No fear in his tone now; but the deep strong note of command, that

called to the primitive deeps in her: nor called in vain. He felt

her tense limbs relax--ever so little; and pressed his advantage home.

"Lilamani, conquer your madness, and listen to me. Is it lip-service

when you call me lord of your life?"

"Nevil! It is truth--from my heart."

"Then you have no right, no power to fling away that most precious

gift against my wish; and to sacrifice my life as well----"

"But no. With men it is otherwise. Afterwards--because of

others--you would be grateful for courage of that Lilamani----"

He closed her lips with his own, and felt the whole of her melt into

yielding softness at their touch.

"I will not hear such things," he said, and drew her to a rough seat,

still holding her cautiously, as one holds a prisoned bird, lest her

madness return. "Besides," he urged in tender reproof, "don't you

know that it is very wrong to take your own life--for any reason?"

"No, not so--with us; by right motive," she answered with rare

steadiness, for all the turmoil in her breast. "Also, to us, death

is not such great matter. Only passing on--to next-door House."

"But think--in that next-door House you would find no Nevil." He

felt her tremble and was glad. "You would leave him here, alone, not

able to finish his great pictures without Sita. Did you think of

that?"

"N-no----" The word was disjointed by a sob.

"And would you make a sister of mine," he went on, drawing her closer

still, "though she did write harsh, abominable things in her

bitterness and vexation--would you make her virtually a murderer in

my eyes--and in the eyes of God?"

That last thawed the frozen fountains of a grief too deep-seated for

tears. With a broken cry she clung to him as one drowning to a spar.

"O King of me! Forgive ... forgive...!"

CHAPTER V

"Her strength with weakness is overlaid,

Meek compliances veil her might,

Him she stays by whom she is stayed."

"True Woman."--C. ROSSETTI.

They spent a long evening in their balcony, watched over by the

wistful stars. There was much to talk of now that she knew all: and

their happiness, snatched from the verge of extinction, had a new

depth and consciousness, that is the guerdon of pain shared and

conquered.

So far as might be, Nevil expounded Jane, and the remoteness of her

view-point from his own; an assurance that was balm to the hurt soul

of his wife. He bade her, for his sake, forget those unjust, ugly

words that the writer would surely regret when she knew his Lilamani.

But she answered truthfully that were impossible. She could only

promise not to let them poison her thoughts or embitter her spirit.

And he knew of old the value of her given word.

Her love-song, with its musical cadences, at once delighted him and

wrung his heart. That Jane's unvarnished candour should have struck

sharp on that impassioned outpouring, infuriated him afresh. But she

should not have the satisfaction of provoking him to a retort.

Silence would at once annoy her and convince her that, for him, the

subject was outside the pale of discussion. In the meantime, with

the dear dark head against his shoulder, the cool clinging hand at

rest within his own, he would fain forget the existence of Jane and

all her works. The high encompassing heavens, the passionate

jubilance of nightingales, thrilling up through the dark, weaned him

from thought of trivial things; stirred within the body of his

manhood, the pulse of the Divine....

When it came to "good night," they whispered that the enchantment was

not broken, after all: whispered it, lest the Gods hear and snatch

away the precious thing.

But it seemed that the Gods were sleeping, or on a journey. For

three unclouded days they rowed and read and painted at will. Sita

and Ravān emerged from their background of hut and forest.

Sita, more especially, grew in beauty and power with each fresh

sitting; nor did Nevil Sinclair guess how much he owed to his wife's

trick of identifying herself so innately with Rāma's queen

that a sense of approaching tragedy weighed upon her heart; while, in

her misty imagining, That Terrible stood for Jane Roscoe and her

two-edged sword.

Three unclouded days: and upon the fourth day, fell a bolt from the

blue.

Breakfast was not long over. Lilamani sat on Sita's stool, ready for

the morning's work, and her husband stood at his easel, when there

came a telegram from England that took all the healthy colour out of

Nevil Sinclair's face.

"My God!" he groaned under his breath; then, sinking into a chair

beside the writing-table, pressed a hand over his eyes.

The flimsy, yellowish paper slipped unheeded to the floor and lay

there, harmless-looking as a dead leaf, till Lilamani, treading

softly, picked it up and read the curt summons twice over, in a

stunned bewilderment, before the sense penetrated--and the pain.

"Father has had a stroke. Serious. Come immediately."

What a "stroke" might mean, she did not know. But two facts were

plain: grave illness, and Nevil's instant departure--with or without

her? Which would it be? For answer, she had only the leaping

hammer-strokes of her heart.

A second or two she stood, while all things seemed smitten into a

sudden unnatural silence. Then, softlier still, she drew near her

husband.

Feeling her nearness, he looked up; and she saw the brave blue of his

eyes veiled in tears. The pang that smote her was not all grief: it

was the birth-pang of that mother-tenderness which is the diviner

half of woman's love for man. To the Eastern wife it is

impermissible till actual motherhood add a cubit to her stature; and,

with a thrill at her own presumption, Lilamani Sinclair slipped a

hand round her husband's head, drawing it close into the softness of

her breast and cradling it there, as though he were indeed her son.

"The dear old man. Always such a tower of strength," Nevil said at

last, without looking up. "When Jane wrote that he was not quite

himself, one never thought--of _this_. God knows I've been a

disappointing son to him. But I felt sure--if only he could see

you---- Well, there's hope still----" He drew himself up, brushing

the mist from his lashes. "Time's everything. I'll wire to Jane and

we must start to-night."

