that had joined them irrevocably as any immemorial

rites, or sevenfold circling of the sacred fire; and afterwards, the

lifting of her veil, while he--her husband--set the ring upon her

finger, the bracelet on her wrist, the sacramental kiss upon her

lips. Then--the wrench of parting from Mrs. Despard, who must return

to Antibes, while they three fared on to Milan in luxurious privacy;

the two men, tenderly considerate, leaving her to absorb, as in a

dream, the colourful beauties of Italy's coast line, till a sudden,

overpowering weariness blotted out all things; and she knew no more.

Not until the following morning had she awakened fully from that

blessed spell of stupor--Nature's reaction from another week of

secret austerities. Dimly she had been aware of the journey's

ending, of noise and flashing lights; of a glass held to her lips;

then the vague thrill of her husband's arms, the cool softness of the

bed that received her; the touch of hands that freed her deftly from

cloak and hood, unwound her _sari_ and covered her with a quilt. By

that time she was too far gone again in sleep to feel his kiss on her

eyelids and on the dear, unveiled head, seen so for the first time.

Next morning she awoke in full sunlight to find herself alone on the

great white bed. And while she lay wondering mistily over it all,

he--Nevil--had come to her from an adjoining room; an unknown Nevil,

wearing a long _choga_; his hair, damp from bathing, crisped into

fugitive curls, and in his eyes a gladness beyond speech. Then only

had there flashed upon her the full significance of yesterday's

doings, that had stripped her of all things familiar and set her

alone in an untried world with this deeply adored stranger, lord of

her life in very deed.

Sir Lakshman had seen them into the train for Como, promising on his

return from London to be their first visitor. But while he spoke,

the inexorable engine drowned his voice; her desperate clutch upon

his hand relaxed, some chord within her seemed to snap, and she lay

back dazed, tearless; the rattle and clank of machinery seeming to

beat upon her bared nerves.

Six weeks she had lived without him; six weeks of happiness

unspeakable. Yet in one secret corner, the ache remained. Even in

memory she drew a veil over that moment's anguish, softened though it

was by the peculiar tenderness that Nevil Sinclair had gotten from

his mother. She preferred to dwell on the journey up the Lake in the

pellucid end of a May evening that conjured the grey-green water into

gold. And oh! before starting--the sight and smell of the white

bullocks, in Como town! Dignity and reserve alone had withheld her

from open worship--there, on the cobblestone of Italy, that knew

nothing of Shiva or his sacred bull.

In early spring the winding reaches of Lake Como have the grey-green

tone of Italy--of olive and rock, stone cottage and pebbled paths.

Here, white incidents of hotels or villas, there, black incidents of

cypress, flashed like exclamation marks on some jutting headland, or

grouped like sentinels about a shrine. But by now the grey was

jewelled everywhere with green, enamelled brightly and delicately

with every tint of every flower that blows. Only the Northward view

showed a gleam of the high Alps; gods of the upper heaven untroubled

by the season's ebb and flow.

At last, slipping round a fir-capped island, they had sighted their

villa, set upon the water's edge like a brooding bird. And lo, at

Tremezzo landing-stage, a slim white boat awaiting them, its gay

little flag aflutter at the stern. In the deepening stillness, they

had been rowed across to their own private oasis, where nightingales

were already at even-song among the bushes, and fire-flies dipped and

darted in irregular flashes like stars gone mad. Without spoken word

Nevil had slipped a hand through his bride's arm, leading her in and

up to the room that would be his studio. He had shut the door behind

them. And they were alone.

Then, as he turned, with that in his eyes that made her heart stand

still, it had come upon her afresh--the fear and the ecstasy. In one

appealing look she had besought him to understand. And he had

understood: most tenderly and amazingly he had understood. For in

the best men, and in all true artists, there lurks some hidden touch

of the woman, some impress of the mother that bore them; and it had

needed just this touch in Lilamani's husband to ensure that the

ecstasy should outweigh the fear; nay, drive it out for good.

He had succeeded; and that so completely as to leave her wondering,

now, if she really had been afraid--ever. As for the ecstasy, it

stood revealed in her eyes as she paused in the deft scraping of a

carrot, arrested by the low, clear whistling that came from behind

the _phulkari_ hanging over his studio door.

The key was turned in the lock--on her side; a daring act of coercion

achieved, with delicious tremors, after his fourth incursion, just to

see how things were going. It was the only way to ensure his getting

any dinner at all, she had explained sweetly--from the other side.

For the _chef_ had been given a holiday, leaving her, Lilamani,

mistress of the situation. It had been her chosen birthday treat;

and the simplicity of it smote her husband's heart.

For two hours he had worked contentedly, on his side of the barrier,

at the new picture--"Dreaming": a bevy of Eastern girls asleep,

suggested by a descriptive passage in the "Light of Asia." His month

in Paris had justified to the full Sir Lakshman's decree. Immersed

in his natural element, his talent had blossomed and expanded with a

readiness that surprised none more than himself, and delighted none

more than his girl-bride, self-dedicated high-priestess of the sacred

flame.

In those first days of divine idleness, when they had lived mainly in

the little white boat, it had been decided that he should make his

name as a painter of Eastern subjects, having become enamoured of

half a hemisphere in the person of one small woman. It was then that

she had reillumined for him the familiar "Light of Asia," and pleaded

for a painting of the great Prince's "pleasure-home," with its walls

of pearl-shell and lace-worked stone, through which moonbeams

filtered, making tender light and shade upon a group of sleeping

dancers, fairest and most favoured _houris_ of the royal household.

She herself, in her loveliest _saris_, would be model for all, if he

could change the faces a little "from his own imagining": and for him

remained the joy of painting six sleeping Lilamanis, each in some new

pose of girlish grace and beauty. Then, as the work progressed, she

had written to Sir Lakshman for a full and abridged translation of

the Ramayāna--Saga of princely heroism and wifely devotion,

that lies nearest to India's heart. The full translation,

sumptuously bound, had been her birthday gift: and thence they would

cull fresh subjects for his brush when he had completed his dream of

one fair woman multiplied by six.

It was nearing completion now: and while he worked lovingly at

shadows of marble tracery and silver lamps that swung like censers

from the dim roof, she, on her side, chopped vegetables, washed rice,

and measured out spices with the ardour of a devotee and the

absorption of a happy-hearted child at play. But she knew what that

whistling meant. He was tired of his "Dream." He wanted reality.

She wanted it too; yet she made no sign.

Then the tune broke off short, and through the curtain his voice came

to her, appealing as a caress.

"Little wife! I'm tired of seeing you asleep. Come out of your

shrine."

"Wait only a small time--impatient one! Or curry will spoil."

"Hang curry! I want you."

"Then no dinner. Only soup and cream pudding. Think how squash!"

"Cheese and pâté," said the curtain, clinching the argument in a

fashion beneath contempt. "Come along."

She smiled enchantingly at the mixture she was tossing in the pan and

hurried on with her work.

Silence for a half a minute: then the curtain spoke again.

"I say, Lilamani. Giulietta's brought the tea. Your cake, with

coffee icing, and a box of fondants from Martino with a thousand

compliments. There now!"

Supreme conviction in that last. He could see the delicate disdain

upon her face before speech confirmed it.

"You think if I will not come--for you, I come for cakes and

fondants?"

But her fingers were unfastening the brooch at her shoulder, and the

_sari_ sacred to cooking was whisked off with surprising alacrity.

For answer he began crooning with guileful intent her favourite song:

"'My heart, my heart is like a singing-bird,

Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

My heart, my heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are hung with thick-set fruit;

My heart, my heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles on a halcyon sea.

My heart, my heart is gladder than all these

Because my Love, my Love has come to me----'

Ah!--so you _have_ come, after all!"

The key had turned softly in the lock, and now she stood before him:

a slender, iridescent vision with lids dutifully downcast, awaiting

his pleasure.

At the first he had been puzzled, then increasingly charmed, this

English husband, by the worshipful aloofness with which the Hindu

bride approaches her lord, at least until the crown of motherhood is

hers. To the Indian husband this attitude is merely a part of the

immemorial nature of things: but for Nevil Sinclair, used to the

casual camaraderie of the West, there were moments when it went to

his head. He had to temper elation with the reminder that it was

instinctive, impersonal; homage to husbandhood rather than to

himself. But, enchanting though it was, he would not always have it

so. She must learn his ways also. And she was learning--shyly,

proudly; her woman's adaptability quickened by the impulse of love.

For a heart-beat or two he watched her where she stood. Then,

smiling, he indicated the tea-table.

"I angled well! You couldn't resist them--eh?"

"That is as my lord pleases!" she answered demurely, imps of laughter

in her eyes; and he held out both hands.

"A shame to insult her on her birthday! Come then--English wife."

It was their private password; and straightway she obeyed its hidden

command; laying light hands upon him and lifting her face for his

kiss.

"The necklace of your arms," he whispered, caressing their silken

softness. "D'you know Martino said one day, at the Cap, that when

the _houri_ made this necklace for me I should be faithless to art;

and I contradicted him flat. Was I Truth-named, Jewel of Delight?"

She nestled closer.

"Even at the first you were so clever to know your Lilamani. Now he

must believe, when he sees, in one little month--how beautiful

picture----!"

"To say nothing of the masterpieces we mean to paint from your

Ramayāna before the summer's out."

That "we" sent a shiver of joy through her. It united her, not only

with his manhood, but with the art that was his crown of manhood; the

art dear to her, as to himself. Had it not brought her this--her

crown of womanhood?

"About those other pictures, I have a new thought to tell. It came

in my mind--God-bestowed--when making your curry----"

"My curry! You inimitable high-priestess of a brick oven! While you

were chopping onions, I suppose?"

"Yes. Just exactly by that time." She assumed an adorable gravity.

"It is bad to make joke of my sacred service--worthless one! I shall

not tell."

"Oh, but you will."

His lips brushed hers in a fugitive caress; and the "God-bestowed"

thought found utterance. She had seen, in fancy, a group of

pictures, each with Sita for central figure; the whole, when

complete, setting forth India's ideal of womanhood in the ascent of

that gracious spirit from steep to steep of renunciation, unsullied,

unafraid, even until the end.

Lilamani's whole face glowed as she warmed to her subject.

"Sita, when begging of Rāma to share banishment," she went

on eagerly. "Sita, alone in forest hut when that Terrible is

approaching in guise of Brahman. Sita coming out from fire of

ordeal, in great God's arms. Think how splendid!"

"Jove, yes--_if_ it's possible." His ardour caught fire from hers.

"Arrogant high-flying, of course. But we'll lay the scheme before

Martino to-morrow and see what he thinks. You shall give us an

outline idea of the story and the special scenes you want."

"Yes. Only ... Sita is like patron saint to me; like a piece of my

own heart. And how difficult! When all is so big----"

"Not a bit of it. You'll manage beautifully. Think it all out when

you get back to your sacred curry! And you would be my Sita? Is

that it?"

"Yes, I would--oh, I would--in all things. If there came a need."

She brooded on the thought with gravely luminous eyes.

"But, Lilamani, suppose I paint you, yourself, how about letting all

the world see? Wouldn't you hate that?"

Her scarlet flush gave answer, and she hid her eyes a moment; then

looking up again, spoke bravely. "Not--if I shall be Sita. Think

how small thing for honour of your name, comparing with ordeal of

fire."

"And you wouldn't stick at that either," he said, "if such barbarism

still existed."

"No," she answered simply. "I am _Suttee_."

"Lilamani--what d'you mean?"

"Only--in old days, when _Suttee_ was not outside law, girl-brides

would fear sometimes were they strong enough, were they worthy? Then

they would make test; holding smallest finger in fire till flesh

burnt from bone; or stirring with bare hand rice when boiling. And

I--I have done--that last; though never I told to anyone--till now."

"You? My little one!" In a passion of protection he held her close.

"Such a small thing!" she murmured, not ill-pleased at his concern.

"But now--I am glad; and perhaps a little more worthy for being Sita

in your so beautiful pictures, that I long to see."

"_Our_ pictures," he corrected her in a sudden humility. "It's you

that are the true artist, Lilamani--the inspired brain. Without you

I should never have painted a thing worth looking at. But with you

there's no limit to the insolence of my aspiration--."

CHAPTER II

"My heart in me was held at restless rest,

Presageful of some prize beyond its quest,

Prophetic still with promise, fain to find the best."

--SWINBOURNE.

Martino's approval of the _houri_ and something more dated from his

first sight of Nevil's sketch. Constrained by that something, he had

wrought, in the sea-piece that was his wedding-gift, a symbolic

portrayal of his own soul, untamed and untameable as the waters that

cover the earth. All wind-driven wave and cloud it was; save for one

down-sweeping sword of radiance that struck a path of gold through

the turmoil: the whole smitten into life by the illusion of light and

movement that was fast gaining him recognition as one of the

master-painters of his time. This much, at least, of himself should

be hers: the quintessence of his nature purged from the dross. For

outside his art, and his touch of heroic fortitude, Martino's code of

morals did not bear critical inspection.

It was Sinclair's mention of her "soul-pictures" that had inspired

his attempt at symbolical portraiture, in the hope that she might see

and understand. She had seen and understood. On the day of its

bestowal he had watched discovery creep into her eyes; had heard from

her lips the tribute he coveted: "But, Signor Martino, it is

you--yourself!"

"For which reason, Signorina--it is yours," he had answered with his

awkward little bow of gallantry. And to-day, as he sipped his

_chocolat_ in Broome's familiar study, he felt a thrill of pleasure

in seeing "himself" hung in the right light, at the right angle; the

only picture added, by Nevil, to the chosen few that adorned Broome's

grey-green walls.

The French windows were flung wide; and the two men sat just within

them. Out on the balcony, in full sunshine, gleamed the silver

tea-tray, and beside it, on her lacquer stool, sat the _houri_;

Signorina no longer, but bride of another; shyly conscious of her new

dignity, shyly aloof, for all her flutter of pleasure at sight of one

who recalled Antibes.

Lovelier and more desirable than ever she seemed to Martino, in her

subdued glow of happiness and health renewed; the olive and

rose-madder tints of her skin set off by a _sari_, delicately pink as

the lining of a shell; its narrow border of almond-buds, breaking at

each corner into a full-blown spray. Whatever pangs of envy may have

pricked the man, the artist, at least, could find pure pleasure in

watching her, while Sinclair unfolded her God-bestowed conviction

that, between them, they could achieve a set of paintings from the

great Hindu Epic, choosing scenes that should not involve an

overcrowded canvas, or technical knowledge of detail, hard to acquire

out of India.