"We?" The word was little more than a breath; and her eyes, quick

with love's clairvoyance, dwelt on his. "Were you really

meaning----? Is it not better--in such time of trouble--not to make

more...?"

"But Lilamani!" He gathered her close. "How on earth can I leave you

here--alone?"

"'Can' is always making a way, when there is 'must'!" she answered,

smiling bravely. She had seen a ghost of indecision in his eyes, had

heard it in his tone.

"But there's no 'must,'" he persisted, love and chivalry conquering

his suspicion that she spoke truth. "You're my wife; and I'm proud

of the fact. Even Jane couldn't be otherwise than decent to you--at

a time like this. As for the dear old man--he needn't know till he's

fit to see you himself. And if---- There's no 'if.' And there's no

'must' either--is there--now I've made things clear?"

He was talking valiantly against his own conviction. She saw it too

clearly: saw that, for all his dread of parting, her presence now at

Bramleigh Beeches would but serve to pile anxiety upon anxiety, pain

on pain for the husband who was her all.

"Perhaps not 'must,'" she admitted wistfully. "Yet still--because of

your father ... better to go alone. Also for me--it is too

soon--meeting Lady Roscoe--after that letter----"

"You're right. It _is_ too soon!" He spoke with sudden heat. "Too

soon for me, if it comes to that. But this is no time for

squabbling; and of course--if you're not there.... I believe you're

right, little wife. Better have the wrench now than risk spoiling

everything by taking you home at the wrong moment. But you shan't be

left alone. I'll wire to your father. Lucky he's in Paris. Shall I

ask him if he can come at once, or take you along to join him?"

"No--not that!" She shrank from so complete a break. "Tell him

'Come soon.' He will. Somehow, he will. For his Lilamani."

"But at soonest he can't be here before to-morrow night. Twenty-four

hours. You--who have never been alone in your life! I should be

haunted by the thought of you...."

"No--oh no. You must believe I am brave Lilamani for your sake.

Signor Martino and his sister will be kind; and in the evening time I

will write you longest letter you ever had!"

Smiling, he pressed her hands between his own. Then they must needs

forget themselves and each other in telegrams, time-tables, and

flying orders; hateful, merciful trivialities that thrust themselves

in between the anguished heart and the too nimble imagination, the

terrible second self that stands outside the picture--watching,

pitying, recording, and so intensifying emotion.

The telegrams written, Barnes must be told. Barnes was Sinclair's

valet; faithful, but of late, mildly remonstrant. He received the

news from home with a decorous air of sympathy due to any trouble

that shadowed the prospective owner of Bramleigh Beeches, even if he

had "married beneath him, in a manner of speaking." Mrs. Sinclair's

taste for cookery was suspicious--to say the least; and--he wondered,

discreetly, how much they knew "at home." Well--he would soon find

out now: and, on the whole, though that there Miss Juliet was a

"taking piece, and pretty well up on the balcony-trick," he could do

with a few weeks' return to British Bass and an honest cut off the

Sunday joint.

In the meantime, he advertised his sympathy by an elaborate lightness

of tread and a voice pitched half a tone lower than usual.

Discovering that the journey was to be a single affair, he patted

himself on the back for "a knowing bird." It was a hole-and-corner

business. He had suspicioned as much from the first. Peculiar, when

you came to think of it; but there hadn't bin no letters with the

Bramleigh postmark addressed to Mrs. Nevil Sinclair so far as he

knew. The young master wasn't quite such a fool as that amounted to.

Trust him. A courtesy marriage: he, Horatio Barnes, would have took

his Bible oath; only that the lady's father was obviously "in

it"--whatever "it" might be. But then--Lord love you!--when it come

to heathens, however well-turned out, there was always dark

possibilities in lurk; as he had gleaned from certain of the young

master's books. For Barnes was a bit of a scholard in his own

esteem. He had read of Japanese and Burmese marriages, in which

parents were quite agreeable to a temporary arrangement. The notion

occurred to him now: and he chuckled inwardly at his own astuteness.

You never knew when an odd bit of reading might nip in handy. At all

events--mum was the word. A bat in daylight could see as much. And

mum it should be for him till the lay of the land seemed to justify

speech: which he didn't go for to suppose it would.

Thus Horatio Barnes, moving like Agag, between the portmanteau and

the chest of drawers: while Nevil Sinclair, stunned and miserable,

gave not a moment's thought to the inferences a valet might draw from

his latest move. He only saw that Lilamani was right; astonishingly,

beautifully right, as she was apt to be in matters seemingly outside

her ken. By some instinct of the spirit, that took the place of

worldly wisdom, she had seen more instantly than he the impossibility

of arriving at such a crisis with an unacknowledged wife, in the face

of Jane's unacknowledged letter. For himself, eyes and judgment had

been blinded by grief, by chivalrous consideration, and the natural

desire that he had of her.

And how long would he be gone? Neither dared approach that question

till Sir Lakshman's answering telegram forced them back upon a topic

too painful for gratuitous talk. When it came, Nevil--still pale and

shaken--was mechanically swallowing a biscuit and a glass of sherry,

while they talked in the jerky, unnatural manner of those about to

part; carefully avoiding each other's eyes. Only yesterday, at

tea-time, they had been behaving like two children; she, perched

lightly on his knee; and he, insisting that she should "bless" each

cake he ate by daintily biting off a corner herself. Only yesterday!

It seemed a week away. Now he swallowed unblessed morsels without

tasting them, and handed Sir Lakshman's answer to his wife.

"He'll be with you this time to-morrow. Thank God for that much," he

said without looking at her, while he fumbled at the clasp of his

cigarette case. "I suppose--I hope to goodness he can stay--till I

come back."

"How soon is that?" she whispered, folding the paper into diminishing

parallelograms with minute care. "One week--or two?"

"Impossible to tell, little wife." He had lighted his cigarette now

and coming nearer laid a sustaining hand on her shoulder.

"Everything depends--on him. But you may trust me to come straight

back to you the first moment I honestly can."

"Yes--yes. But so long as they are needing you--please stay..."

At this point they were interrupted by Agag with another telegram

from the stationmaster at Lucerne; and once more the hateful,

merciful actualities cleft them apart. Sinclair blessed his wife's

tearless composure even while he marvelled at it in one so young, and

withal so passionate, as he had discovered her to be. But the

Eastern temperament is a thing of extremes. Either it will beat the

breast and wail unrestrainedly upon the least provocation, or it will

endure to the utmost with a stoicism almost sublime. Much hangs on

caste. In Lilamani Sinclair, inherited instinct forbade the

indignity of uncontrolled outcry or lament; and his pain, his need of

small services, eclipsed all thought of--afterwards.

But there came the dread inevitable moment when the last label was

writ, the last key turned in its lock, and they two stood alone in

her shrine, dumbly, acutely aware that here was an end--not of their

love, but of that sublimited phase of it that comes once only, and by

no means to all.

To Nevil came also a sudden unreasoning fear of the lake. It was too

soon to leave her--too soon. True, her madness was past; yet, in

their after-talk, he had discerned at the heart of it, a deep,

underlying idea that at once lifted it above a mere desperate impulse

and made it the more liable to recur. The oppressive sense of

Death's imminence, of life's instability, that was upon him,

quickened his dread.

"Lilamani," he said hoarsely, gripping her two hands with a force

that was pain, "I _can't_ leave you alone here, even for one night,

unless you promise me, by whatever you hold most sacred, not to

let--that madness of yours come back. Think of me--of the Sita

pictures, of--of Jane, if the Devil tempts you to imagine that I

could ever--oh, it's impossible! But give me your sacred word, and

drive the ugly fear out of my heart----"

"Lord of my life," she answered, a thrill of passion in her low tone,

"I promise ... by most sacred thing of all ... that gift I shall one

day give you----"

A faint tremor here: and he--with an inarticulate sound--gathered her

into his arms; held her so, for one measureless moment; then,

whispering "God keep you, little wife," drew her down and out into

their sun-filled garden.

The waiting boat received him. He waved as it pushed off. She waved

back, achieving a smile. Then--he was gone; gone into the vague,

unknown world of actualities: and for many minutes she stood where he

had left her, straining to keep his boat in view through the mist

that gathered in her eyes.

CHAPTER VI

"Life struck sharp on death makes awful lightning."

E. B. BROWNING.

Cherton is the station for Bramleigh; a small station with a small

shelter on the "down" side. When Nevil Sinclair alighted--heart-sick

and travel-sick, after interminable hours of ceaseless, and almost

sleepless, rushing through space--it was raining, uneffusively, yet

persistently, as it can rain in July. The clouds hung low and

positive, here thinned to a whitish-grey, there heavy with unshed

tears. No bustling wind threatened to interrupt their superfluous

zeal for earth and trees and new-mown hay already saturate to

repletion. They wore a settled, sullen look, as if they meant to

stay there on and off for days.

Sinclair, followed by Barnes, hurried under the shelter and commanded

a fly. It arrived out of space, with the leisurely dignity of its

kind; and, for Nevil, that four-mile drive in a superannuated

brougham, smelling at once stuffy and damp, almost broke the back of

his endurance. Yet it was his own doing that he had not been "met"

by the landau and the greys. In wiring from Paris his probable hour

of arrival, haunting thoughts of his father had impelled him to add

"if wet don't send." For at that time the evolving motor had not

quite changed the face of the landscape, and the stench and snort of

one was as smoke to the eyes and vinegar to the teeth of the dear old

man. By way of protest, he emphasized the sanctity of his greys and

their driver: a faithful tyrant of twenty years' service. Hence

Nevil's impulse of consideration. And it was just such endearing

acts of graciousness--foreign to Jane and George--that had gone far

to keep his first-born supreme in the father's heart, for all his

tiresome perversity in matters of greater moment.

And now, while Nevil leaned back uneasily in the brougham-that-was,

watching dejected hedges and tearful trees trail past him through the

rain-blurred landscape, he found himself praying, instinctively,

incoherently, to the dim God of his boyhood that he might, at worst,

be granted living sight and sound of the father he had disappointed

and deceived, before the Great Silence fell between them for ever.

No wire awaiting him in Paris seemed to augur possible improvement.

But he had been travelling for eight hours since then; and eight

minutes would suffice ...

While his ark of safety, lurching through the pillared gateway,

rumbled on between drenched battalions of cypress and fir, Nevil

Sinclair held thought suspended. One last lurch, and the house

loomed into view; flat-fronted, creeper-covered, with short wings at

either end: the east wing culminating in a tower. Familiar, every

line and corner of it: yet now--tragically unfamiliar. For as Nevil

leaned out into the rain a dozen sightless windows attested the

futility of that broken prayer.

Sir George Sinclair was dead: and the spirit of the place, the

spirits of unnumbered Sinclairs, who had lived and died there, called

mutely on Sir Nevil to rise up and reign in his stead. But in that

first shock of realization, he was simply a son bereft of a

father--hard to please or understand, yet honestly beloved, in the

queer, shamefaced fashion of his race.