"It's flagrantly ambitious, I admit," Nevil concluded, lighting a

cigarette and holding his vesta to Martino's cigar. "But Sir

Lakshman is a keen student of ancient literature; and--she is

astonishingly well up in it all. She tells me he has a remarkable

collection of old books, native pictures, and curios; and thinks he

would gladly send out for some of them to act as "stage properties"

and give me a better grasp of the subject. What d'you think, Martino

_mio_? Is it a credible venture? Or has too much good-fortune

turned my head?"

Martino considered the question a moment, his ragged moustache thrust

out.

"Difficult to answer," he said at last. "It is I who am lost,

confounded, by your so rapid advance. Your new picture!--how

remarkable! ... All in one month. After that, it is not for Martino

to say possible or impossible. In Paris you shall have worked like

anything else than the Sinclair known to me these three years."

"Jove, I did! But then, I had a very special inducement--waiting for

me at Antibes."

Nevil's eyes dwelt an instant on his wife's half-averted face; and

Martino coughed till the tears came.

"That one can understand," he muttered gruffly. "But you painted no

picture there--was it?"

"No. Only studies and sketches--scores of them. But without

Leseppes I'd have been nowhere. He called himself my godfather.

Even let his own work slide a bit on my account."

Martino nodded. "H'm. That is Leseppes--when the finger touches his

heart. Which is not too often, I can tell you, Sinclair. It is--how

you call?--feather in your cap. He knew it would be worth. And he

knew right. One can trace Jacques Leseppes in that." He jerked his

cigar towards the dreamers. "But I--Martino--knew it first. That is

my _panache_. The surprise to me is how you were content, those many

years, to play fool with a gift so precious----"

"My dear fellow, I wasn't content. That was the deuce of it all.

Often and often I felt the ache and stirring of a power, that seemed

as if it must work itself out--somehow, some day. But in between

times conviction went to pieces; and I cursed myself for an

imaginative, conceited fool----"

"Surest proof you could not be!" Martino broke in with a short laugh.

"Horribly disconcerting all the same. Without proof of unusual

talent I could hardly ask my father to spend money on a gift he

didn't believe in. So there I was! A failure in my father's eyes.

Worse than that in my own. Only when I got into touch with you and

your kind, I used to feel like a man who has a treasure locked up in

a secret room of which he has lost the key----"

"And, by God, you have got it now, _amico mio_! Not often is it that

an artist shall have the unique good fortune to find himself--in his

wife."

He jerked out the last with an effort; and the half-averted face was

turned gently away. It was the custom of her new world, this open

fashion of speech: but not soon would her sensitiveness become inured

to personal allusions impermissible among Hindus of good breeding.

Her husband, keenly alive to the significance of that slight

movement, answered, without direct mention of her: "I'm quite as much

confounded as you are, Martino _mio_; and perhaps a little

intoxicated with the wine of the gods, or I could hardly take this

new notion seriously. But I do. Honestly, I do----"

"_Sapristi_! That picture gives you right. And to take seriously,

is to achieve. Will you or ... the Signora tell me more of this

Epic, Saga--what you call it?"

"Yes. I want my wife to give you an outline of the story. Will

you--Lilamani?"

She turned, aflush to the temples; her ringed hands moving nervously

in her lap.

"If Signor Martino is wishing--I will try. But--it is so great and

beautiful; and my telling so clumsy. I am not clever to such things."

"Your telling's good enough for us. Eh, Martino?" Nevil said,

smiling.

The small man nodded vigorously.

"No fear for Martino to be critical, Signora," he said with unusual

gentleness. "Outside of form and colour there lives no great

knowledge in my black bullet head. Tell me, please, this Epic of

your country. History, is it? Or legend?"

"Hard to say how much from each," she answered, clasping her hands to

steady herself. "It is mixture of all things; war and philosophy and

family love. But almost for us it is religion. Because

Rāma, prince and hero, was incarnation of Vishnu, called

Preserver, second great god of Hindu Trinity; and this poem tells of

his many adventures in ancient forest of Dandak. There he was living

fourteen years in banishment, because of long-ago promise made by

that old king, his father, to second queen, who was favourite, and

was wishing to see her own son in Rāma's place.

"Then, because royal word cannot be broken, Rāma must fulfil

that promise; even if father, mother, and all the peoples break their

hearts for losing such a Prince. In rough guise of pilgrim he chose

to go; leaving all possessions, even Sita, beautiful and beloved

wife. She must stay safely with his mother because forest life was

too much rough and dangerous for high-bred woman. But now there came

difficulty----"

Lilamani paused and drew in a low soft breath. The sacredness of

Sita, of all communion between wife and husband, made the telling of

so impassioned a love-story more difficult than she had foreseen.

Nevil, divining her thought, frowned imperatively at Martino,

checking comment on his lips.

And she, leaning forward, chin cradled in one hand, found courage to

speak on; her eyes intent upon a fairy fleet of clouds, her voice

hushed to a musical monotone, as if thinking aloud.

"Sita, dutiful beyond all women, refused in this one matter to obey

her lord, caring nothing for danger or rough life if only she may

behold his face. Rāma, too much anxious, would not hear

such thing. Only at last, by saying she will take poison, even

fainting with grief, she won consent. Lakshman, own brother to

Rāma, said he will go also; and they three, in coats of

bark, went forth to their strange adventures. There might come one

picture. Another might come, months after, when Sita was sitting

alone in forest hut, built by Lakshman, while Rāma has gone

in search of wonderful deer, seen by her, and greatly wished. But

this deer was only form taken by a Wicked One to draw Rāma

far from his beloved. Because of his strength, no evil giants of

that wood were able to conquer him; and they were desiring vengeance,

because he spurned offered love of hideous giantess, sister of

Ravān, that ogre-king of Ceylon. By his devising was such

cruel trick played on Rāma, all-conquering one; only to be

caught by deceit because his spirit was too clear for such muddy

thoughts.

"So he was leaving his Queen in care of Lakshman, and following that

deer. But at first prick of arrow, the Wicked One cried out, in

voice of Rāma: 'Ah Sita, ah Lakshmana--help! help!' This

they heard with fearful hearts; and Sita was insisting that Lakshman

shall leave charge of her and follow that call. But even for her

command, he would not disobey Rāma and desert his Queen;

till Sita became angry, saying she must believe he wishes that

brother's death, so he may marry with herself. Heart-broken from

such suspicion, Lakshman must go.

"Then while Sita was sitting alone, beautiful as full moon, in robes

of amber silk, with lotus-wreath upon her hair, came That Terrible,

stealthily up from river, in guise of Brahman. First he was begging

food, as holy man, that none may refuse. Then, throwing off

disguise, he was speaking shameful things to that most loyal wife.

In scornful anger she spurned him, as her lord had spurned his

sister. More than this, weak woman could not do. So That

Terrible--catching her by waist and by hair--carried her off in his

flying car, over tree-tops to Lanka, now called Ceylon. Only one

great vulture, friend to Rāma, saw them go and made battle

with Ravān. But no use. He fell, with many wounds and

arrows, killed almost to death----"

Another pause. Half-unconsciously Lilamani was identifying Sita with

herself, Rāma with her lord; and now it was as if the actual

sword of division pierced her heart.

"See a fresh picture--sorrowful beyond telling," she murmured, the

thrill of oncoming tragedy in her voice. "Sita, broken of heart and

hope--true wife still, pure as snow newly fallen--grieving alone in

that garden of Ravān, where all was beautiful, except only

the she-fiends--with head of wild beast and bodies of women--who must

guard her and torment her with insult and cruelty; because not all

flatterings or gifts or threatenings could make her disloyal by even

look or word. Only one thing kept That Terrible from taking her in

his palace by force. He feared she was daughter of high gods who

could punish him for that sacrilege. Therefore he tried every way

for winning her consent. But no use. So he grew angry, and gave her

in charge of she-fiends that she might not escape.