Barnes, with eyes discreetly lowered, opened the brougham door; and

at sight of him a jarring thought intruded on Nevil's misery. The

man must be warned not to speak of the Como establishment. It was a

detestable necessity; implying, as it did, a slur on Lilamani's fair

name from which his every instinct shrank. Yet, hateful or no, speak

he must.

"Look here, Barnes," he said under his breath, "no chattering about

my private affairs in the servants' hall--you understand?"

Distaste lent an unusual curtness to his tone; and Barnes infused

into his own a hint of mild reproach.

"That might ha' gone without sayin', Sir Nevil," he answered, still

considering the wet gravel; and the new-made baronet winced. He

could have struck the man for his glib change of address. But

instead, he hurried forward into the dim hall, smitten by a sudden

acute fear that, by some unforeseen chance, his marriage had become

known; that, he, Nevil, might even be responsible---- He could not

complete the hideous thought. Nor could he dismiss it, till he

knew----

But in this stronghold of the conventions all must be done decently

and in order. Through the dimness came Madgwick, butler and

major-domo, a small, shrewd-faced man, with kindly eyes and a

suspicion of red about his eyelids. Nevil, frank and friendly always

to those who served him, shook hands in silence with the pillar of

the house.

"Wish you could ha' got here sooner, sir," Madgwick muttered huskily.

No glib change of address for him. "Her la'ship's waiting tea for

you in the dining-room."

He led the way and Nevil followed into a lofty, oval space--lit by

skylights and ringed by a gallery--known as the large hall. Though

not the smoking-room proper, it had been the dead man's favourite

"den"; and his spirit clung about it in the faint, familiar smell of

leather, tobacco, and dogs. Two setters rose from the hearthrug to

greet Nevil; their tails, at a melancholy angle, wagged mere

recognition. They missed the cheerful voice and heavy tread of their

master, and the sensitiveness of humanized animals told them

something was wrong.

As Nevil stooped to caress them, the dining-room door opened;

Madgwick obliterated himself, and Jane looked out.

"That you, Nevil?"

"Yes."

She came forward to meet him; a feminine counterpart of Sir George;

square-cut and decisive; with strong, blunt nose, cleft chin and a

lower lip that would obviously "stand no nonsense" from woman or man.

Though only five years older than her brother, she looked more, was

more, in fact, from having lost, too early, if she had ever

possessed, the elasticity of youth. Plain, at her best, she looked

plainer than usual in an old black dress, hastily donned; her brown

hair brushed well off an uncompromising brow; her eyes, like

Madgwick's, betraying the weakness of secret tears. In spite of

mutual grief, that unanswered letter hung between them like a bared

sword.

There was a perceptible moment of embarrassment as they clasped

hands; an embarrassment that would have proved more awkward, but that

Jane distrusted emotion, and had not kissed her brothers since she

came of age. Determination not to let grief master her, increased

her natural air of assertion as she scrutinized Nevil's tired face

and the dumb anxiety in his eyes.

"Poor boy! You look fagged out," she said.

"Yes. I got no sleep."

"You came straight through, of course?"

"Yes. I couldn't possibly have got here sooner."

"We were afraid not. Yet--one hoped. He--he seemed to want you."

"_Did he?_" She had not the key to his suppressed eagerness. "I

wish to God I could have been here. When--when was it over?"

"About an hour ago."

"Only an hour?" He bit his lower lip to steady it, and she turned

back to the dining-room.

"Better have some tea before we talk any more," she said, forcing the

common-sense note.

"A brandy and soda. No food, thanks," he answered, following her.

"Nonsense! There are sandwiches--and scones. I kept them hot----"

She lifted the dish from the grate, where a wood-fire crackled and

sputtered in defiance of July. "Makes the room a shade less dismal,"

she explained, setting the chicken before him and returning to warm

her hands; for they were cold. "It's been raining steadily for three

days."

There was a pause. Lady Roscoe, still warming her hands, tried to

ignore a recurrent ache in her throat; while her brother obediently

swallowed sandwiches that tasted like shavings, and threatened to

choke him.

Then, leaning suddenly forward, he said huskily: "Jane--what was

it--that upset him? A shock?"

"Yes. Speculation. A big failure."

"Thank God!" He spoke under his breath; but with such fervour of

relief that she rounded on him sharply.

"Nevil! Are you quite mad?"

"No. I was afraid--by some chance, he might have heard--that it

might have been----"

"No. It's not as bad as that. You're responsible for enough as it

is."

She turned back to the fire. She heard Nevil push aside his plate

and empty his tumbler. Then, without looking round, she spoke again.

"If you really thought it might have that effect on him, how could

you bring yourself----"

Nevil's hand came down upon the table. "We don't want to quarrel at

a time like this, Jane. The thing's done; and I shall never regret

it."

"Never's a long word. You are sure it's binding--legally?"

"If it were not, I should at once take steps to make it so. That's

enough."

The quiet note of command surprised Jane. Being of the downright,

athletic type, that observes little and reflects less, except on

matters of practical moment, it did not occur to her that love and

husbandhood had naturally made her irresponsible brother more of a

man. But man or no, Jane Roscoe was in the habit of going her own

way.

"Well, I'm glad you had the good sense and good taste to come by

yourself," she remarked, ignoring his last two words.

"The good sense was not mine. It was hers," he answered with

repressed heat. "Nothing but her own express wish would have induced

me to leave her alone. Luckily her father could come." He lit a

cigar. "But Jane--about the speculation--the failure? D'you know

any details?"

"No. One knew he speculated, of course. But not on such a big

scale. He was writing to you when--when the stroke came." She drew

an envelope from her bag. "I didn't read the letter. Perhaps it

explains."

He held out his hand for it, a strained hunger in his eyes. But Jane

saw only the outstretched hand. For her, eyes were not windows of

that heavenly stranger, the soul. They were features in the human

face. She knew when they flashed anger, or held tears. The finer

shades of expression escaped her. And, while she stood pondering on

matters practical, which Death emphasizes rather than sweeps aside,

Nevil was reading his father's last words to him, shielding his face

from view.

"My dear Boy," wrote Sir George, ten minutes before his hand was

stricken powerless. "It's bad news I have to tell you, and I'm not

much use on paper. Never was. Often as I've rated your unpractical

disregard of money, I'm thankful for it now. It may help to soften

the blow. My own regard for the 'dirty shekels' has pushed me deeper

into the hell of speculation than any of you have guessed. I took to

it, like dram-drinking, when your mother died, and I've kept on at it

ever since. Bigger ventures each year. The luck lured me on. That

and my ambition to put you into Parliament with a small fortune at

your back. Money's everything these days, and when I'm gone I should

turn in my grave if you couldn't keep the old Place going in the old

style.

"Well--you knocked Parliament on the head, and now a parcel of

muddle-headed fools in South Africa have robbed you of the fortune I

was scheming to leave you. Don't be too down on your old father,

boy. I've had a black time of it, these five years, since the luck

deserted me. This last plunge was a desperation stroke. But I took

the soundest advice available and worried myself half crazy over it.

You must believe that, old boy. It was kill or cure--"

The word that followed was a meaningless scrawl. Nevil set his teeth

and breathed deeply, while all the letters on the page ran together

into one blur. But he mastered himself and looked up.

"Jane--it's awful. What he must have suffered--these last months!"

Lady Roscoe nodded. "I told you something was wrong. If you had

come home--he might have spoken."

Nevil winced at that.

"Too late for 'if's,'" he said a trifle hurriedly. "Besides--how

could one imagine---- It looks like a bad business. But this

doesn't explain much." He held it out to her. "Let me have it back.

George here?"

"Yes. Hal couldn't get away. But he hopes to come--later. Gee's

gone into Bramleigh--on business. He's good at doing things. But

you must take your right place now, Nevil."

"Of course."

He frowned. He was tired, jarred, unstrung. She would have liked to

put a hand on his shoulder, to take the edge, if might be, off her

cruel letter.

But it is the penalty of those who are afraid of emotion, that at

rare moments of true feeling they are tongue-tied, prisoned in the

fortress themselves have built.

So Jane Roscoe mechanically re-read the address on her father's

letter, and Nevil Sinclair pushed back his chair with a sigh.

"Where's Christina?" he asked.

"Kit? She's back from Germany. Arrived this morning: just in time.

Nevil"--she hesitated between pain and embarrassment--"won't you come

up--to his room?"

"Yes--yes----" There were light steps in the large hall. "That must

be the Kitten," he said in a changed tone. "I'll see her first."

And as Christina entered, Jane passed out.

They were as little alike as sisters could well be. Slim and fair as

her brother, Christina had the Nevil eyes and brow where imagination

sat enthroned; though tempered by a modified edition of the Sinclair

mouth and chin. She was three-and-twenty, fresh from studying music

in Germany; well up in modern theories and philosophies, but a tyro,

as yet, in the greater philosophies of the heart and of life.

Christina she had been baptized. Kit she was called; the longer

name, however beautiful, having small chance of survival in a century

dominated by the snippet, the postcard, and the monosyllable. Harold

became Hal, and even George had been reduced to "Gee." Nevil, who

was artist enough to object, had always been thankful that his own

name triumphantly withstood the "potting" process.

At sight of him Christina gave a little cry.

"Oh, Nevil, my dear, I never knew you had come!"

As he rose, she flew to him, and cried a little on his shoulder,

while he patted her head.

"Such a comfort to have you," she murmured between two sniffs.

"Jane's so hard. I know she's miserable. But she wears chain-mail

under her clothes, and makes one feel a hysterical fool if one breaks

down." She lifted her head and saw tears in his eyes. "Oh,

Nevil--it was awful! He--he never knew me; and--I almost wished--I

had come too late. Am I a despicable coward?"

"No, no," he said, recalling his own sensations at Monte Carlo. "It

is a natural shrinking. I quite understand."

"You always do." She dabbed her eyes with an ineffectual wisp of

lawn, already saturate, and regarded him lovingly. "I can hardly

believe it's a whole year since I said good-bye to you at Dover. Yet

you look older, graver; and I'm glad you've taken up art in earnest.

It's a sort of 'rainbow bridge,' joining the prose and poetry in us,

isn't it?"

Nevil nodded.

"But you've been a fiend about writing," she went on, pressing his

arm. "Not a letter worth speaking of in the last three months."

"Sorry, Christina. But we were both busy studying, weren't we?" he

answered, looking thoughtfully at an impish blue flame that spurted

from the crevice of a log. Then, because Christina was his sister

every way, truth must out. "Besides, two months ago--I got married."

"Nevil! You--married?" Eager curiosity gleamed through her tears.

"But what on earth made you keep it so dark?"

"Well--there were difficulties----" he said uneasily, still studying

the flame. Then thought of Lilamani shamed him, and he looked his

sister in the face. "The truth is--I've married a beautiful Indian

girl of eighteen. A Hindu. I wouldn't let her change."