"But on this day, unknown to her, there sat one among the branches

with message from her lord: Hanuman, general of the monkey-peoples,

by which is meant wild forest tribes. Lightly leaping down, he knelt

before that sorrowful lady, telling her how one great prince

Rāma had been searching many months all over Southern India

for stolen wife dearly-loved; how he, general of monkey-peoples, had

leapt across the sea to make search in country of Ravān.

Hearing of beautiful prisoner in Asoka garden, he came, by his

littleness and cunning, through the tree-tops to see. And now, if

she is that lost Queen, he is begging token for her husband that she

is still alive and true wife. Then he will bring great army and win

her back. By this news, joy came once more to Sita's heart; and most

precious jewel, gift of her father, she sent for greeting and proof

of faithful love.

"Then, through many months the story is filled with noise of battle

and chariot-wheels, and death and victory. No pictures here. Till,

at last, came day of meeting between Sita and her lord. By his

orders she was carried in litter to greet him on field of victory.

And he, not approaching, called her to come forth, with face

uncovered, before those many folk. From this so strange command she

had fear of trouble; yet, shrinking greatly, she came forth. With

eyes veiled, though face must be seen, she went proudly to her lord;

heart and thought unstained as when her father made the gift.

"Then fell that unspeakable thing. There, in cruel speech, that all

his army shall hear, he told her not for great love had he fought and

conquered, but only to avenge insult and theft. There, before all,

he named her faithless wife, Queen of Ravān, that could

never any more be Queen for him. Oh, cruel! _Too cruel_----!"

Lilamani's voice vibrated with pain and scorn. The hand that lay on

her lap clenched itself in passionate protest. Martino, pictures,

Nevil himself forgotten, she was seeing all, hearing all; translated

in spirit back to the morning of the world.

"Surely Rāma, true husband, must be lost in Rāma,

proud Prince, to speak so. And Sita was answering, in such noble

meekness, that he may doubt others, if he will; but not that truth

which all her life has shown. 'Why,' she was asking, 'had he not

sent such word through Hanuman, that she might die and be spared from

deepest insult and shame?' Then she was pleading remembrance for

early days of happiness and love: 'O King, is all forgotten--all?'

"From Rāma no word; and she, peerless one, turned to

Lakshman, begging him, in broken voice, make ready funeral pyre. For

loving woman, hurt beyond healing, what else was left?

"So there, before all, it was made ready, none daring to disobey: and

Sita, not shrinking now, drew near those leaping flames, praying with

uplifted hands to the God within.

"Universal witness, Fire,

Protect my body on the pyre!

As Raghu's son has lightly laid

This charge on Sita--hear, and aid!"

"When these cruel flames closed upon her loveliness, most piercing

cry went up from all; and tears came in Rāma's eyes. Then

down from heaven came the great Gods, in cars golden like sunbeams,

revealing to Rāma he is no mortal man--but Vishnu himself in

human shape; reproaching him for such treatment of his Queen, like

man of common clay.

"But see--see! Those flames are rolling backward, and out of their

burning heart came the Lord of Fire himself, carrying that stainless

one, no fire could harm. Fresh, like she came from the litter; not

one flower of wreath scorched nor hair of eyelash singed, that

Universal Witness gave her again to her lord of life. Then

Rāma was proclaiming, before those many peoples, that never

had he been doubting her word and her love; only for princely honour

there was need that searching fire should give proof to all. Now he

will cleave to her as hero cleaves to glory; and never leave her

again. Oh, if he kept that word ... if he kept it----!"

The low cry ended in a broken sound; and Lilamani sat motionless, her

face hidden.

Martino glanced at Sinclair. His cigarette had gone out. He leaned

back in his chair lost to everything but this fresh revealing of his

girl-wife; and the Italian, more poignantly moved by her distress

than by Sita's sufferings, leaned impulsively towards her.

"It was not kept? That demi-god, was he so despicable? Tell me,

Signora--is that the end?"

Nevil frowned sharply. Lilamani started and looked up. Tears hung

on her lashes.

"That is the ending--for my pictures," she said quietly. "True

ending of story also, in my belief. But in such far-away times, who

can tell? Long after death of that great poet was added _Uttra

Kanda_, after-part, telling of triumphal return to their own kingdom,

where they two lived in happiness, too perfect, one year only. Then

came to Rāma's ears that people were murmuring doubts of his

Queen in spite of all. Not one doubt had Rāma. But for

honour of his kinghood, he was believing Sita must go. So he sent

her, even before birth of his child, to that far hermitage; and she,

in great grief of her heart, said only: 'Husband is God of the wife;

what seems right to him she must do even at cost of life.'

"So for twenty long years she was living, without anger or complaint,

in that hermitage of early days; till twin sons of Rāma had

become men. Then they, without knowing, went to sing glorious deeds

of their father at his Court. There came recognition: and

Rāma was crying out that he will bear separation no longer;

that Sita must come back to grant forgiveness, and once more reign as

his Queen.

"She came; proud, but sad from too much pain and waiting. There,

before chiefs and kings and all subjects, she stood in crimson robe,

still beautiful as dawn. But--oh terrible!--even while Rāma

was greeting her, came the people's murmur: 'Let her be tried by

fire.' Even for such a great heart that was too much. Like one

pierced with a sword, she covered her face, crying in broken voice:

'If unstained in thought and action--Mother Earth, receive thy child!'

"Then that great Earth-Mother, quick to answer, cleft the ground and

came up, there, at her daughter's feet. Beautiful beyond telling her

throne: wide her arms of welcome. Vain, all vain, outcry of

Rāma and his people. The earth was closing on mother and

child. She is gone ... that stainless one----!"

With a shuddering sob Lilamani sprang to her feet, flung both arms

heavenward in a gesture half triumph, half despair: then, stabbed

awake by sudden acute self-consciousness, turned and fled.

In the silence she left behind her, the hush of sun-sinking seemed

still to palpitate with ghosts of dead emotions interwoven with live

ones. The breathing of both men sounded curiously distinct. Nevil

lit a fresh cigarette, mechanically, as if his mind were elsewhere.

Martino sat gazing at the empty chair; then, with awkward haste,

brushed a hand across his eyes.

It was Nevil who stepped first out of the cloud.

"Well, Martino--it's a big thing, isn't it? What do you think?"

Martino grunted. Then he coughed.

"My friend, at this moment, I _think_ not at all. But this I know.

Through her clearness of vision you shall paint those pictures in

such a fashion that they shall make your name. I, Martino, have

said. Let your strong imagining take colour from her. She is like

flame to your mind--to your life. No?"

"She is."

"_Bene_. That I thought. Of lesser matters we shall speak another

time."

CHAPTER III

"Oh laisse frapper à la porte

La main, qui frappe avec ses doigts futiles.

Notre heure est si unique; et le reste, qu'importe

Le reste, avec ses doigts futiles.

* * * * * * *

L'instant est si rare, de lumière première,

Dans notre cœur, au fond de nous."

EMILE VERHAEREN.

It was after sunset when the little white boat "Marietta" slipped out

of the rocky cove, as it had done almost every evening for the past

six weeks. Nevil rowed. Martino sat beside his _houri_ in the

stern; since rowing was apt to catch his breath and make him cough.

The hush and glow of early evening, in sky and lake, cast its spell

upon all three. The Western hills wore a halo of light, shell-pink

melting to amethyst. In the east an orange-golden moon hung poised

above the rugged heights as if loath to lose touch with earth. The

watchword of the evening was Peace.

The three in the boat talked fitfully of passing things. But of the

great scheme no one spoke, till the keel grated on the pebbles. Then

said Martino abruptly, gripping his friend's hand:

"When my spirit shall have digested that wonderful recital, I shall

better be able to speak of details--possibilities. You understand?"

"Very much so. You've only to send word across when the process is

complete!"

"That will be soon, I hope," softly, from Lilamani.

"The sooner the better for me, Signora. _Buon riposo_." From the

top of the stone steps he watched their departing boat cleave the

shining, sensitive silver below, while the black worm of envy gnawed

at his heart. Fame, recognition--the one great good he had wrestled

from life in defiance of his "lost lung,"--seemed of a sudden chilly,

unsatisfying, like a glass of water on a cold day. _Santa Maria_!

To be young and strong, with such a wife to feed the sacred flame!

As if in jeering comment a violent fit of coughing shook him, as a

dog shakes a rat. Then, with a curse, he turned homeward to supper

and probable recriminations from a devoted if sharp-tongued sister:

sole genie of his lamp.

Out on the lake, in the vanishing boat, silence had fallen again.

But at the heart of it was understanding. To stir a man's

imagination, is to seal his lips: and to-day Nevil Sinclair's

imagination had been profoundly stirred. The rapture of the artist

was his; his vision of things, beautiful beyond expression,

entreating to be expressed; of things vital clamouring to be born.

And it was her doing--hers. He worshipped her with his eyes, while

she lay back against her cushion, watching the birth of star upon

quivering star.

Who that saw her, without prejudice, could doubt that his unique

experiment seemed like to prove a unique success? Martino did not

doubt. But Martino was of the elect. It was thought of the

Philistines that chilled him; one Philistine in particular, brimful

of prejudice. He thrust her impatiently aside. His decision for art

had made him permanently a black sheep in her eyes. What matter one

smudge the more? And his father? A twinge of pain here, tempered

with annoyance. Why in the name of common sense couldn't folk who

swore by it let a man be happy in his own way? He was, and would be,

none the less. Nay more, he would make the name of Sinclair famous.

Perhaps they would be satisfied then. For himself the glowing golden

present was satisfaction enough. It is at once the strength and

weakness of the artist nature, this full surrender to the spell of

the moment.

Beyond this enchanted summer he refused to look definitely. Vague

visions of a winter in Rome, or Egypt, sufficed. What matter where?

The secret charm lay in seeing the whole world afresh, through her

eyes; in realizing, through her, as never yet, the sanctity and

sanity of the common, primal bond between man and woman that is at

once keystone and pinnacle of the house of life.

Mighty opposites were they--irreconcilables? By no means. Six weeks

of closest intimacy, of spelling out letter by letter the unknown

quantity he had taken to wife, inclined him to believe rather that

East and West are not antagonistic, but complementary: heart and

head, thought and action, woman and man. Between all these "pairs of

opposites" fusion is rare, difficult, yet eminently possible. Why

not, then, between East and West?

In the strength of that analogy he could go forward, unafraid; still

more so because the poetic temperament common to both implied a

certain imaginative insight and flexibility, favourable to the

bridging of gulfs; and the fact that, in Broome's phrase, he had "too

little of the average Englishman under his Park Lane surface," was no

longer a stone of stumbling, but his most valuable asset. In less

than six months of marriage with the average Briton--say his own

brother George--Lilamani's fairy boat of happiness would almost

certainly have run aground upon the rocks. Even with himself, to

whom a great love had given understanding, its fragility was a thing

to tremble at; and he dreaded the risk of impact with sharp-cornered

headlands that loomed vaguely through the golden mist.

Yet, for all his understanding, he did not dream that already two

intrusive actualities threatened the fragile thing; did not dream of

her troubled wonder in divining that the vital, motive power of her

own life seemed to count for little in his.

Six weeks; and, to her knowledge, no form of devotion or prayer. A

Bible lived among his books; an old Bible, solidly bound and clasped,

with Christina Nevil writ in faded ink on the fly-leaf. But though

Lilamani had read it--with an awed thrill in touching a book handled

by his mother in her girlhood--she had only seen Nevil open it once.

It was strange. Were all Englishmen thus? Or was it a part of his

tender consideration for her that had been the crowning revelation of

their union? Shyness and innate shrinking from the least hint of

criticism made her fear to ask him--yet.

The second intrusive reality was more personal, more poignantly

disturbing; one that might compel her to speak.

Six weeks; and no word of recognition from that father and sister,

henceforth to be dear as her own; dearer, if that were possible. For

in theory, if not always in fact, her husband's people become

paramount to the Hindu wife; only a degree less honoured, less sacred

than her lord himself. But then ... the home-coming of an Indian

bride sets her in the heart of his family: an additional daughter,

modestly self-suppressed; handmaiden in chief to the Queen-mother of

that human hive. And Lilamani Sinclair--child of transition--found

herself, instead, alone with this one man upon an unknown road, with

never a signpost for guidance, and never a word from that England to

which she must now belong.

For the first three weeks, secure in her certainty, she had not given

the matter a thought. Then she had begun to watch her husband a

little fearfully, whenever a post came in. Days passed. Eagerness

faded into a wistful anxiety. Surely, even in England, some form of

greeting, of "friendly wishings," was due to bride of eldest son?

Could it be that he had never written of his marriage? And if not,

why--why?

Day after day that question had tormented her waking, and bred

grotesque nightmares when she slept. More than once it had been upon

her lips. But her own conviction that he ought to have written made

her dread his answer. Better they should be in the wrong than he.

Yet--she must know; she must! And to-night, while she sat silent in

the dusk, watching the birth of the stars, she was wondering,

wondering--dared she ask him now?

The moment seemed propitious for touching upon intimate things.

Courage waxed, as the glow of evening waned, and earth-stars came out

along the water's edge. She stirred softly, and sat upright,

clasping her hands; a trick she had when nervous. But it was Nevil

who spoke.

"Such a silent little wife! Dreaming? Thinking of Sita?"

"No. Of Lilamani."

"So was I! Anything wrong with Lilamani? Isn't she quite happy?"

Her eyes dwelt a moment on his moon-lit face. Her own was half in

shadow.

"Dearest," she said softly, "why ask so strange thing?"

"Only because I wish it so tremendously; and because--well, when a

man stands at the summit of desire he's always half afraid of the

next turning. You understand that--don't you?"

"Yes, too much. But ... we have ... not to be afraid." She drew a

deep breath. "Nevil ... King of me ... have I leave to say all that

is in my heart?"

"Beloved, why not? What is it?"

"Something I must ask. Only--if it vex you----"

"Ask any mortal thing you please."

A pause. Nevil, intent upon her shadowed face, let the boat drift at

will.

"It is only--these many days I have been waiting, hoping ... some

small word of greeting for new wife ... from England----"

"Lilamani! Forgive me----!"

The pain and self-reproach in his cry told her all. She leaned

forward, steadying her breath.

"Oh, Nevil! Is it----? You have not written?"

"No. I have not written."

"Why?"

He merely saw the word; and his free hand covered both hers.