"Good heavens! And you never told anyone?"

"Only Jane. She's furious, of course."

"Not--not father?" Voice and eyes were lowered.

"No. I knew it would upset him. I was waiting----" He bit his lip.

"Look here, Christina--I had to tell you. But we won't talk of

it--yet. When--when all's over, I must announce it. Then you shall

hear more---- Are you horrified?" he added hastily.

"N-no. I'm sort of stupefied with amazement. But it's so romantic.

So interesting. I want to hear lots more."

"You shall. Later on. I'm going up now----" She shut her eyes and

shivered. "Sit you down there, old girl," he said tenderly, "and try

to read."

"Oh, I can't read. Nevil, you are a dear! Come back soon."

"All right."

Through the large hall he went, into the lesser one, and on up the

broad staircase with reluctant feet.

He had felt the fact so far: not realized it. He dreaded the

realization, that grew with every step through the unnatural silence

of the house. The dear old man! It seemed incredible, even in the

face of overwhelming proof. Instinctively the human soul rejects the

fact of death, that seals the door of the charnel-house yet opens a

window towards infinity. Mind and senses assert glibly: "Dust thou

art----" The soul, unconvinced, whispers: "If in this life only we

have hope----" And between both the heart of man swings like a

pendulum, now this way, now that, inclining always toward the larger

view; realizing, in moments of lucid vision, that the impersonal

force men call death is not merely the King of Terrors, but the King

of Life, which, without that inexorable shadow at the crossroads,

would be shorn of half its meaning and more than half its glory.

Nevil Sinclair--man of misty beliefs and clear intuitions--had

recognized this aforetime. To-day, mounting the staircase of

Bramleigh Beeches, he recognized only that he had lost his father: a

loss no faith in immortality could lessen or make good.

As he neared the door, Jane's black, square figure retreated down the

passage. For a second or two he stood looking after her. Then he

softly turned the handle and went in----.

CHAPTER VII

"A man's foes shall be they of his own household."

ST. MATTHEW.

It was over. Everything was over: formalities, letters of

condolence, wreaths and crosses, the thud of falling earth on Sir

George's last sleeping-place, the dismal trail of carriages, the no

less dismal crowds of villagers about the old church and graveyard.

All the dreary panoply of woe, that is gall and wormwood to the real

sufferers, boasts one justification only. It is a clumsy fashion of

showing respect to the dead. Let the living endure it as best they

may.

Sir Nevil Sinclair, the worst man on earth for public functions, had

endured it with a fortitude and tact approved even of Jane: but this

afternoon--pacing the vast lawn, where twin-cedars made a fragrant

drawing-room--he was undeniably thankful to be "through with it all."

Summer, having got over her fit of ill-temper, was once more a thing

of sweetness and light. Rainbow sparkles flashed from every leaf and

petal; and all the birds were out after their harvest of worms.

Ten days, now, since he had left Como and his girl-bride. More like

a month, it seemed; so absolute, so abrupt had been his change of

atmosphere and surroundings. The "longest letter he ever had"

reposed in his breast-pocket and a second had arrived that morning,

brimful of sympathy for his loss. Brave letters, both; though

beneath the surface cheerfulness, he discerned the ache of love and

longing, to which his own heart throbbed passionate response. For

the sake of his father it had been possible to leave her. But now

that father was gone, he grudged every hour of his truancy.

And yet----!

A new sense--dormant hitherto--had been sending up green shoots

through the dark and pain of this past week; the sense of possession,

inherent in his race. For the mere title he cared little; for the

house--with its insistence on minor tyrannies, domestic and

social--less than he ought. It was the good earth herself, the good

great trees of her begetting, the wide spaces of heather, beyond the

pine plantation, that climbed up and up behind stables and

kitchen-garden: it was these that he rejoiced to have and to hold, to

shield from the desecration of promiscuous building that is fast

converting the Queen of Home Counties into a suburban paradise.

More than all Nevil loved the beeches that had given the place its

name. Beyond a rose-garden that flanked the east wing, sprang and

outspread the gracious symmetry of their trunks and limbs, grey and

dull silver, dappled with mosaic of pale lichens, robed and crowned

with satin-bright cascades of a million leaves. In May their emerald

carpet was alight with sheets of bluebells; in early autumn brown

with beech-mast, flecked with scarlet of moss-cups and fungi; and at

all times patterned with every conceivable shade of green. Temple

and storehouse of squirrels, song-birds, pigeons, and

pheasants--religiously preserved by Sir George--the noble wood

stretched on and up a bold sweep of rising ground; ending, as the

pine plantation ended, in wind-swept spaces of heather, gorse, and

broom.

And it was his own: all his own. Magic words that no democratic zest

for parcelling out the earth in snippets will ever rob of their deep

significance. But for Nevil Sinclair the legitimate joy of ownership

was marred by revelations brought to light during a long morning with

Reynolds, the family lawyer. He had taken his client through Sir

George's papers the day after the funeral and had made the whole

situation painfully clear to the new baronet, whose heritage was but

a fraction of the well-ordered estate left by his grandfather, Sir

Robert; an early Victorian politician of simple tastes and rigid

sense of duty.