"Darling, how _shall_ I make you understand? With you, in India, it

is so different. You see, my decision about the painting upset them

a good deal at home. I was honestly sorry. But it had to be. Then

came my marriage, which I knew they would not see--quite as I see it;

and I wanted no outside worries disturbing our first spell of

happiness. But it was wrong of me to forget how my not writing might

affect you. I fancied you would be too happy in these honeymoon

weeks to bother your head about strangers you had never seen."

"Oh, I am happy, beyond all dreaming. But Nevil----. Father of you,

sister of you--my own being like lost--how could I not wish----?"

His grasp on her hands tightened. "I never thought of that, selfish

duffer that I am. But truly, if they'd been a different sort I would

have written sooner."

"Different sort? What is that?"

"Nowadays English, little wife!" He smiled, longing to win her from

her anxious mood. "My meaning is that I'm a kind of freak in my

family. They're not much like me, any of 'em, except my youngest

sister, Christina, who might come out to us later on. She has more

of my mother in her than the rest."

"How many--the rest?"

"Two brothers; a sailor and a soldier, besides Jane."

"And you also--very like your mother?"

"Very like. And proud of it. But I've always been out of gear with

my father and Jane. They worship a godling called the Right Thing,

whose first commandment is 'Thou shalt respect the whole beaten

track, and nothing but the beaten track.' And we're not exactly

respecting it--are we, Jewel of Delight?"

"No--I am afraid. But ... you were meaning to write ... sometime?"

"Naturally. I've been wondering this last week how much longer I

would be justified in keeping our sanctuary sacred from the touch of

outside things. That's how I look at it. Life is none too prodigal

of happiness like ours. Are you in such a mortal hurry to admit the

world, the flesh, and the devil?"

"Oh, no--no!" she cried out with sudden passion. "It was because I

thought ... it must be right, and----"

The small even teeth closed on her lower lip.

"And what?" he asked almost sharply.

"Not anything more."

"There was something. I heard it in your voice. You asked leave to

speak out all your thought. As you love me, Lilamani, keep nothing

back."

"But it is such a small thing; a little private ache, because I had

feared, through your not writing, you began to be ... ashamed----"

The hands he held were crushed against his lips. "I'll write

to-morrow," was all he said.

Then, releasing her, he gripped his sculls and the boat sped forward,

away from the thickly-clustered constellations of Cadenabbia and

Tremezzo, toward the lone twin lights that beckoned to them from the

farther shore, as yet untouched by the moon.

After a short silence Lilamani spoke.

"You did not sing to-night. Will you--now?"

He balanced the sculls at her bidding; lifted his head and sang

softly, with tender inflections, the old Scots' ballad, so simple in

phrasing, so extravagant in protest:

"My love is like a red rose that's newly sprung in June.

My love is like a melody that's sweetly played in tune----"

So singing and so floating, star-encompassed above and below, the

watchword of the evening descended again upon them like a beatitude.

The voices of the outer world seemed far away and unreal: themselves,

and this their transient Eden, the sole realities.

The song ceased, and Nevil's oars plashed again, scattering stars. A

few swift strokes carried them out of the moonlight into the shadow

of their hill. Both were imaginative; both susceptible to the mood

of the hour; and, in that moment of passing, a little breeze of dread

blew chill upon their hearts.

As the keel grounded, Lilamani leaned forward, putting out a hand.

"Nevil," she began, then checked herself.

"What is it?" he asked, his ear quick to catch the trouble in her

tone.

"Not anything," she answered as before.

"Lilamani, is that true?"

"Nearly true. Only some woman's foolishness, of ... perhaps... Pity

to break so heavenly evening with 'perhaps'----"

"Wise one!" he commended, turning to moor the boat. Sincerely he

hoped that her trouble was no more than "woman's foolishness." But,

being man, he was grateful for the reserve or consideration that had

checked her impulse of speech.

Springing out, he drew the boat well in-shore; secured it; and

returning, leaned to her again.

"Is it still there--the foolishness?"

"No."

"Did you drive it away?"

"Yes. Like it deserved."

"Don't let it come back. This is our perfect hour. Let us keep it

so."

Above them, from massed bushes of rhododendron and azalea, the

love-music of nightingales echoed his plea; and she sighed.

"Yes. That I am feeling too. Almost it is like enchantment. One

little touch might break----"

"That's why I put off writing. Must I now?"

"It is not for wife to command her lord," she breathed. "But think

only ... dearest, your father----"

Without a word he lifted her in his arms and carried her up through

the fragrant dark, jewelled with aerial gold of fire-flies.

To both came the thought of that first time he had carried her thus,

in the rush and swirl of the storm, that had led them into this deep

heart of peace: and Lilamani, remembering all that his arms had told

her then, found to-night, in their enfolding pressure, an answer to

the question she could not bring herself to ask.

CHAPTER IV

"Oh, I would be to thee

As gentle as the grass above the dead,

And have I been but darkness and a sword?"

STEPHEN PHILLIPS.

It was the last of June; the last lingering hour of a radiant

evening. Not often does the queen of months fulfil herself so

royally as she had done for these two, with whom the very gods seemed

to have fallen in love. In the heavens a lazy light-filled cloud or

two, by way of reminder that tears must fall again some day. On

earth increasing fervour of heat and fragrance of a million roses.

And over all brooded that spirit of peace, of a sanctuary enclosed,

peculiar to hill-girt lakes in the zenith of summer.

Even the passing flutter of holiday life on steamers and on hotel

terraces had ceased--for a time. Lilamani basked and blossomed in

the heat like some exotic plant of her own land. Nevil, less inured,

had suggested a move up to the Dolomites. But she clung to her nest,

fearing to "break the enchantment" and waken the forgetful Gods.

They were growing a little superstitious about "the enchantment"; so

pathetically certain is human nature that the perfect moment is of

all things most fragile, most impossible to regain when lost.

In high hope, tempered with awe at their own daring, the

Ramayāna pictures had been begun. Nevil had chosen for his

first venture, Sita in the forest hut; the scene being one of the

simplest, yet imbued with the thrill of approaching drama. By now

the groundwork had been roughly blocked in; the forest hut, with

massed trees darkly looming; their black trunks and branches barring

the red glow of sunset fire. Sita, in amber draperies and

lotus-crown, was as yet merely indicated; as also was the stealthily

nearing form of That Terrible, with staff and begging-bowl and matted

locks. Rapello, Broome's stalwart young boatman, pressed into

service as model, had accepted with alacrity and repented at leisure;

consoling himself, for hours snatched from a promising courtship of

Giulietta, with reflections on the _Inglese's_ proverbial liberality,

and the honour of having his portrait painted by a genuine artist.

At moments when he looked particularly handsome and complacent, Nevil

had been tempted to let him see his "portrait"; and only the risk of

losing a good model had held the impulse in check.

Colour-books on India had been sent for, and Sir Lakshman, greatly

interested, had promised to do his share. He was back in Paris now,

appreciably nearer. Yet another week and he would be with them.

Father and husband under one roof! Lilamani hugged the blessed

thought. Could the most exigeant bride ask for more?

And while the last evening of June burned its heart out, the most

exigeant bride was curled up in Broome's big chair frowning at a slip

of paper, and chewing the point of her pencil in quest of

inspiration. She was alone in the little chalet for the first time

in her brief married life. Two hours ago an urgent message had come

from Cadenabbia. Martino, prostrated by one of his worst attacks,

had begged his sister to send for Nevil Sinclair; and Sinclair had

gone, promising to return as soon as might be to the lone bird in her

nest.

The first hour she had spent in her shrine, praying Vishnu the

Preserver to save Martino's life. Then for a space she had

worshipped the image of the Baby-God Krishna, that lived in her

sandalwood casket; dreaming shyly, yet with passionate hope, of the

day when the Shining Ones should vouchsafe her a Baby-God of flesh

and blood, to worship in its stead. Then, because time lagged sadly

without her Light of Life, she had gone back into the studio, where

all things spoke feelingly of him: picture and easel; brushes and

palette, flung hastily aside; slippers and the holland coat in which

he worked.

Here the happy idea had come to her of completing a June love-song,

written in secret. Then, if Signor Martino lived, she would surprise

Nevil with it on his return. Grateful for the distraction, she

settled to her task in the hope of charming away a little restless

ache that tugged at the back of her mind like a spoilt child at its

mother's skirts.

Ten days since Nevil had written to Jane; leaving her to judge

whether Sir George's state of health made it advisable to tell

him--yet. Ten days; and no answer, to Lilamani's knowledge. But,

yesterday, she had seen a shadow in her lord's eyes, not there

before; and had longed to ask--yet dared not. Now, in her hour of

loneliness, they tugged at her afresh--the longing and the fear.

With the delicate passion of her own love-music she strove to banish

them; reading her small achievement through for the twentieth time,

in hopes of capturing two spontaneous last lines:

SONG: IN LOVE-TIME

"As the new-blown rose at noon-day

To the passion of the Sun,

Yields the fragrance of her spirit

To that All-compelling One--

So, in ecstasy of giving,--mine to thee, O my King.

"As the nightingale new-nested,

In a rapture of delight,

Coins heart-love into music,

Through the star-enchanted night:--

So the music of thy silence is to me, O my King.

"As the full-blown moon at midnight,--

(Lotus plucked from Sita's crown,)--"

How to make an ending? How to put in best words that image of moon

in the lake was like image of him in her heart? It was at this pause

that she had sought inspiration from her pencil-tip--and found the

missing couplet. Yes. That would please him. With a half-smile she

set it down:

"As the full-blown moon at midnight,

(Lotus plucked from Sita's crown,)

Sees, in darkly dreaming waters,

His radiant image thrown:

So thine image deeply dwells in heart of me, O my King."

Not so beautiful as she wished. But if she put away the verse at the

back of her head for a while, new lines would come singing to her,

from the Beyond, and that at the most incongruous moments, even as

they had come while Audrey discoursed of carbons, and _pro-tems_, and

other invisible bogies whose names she had joyfully dismissed from

her mind. Poor kind Audrey--so full of knowledge, so empty of true

heart's riches--had written more than once from England and seemed

content with her barren "way of the brain." Well--to each the good

they craved; and to herself that good had been given in fullest

measure.

Then, springing from her chair, she went over to the writing-table,

with intent to slip her love-song inside his blotter---"for a

surprise."

Opening it, her eyes fell upon a letter just begun. Half a dozen

lines only; and her quick brain seized them at a glance:

"DEAR JANE,

"I am quite at a loss how to answer your confoundedly sisterly letter

of congratulation! You brandish your zeal for the honour of our

house like a two-edged sword. As for the unspeakable brother you

have hacked into little pieces, I can only say----"

What--what could he only say, this priceless husband who, on her

account, had been "hacked into little pieces"? Would hard words from

his people make him angry or sorry? Would they ever ... make him

regret...?

There sprang the question she had refrained from asking on that

evening whose watchword was Peace. Now the blow had fallen: and he

had said no word. Yet she had seen the shadow of it in his eyes.

Rigid, almost without breathing, she stood scanning those few lines,

in the dear familiar hand, while the blood stole slowly from cheeks

and lips, back to her stunned heart and froze there...

But the moment's merciful numbness could not last. A new and

poignant question stabbed her back to an agony of sensation. What

had she said, this "Jane," who must be called "sister"? What manner

of blows had she dealt with her two-edged sword?

It was plain that Nevil did not mean her to know. And yet--she must

know. The rebel strain in her--overlaid by happiness and wifely

devotion--uprose again with power; the fighting spirit of her race

that bids even its women-folk set honour and self-respect above the

duty of self-subjection and makes the _purdahnashin_ of Rajputana

more of an entity than her of Bengal. For his sake, to keep

stainless the honour of his name, she could and would defy all

things--even himself.

But the letter----! It came yesterday. His eyes told her that. If

it were not utterly destroyed, she intended to find and read it; not

staying to consider was it right or wrong. Once or twice she had

chidden him gently for his casual, untidy ways. Now they alone gave

her hope of success.

With fingers that trembled and pale lips compressed, she felt in the

pockets of his holland coat, caressing it with her cheek the while,

as if to ask pardon for intruding upon its privacies. Not there.

She drew a breath of relief. And yet--it must be found.

Drawers, the blotter, other pockets were shrinkingly invaded. Then

her glance fell upon the waste-paper basket--and she knew. Its

plethoric state proved that it had not been lately emptied. The

letter was there. Yet she hesitated. Something seemed to turn over

inside her. Must she ... dared she ... push her quest so far?

The next instant she was on her knees among fragments of transient

words that yet have power to wreck the happiness of a life. She had

not seen Lady Roscoe's writing. Broken sentences must be her guide.

Straightening a severely crumpled morsel of paper, the words

"Bramleigh Beeches" caught her attention. Ah--this was it----!

Then--with a sharp cry, she dropped the paper as if it had stung her,

and kneeling upright pressed both hands tightly over her eyes.

But the words she had seen danced in letters of flame upon the

blackness. "A native mistress at Bramleigh Beeches! Half-caste sons

to carry on the name of which we are so rightly proud----"

Tremulous no longer, but with a tragically steadfast deliberation,

she straightened out four other fragments of the same paper, the same

writing; badly crumpled all. He had been angry, then. A gleam of

comfort in that. The four fragments pieced themselves into a

half-sheet. Evidently not the whole letter. But she could find no

more; and this would suffice.

It did more than suffice. For it was a large half-sheet; and, in

spite of crumpling, easy to be read.

"DEAR NEVIL (it ran),

"You have _surpassed_ your own record! I could not bring myself to

write sooner, and now--what on earth can one say? Your last

bomb-shell was bad enough, though I always had a lurking belief

things would end so. _But this_! Had you no thought for the future?

A native mistress at Bramleigh Beeches! Half-caste sons to carry on

the name of which we are so rightly proud! In my opinion father

would be justified in cutting off your inheritance; even in cutting

you off with a shilling!"

Lilamani puckered her brows over the cryptic utterance. Was that

what Nevil meant by hacking him into little bits? None was by to

enlighten her; and, still with her tragical steadfastness, she read

on:

"When estates are free, it seems only common-sense that they should

go to the fittest. In our case, George, without question. Compare

his sound satisfactory engagement and your own crazy marriage! Even

if the girl had been English, the whole affair is fatally precipitate

for an inflammable man like you." Inflammable? Precipitate? More

dread-sounding words without sense. Yet those that followed were

cruelly clear; and in reading she bit her lip till it bled. "But a

_native_! Who in their senses could dream of your picking one up on

the Riviera, where you might so easily have picked up a presentable

American heiress, who would have been of some use to the estate.