Hard not to censure the dead while those revelations were in

progress. Not that Sir George had been wilfully extravagant or

careless of the old place, that was nearer and dearer to him than his

God. But the Sinclairs had never been men of wealth; and from early

days of possession "things" had gone against him; a phrase

conveniently comprehensive and vague. Blind to moral and spiritual

values--with the complacent blindness of a certain sturdy British

type, that sees life in clear-cut unlinked fragments--he had

determined that his sons should not be "hampered" by the pinch that

makes character. Their allowances had been more liberal than the

estate could afford. Nevil, in particular, with his artist hobbies

and zest for travel, had been a costly item. But from year to year,

pride and generosity combined had withheld Sir George from telling

the truth. Then, in the loneliness following upon his wife's death,

had come the temptation--inspiration he had deemed it then--to mend

matters by gambling discreetly on the big scale. It was the one weak

point in a shrewd, level-headed, if limited, nature. Secretly

indulged in, it had exacted penalty to the uttermost, and poisoned

the whole.

Pitiful beyond speech, it seemed to Nevil--and to Jane, the crowning

irony--that the poor old man should have lost his life in straining

after a fortune for which the son cared little; while the heritage,

for which he did care, was flung on his hands shorn of its immemorial

dignity: one-third heavily mortgaged; the rest a costly burden hard

to maintain on the dwindled income left to him out of the wreck.

There remained, also, his pictures, and Martino's prophecy of leaping

into fame. How wise, beyond expecting, had been his undutiful

decision! Jane herself must admit that; if not now, at least by the

summer's end, when the Ramayāna series would be near

completion. A special exhibition of them, should the subject happen

to "catch on," would at least help towards paying off the mortgage

that withheld him from full mastery of his own.

But here a fresh dilemma tripped him up. Clearly it seemed his duty

to remain at home for the present, to inaugurate in person the new

_régime_. And behind the sense of duty lurked a natural longing to

share this new possession with Lilamani, to install her here as

Queen. Yet he had given his word to her, and to her father, that

this more critical phase of her transplanting should not be hastily

carried out; and well he knew that the time was not yet ripe for her,

or for Jane, the unappeased; possibly the unappeasable.

For although the public ordeal was over, the private ordeal had yet

to come. Not until this morning had she reverted to the subject of

his marriage. Throughout the week he had discerned a touch of

sisterly fellow-feeling beneath her chain-mail. But the revelation

in her father's last letter rankled sore; and this morning, when she

requested a word or two with Nevil after breakfast, there could be no

mistaking the repressed hostility in her tone. She supposed that

since he had married to please himself, and was thoroughly satisfied

with the arrangement, he would now see fit to announce the fact.

Distressing though it was, to conceal it any longer might give a bad

impression; and it had occurred to her that this afternoon, when they

would all be together for tea in the large hall, would be a suitable

time.

"A detailed confession of what you are pleased to consider my

delinquency, in full family conclave? Is that the programme?" he

asked, frowning, and looking out across the lawn where a solitary

blackbird pranced and piped, serenely indifferent to everything but

worms.

"Put it that way, if you like," she answered with composure. "I

merely meant it would be as well that you should tell your news in

person, before the boys and Uncle Bob go away. I haven't even

mentioned it yet to Ned."

"Very considerate of you!" said Nevil in an even tone. "Ned" was

Lord Roscoe, a milder, less formidable person than his wife; and

Nevil, seeing her determination to make things hard for him, denied

her the satisfaction of knowing how well she was succeeding.

"I'm quite ready, when they are," he had concluded casually, as he

left her.

And now--he knew that they were ready; very much ready--and that he

was not.

They had been marshalled into the large hall, nine of them; for the

Sinclairs were a clannish family, and those who did not live in or

near London had stayed on a few days at Jane's request. While he

flagrantly kept them waiting, Nevil pictured them all discussing him

in subdued tones; mildly curious; and thankful, in secret, for

something fresh to think of; though none but Christina would honestly

have confessed the fact.

From all save her he anticipated disapproval, if not hostility. She

and he had sat up till midnight in the study one evening and had

talked it all out. He had shown her the big carbon photo of his

portrait and converted her into a hot partisan. But of the rest

there was little hope: his two brothers, well-groomed, conventional

types of the professions they adorned; George's fiancée, Phillippa

Weston--commonly called Phil; Miss Julia Sinclair, cultured, within

due limits, and devoted to good works; Sir Robert Sinclair, a leading

light of the Foreign Office, lately retired, and his wife, Lady

Margaret, daughter of a Scottish peer, mannered, suave, unimpeachably

correct. Beyond these remained only Jane herself, Lord Roscoe--a

sound Conservative, though too purely a student and a philosopher to

approve his wife's vehement party-spirit; and Jeffrey Moss, Vicar of

Bramleigh, a second cousin once removed. For the Bramleigh living

was in the Sinclairs' gift, and it behoved them to "keep it in the

family." Nevil suspected that Sunday's casual invitation for Tuesday

had been given with this event in view; a suspicion that did not

allay his repressed irritation or facilitate the task in hand.

Not all his loyalty to Lilamani could make so public a confession,

other than distasteful to a man of Nevil's temperament. His very

insight put him at a disadvantage. He understood these Sinclairs far

better than they understood him. He could see the thing through

their eyes; could gauge to a nicety their half-nervous,

half-resentful attitude towards the abnormal, more especially when

that particular devil entered into a pillar of the house.

He drew out his watch and whistled softly. In common decency he

could keep away no longer; and passing through the great domed

conservatory, he entered the large hall.

Sir Robert--thick-set and slightly convex, with clipped beard and

pince-nez perched at an inquiring angle--dominated the hearth-rug, by

instinct, though no fire justified his attitude. The rest made

dismal black patches about the room; and Jane stood at the heavy

gate-leg table, dispensing tea. Her eyes challenged Nevil's as he

entered. He returned her look without flinching; greeted the Vicar

and joined Sir Robert on the hearth-rug.