Certainly I shall say nothing to father yet. In his present state of

health I believe the shock might kill him. When he is stronger you

can tell him yourself. As for you, _your_ real punishment will come

later, when you wake up from your infatuation--it _can_ be nothing

else--to find yourself tied hand and foot for life----"

Here the sheet ended; and the girl-wife was thankful that the rest

could not be found. In that last broken sentence she saw her own

death-warrant: no less.

Pushing the pieces from her, she rose and paced the room; the dear

room, almost alive with the presence of him who must be freed from

the impending dilemma, when he should wake up from infatuation....

Another strange word. What ... exactly ... did it mean?

Mechanically she sought her dictionary and turned the pages with

hurried nervous fingers. Ah, there it was. No mist of tears blurred

the small print. "A foolish passion, beyond the control of reason

and judgment." She formed the words with her lips, frowning a

little, as if to bring back her mind from a long way off. Her hands

were steady when she laid down the book.

Fresh confirmation--that was all--of the resolve that had brought the

tragical steadfastness into her eyes. Child though she was, and

passionately in love with life, there could be no struggle; no

hesitation. To her clear, uncomplicated mind, it was all so

heartrendingly simple. Sooner than shadow of stain upon his family,

his name, obliteration of herself beyond recall. The detached

stoicism of centuries dominated her; blinding her to side issues;

impelling her toward the inevitable end.

She stepped out on to the balcony that the peace of evening might lay

its balm upon her anguished heart. But to-night there was no peace

even here. To her overstrung fancy, Nature's self seemed imbued with

the spirit of Jane Roscoe. Black against the sky's clear amber, the

great kindly hills loomed stern and forbidding. The placid lake

cared not one iota whether it should bear on its bosom a radiant

Lilamani or hurry a desperate one into the next-door House of Life.

Twilight was fading into dusk. Earth stars glowed here and there.

Shadowy boats moved upon the darkening water. One of them might be

his. Why, oh why was he so long in coming? For the first time in

her short, sheltered life a great horror of loneliness overwhelmed

her; and she fled back into the study like a hunted thing.

Her few words of farewell came with a strange spontaneity, simple as

speech: "Beloved--By chance I saw your letter in blotter. By purpose

I found that of your sister, and read--because I _must_ know truth.

Now I go, that the way may be clear for honour of your house. At

first you will grieve. But that will pass. There are many women of

your own land better for wife than your Lilamani. Good-bye."

Without tear or tremor she folded that pitiful scrap of paper; and

set it on his blotter, together with her love-song and Jane's mangled

half-sheet. Then--with wide eyes and slim hands clenched, she stood

as if smitten to stone.

He was coming! One of those boats had been his. Reprieve? Alas,

no. Merely the added anguish of enduring his touch, his glance,

before...

The door was flung open, and he hurried towards her. Still she did

not move. His hands were on her shoulders. His voice seemed to come

from far away.

"Dear little wife. A shame to leave her alone so long! But poor

Martino was in a bad way when I got there. He's better now; and I

believe he'll pull through this time. I knew you wouldn't grudge him

an hour or two of my valuable company!"

"Oh, no ... I am glad----"

Her tone betrayed her, and he brought his face nearer, searching hers

in the dim light.

"Lilamani--you don't sound glad. And why were you standing there

like a little statue in the dusk? Tell me."

"It is hard to tell."

"Why? Has anything gone wrong?"

"Yes. I have seen ... I have read ... that letter of your sister----"

"Good God!" he cried in a fury of dismay. Then he remembered. "But,

my dear, you must be dreaming. I tore it up on the spot."

"Yes. Only--it is still there. I found it--one half-sheet. Oh, how

shall I ever call name of sister, woman who wrote such cruel thing!"

"You poor darling!" He drew her closer. "But what possessed you to

go ferretting it out like that? How on earth did you know it was

there?"

She hesitated. The anger in his tone was more against the

circumstance than against her. But she was in no mood to make

distinctions.

"I--I saw first your own few lines in the blotter. Then--then I was

looking everywhere, because--I had to know full truth----"

"Not if _I_ didn't wish you to. If I'd meant you to see that letter

I should have shown it to you myself. But I'd have died sooner! And

can't you see that it was wrong and dishonourable to go hunting among

my private papers when my back was turned----"

"Oh no--not say that!" She shrank from his touch that was robbing

her of courage. "Only ... when I had seen yours----"

"What devil's luck led you to see mine? Of course, I ought to have

been more careful. But you don't meddle with my writing-table as a

rule. What on earth took you there to-day?"

She covered her face, and for the first time her voice lost its

steadiness.

"If you will speak more gently, and leave off from hurting me--with

your eyes----"

"My darling! I wouldn't hurt you for the world. It's you who have

hurt yourself so cruelly in spite of the pains I was at to spare you.

That's what makes me angry; that and Jane's egregious effusion----.

But tell me--what took you to that wretched blotter?"

"Only I wanted to put inside, for a surprise--some verses I had

made----"

"Verses? Let me see them." He moved swiftly to the table, thankful

for the welcome change of subject. "Where are they, little wife?"

But she sprang past him, and snatching at the paper, crumpled it in

her hand. "No. Not now."

"Why not now?"

"Oh--it is all different----"

"It is not all different. You made those verses for me?"

"Yes."

"Then they are mine. I want them. Give them to me at once!"

The half-playful note of command hurt more than all.

"But not to read--yet," she pleaded, so earnestly, that he must needs

humour her, puzzled and distressed though he was.

"Very well, if you really wish it, we'll read them together later to

take the taste of all this out of our minds."

Together! The word was like a javelin flung at her. But he, all

unwitting, proceeded to smooth his crumpled treasure on the table,

and so caught sight of her note.

"Hullo! What's this?" he said.

And she, with a quick-drawn breath: "That--you may see now."

Then, with the soft rush of a winged thing, she sped past him--out,

and down into the night.

For a moment, knowing her shy ways, he fancied she had merely slipped

into her shrine, and drew nearer the window to decipher his note.

One hurried glance enlightened him. With an oath he crushed the

paper into his pocket; and, turning, beheld her, flitting like a pale

moth, through the dark of the garden.

"Lilamani, stop! I command you!" he shouted. "I'm coming down."

Then he sped after her, clearing the short flight of stairs almost at

a bound. He believed her capable, at such a crisis, of carrying out

her fell purpose in defiance of his command; and those few moments of

poignant fear lit up his whole consciousness as a searchlight

illumines a night of stars. Deeply and honestly as he loved her, he

had not known how terribly dear she was to him--till now. So much,

at least, Jane's letter had achieved----

"Lilamani! Stop, for God's sake!" he shouted again, once he was

clear of the house. But she fled on....

When he came up with her, she was clambering on to a rock, whence she

could jump straight into deep water.

Swiftly his arms closed round her from behind, drawing her down to

his level. Desperately, and in silence, she fought for freedom;

submission of wifehood swept aside by the fierce resolve not to spoil

his life. Her delicate body seemed animated with superhuman

strength: and he, hoping to soften her tearless passion of

resistance, tried to win possession of her lips. But she turned her

head away sharply; speaking at last, between quick-coming breaths.

"Go, go--leave me! Hard now--but afterwards--"

A swift shudder convulsed her; and, lest he notice it, she began

struggling afresh.

"Beloved--have you quite lost your senses?" he cried, a sharp ring of

fear in his voice.

"It is possible. So much better--that I go. But not say--beloved."

By sheer force he held her to him.

"I shall say it. Because it's true. And you _shall not go_."