"Well, my lad, we've been wondering what had come to you," said the

leading light of the Foreign Office; and a heavy hand on Nevil's

shoulder, acutely reminiscent of Sir George, sent a pang through his

son's heart. "Where've you been--eh?"

"Strolling round the place. Taking things in," Nevil answered in a

level tone, so unusual with him that Christina looked up; and Sir

Robert remarked, as one who makes a discovery:

"A goodly heritage, boy."

His nephew nodded absently, one hand stroking and twisting his

moustache, a gesture Christina knew of old.

"Tea, Nevil?" from Jane.

"Please."

He roused himself; fetched it, and made room for his cup among a

crowd of small bronzes on the mantelpiece: pheasants, dogs, foxes,

and others. They had been a weakness of his father's; and most of

them were his own boyish gifts.

While he displaced them thoughtfully, an under-current of talk

revived between Lord Roscoe and the Vicar, George and Miss Weston.

Then fell the question he dreaded. It was Sir Robert again: Chairman

of the Committee, thought his disrespectful nephew, in half-amused

irritation.

"Well, Nevil, what's the great secret you've got up your sleeve?

Jane's been making us curious. Good news, I hope. We need it."

"The best possible news, so far as I'm concerned," Nevil answered,

not without a hint of defiance. Dread confession as he might; to

apologize, even remotely, for Lilamani, was an insult nothing should

induce him to offer her. "The fact is--while I was abroad I got

married."

"The devil you did!" Sir Robert's amazement rippled round the room

in a broken murmur. "That's news indeed! Nothing like marriage to

check your craze for continental life. Money--I hope? The Place

calls for it. But what have you done with the lady? She ought to be

here."

"She ought; I admit; if the circumstances were normal. But--they're

not."

"Eh--what's that? Not normal?" Sir Robert peered distressfully over

his nippers at the two girls. "What the deuce have you been up to

now, Nevil? Don't tell me you've married a variety actress, or a

foreigner?"

"I suppose you want the truth," Nevil said, sipping his tea. "My

wife happens to be an Indian girl; a Hindu of very good family,

cultivated, beautiful----"

"But--but--good Lord! A native! Good Lord!" Sir Robert broke in

testily, his dismay echoed by minor explosions from Harold and

George; while Miss Sinclair dropped her knitting with a gasp. She

rather prided herself on being broad-minded; had lately called on two

Romanists in her neighbourhood, and found them "really quite

estimable people--up to their lights----" But a Hindu! And poor

George's son----!

"Perhaps--a converted Hindu, dear Nevil?" she ventured, dreading an

outburst from her hot-tempered brother at a moment when even raised

voices jarred her sense of fitness and decorum.

"No. She's not converted. Nor likely to be," Nevil answered bluntly.

"But, dear boy, surely it would be possible to----? Our good Jeffrey

is so convincing; and Hindus, I have always heard, are remarkably

intelligent and open to reason----"

"Yes, Aunt Julia. My wife is quite remarkably intelligent." A spark

of the Sinclair temper flashed in Nevil's eyes, and lent an edge to

his quiet tone. "She knows the Bible better than some of us do; and

religion means a great deal more to her than to the average

Christian----"

"Come, come, Nevil! No blasphemy----" Sir Robert interposed with

repressed heat.

"Blasphemy, Uncle? I am stating a fact; and I want to make it clear

that there will not be any call for Jeffrey's good offices, when I do

see fit to bring my wife home."

"You mean to bring her _here_, then? A heathen Lady Sinclair, under

your father's roof?"

"Certainly. In time. What else?"

"The devil knows what else! Thank God George has been spared

_this_," he added, lowering his voice. Then he swung round sharply.

"What do you think of your brother's madness, Jane?"

"I have told Nevil quite frankly what I think," said she. "Outside

his own infatuation, there can be no two opinions on the subject."

But such arrogant assumption of certainty was too much for Christina,

who, for Nevil's sake, had repressed herself valiantly so far. Now

she leaned forward, defiance in her eyes.

"There _can_ be two opinions, outside infatuation. Because there's

mine. I don't want to seem impertinent, but I never thought you

would all be so narrow-minded, so insular----"

"Be quiet, Kit," sharply, from Jane. "You _are_ impertinent; and

your opinion goes for nothing."

"Doesn't it, indeed? I'm not so sure," quoth the nineteenth-century

rebel, less easily quenched than her of the eighties.

In vain she tried to catch Nevil's eye. He had half turned his back,

and was rearranging the small bronzes, seemingly indifferent to the

tea-cup tempest. But Christina knew better. She longed to hit out

furiously at them all; or to get up and throw her arms round his

neck. But again she knew better.

"More tea, George?" came the voice of Jane, the inexorable.

Captain Sinclair handed his cup, and Lord Roscoe went quietly out.

As a peace-loving man, family dissensions offended his taste, and a

certain look in Jane's eyes was always a signal for retreat. A

glance over his shoulder drew the Vicar after him. Lady Margaret,

bored and a little disgusted, followed in their wake. Phillippa

glanced tentatively at her lover, who was scowling into his tea-cup;

and she, being young and curious, kept her seat.

Then Sir Robert--seeing that nothing remained but to accept the

lamentable fact--said with less heat: "Well, Nevil, your minor

eccentricities have been a joke to this one. But since you've tied

yourself for life to an Asiatic, there's no more to be said. A civil

marriage, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"And may we be allowed to know your immediate plans?"

"I must return to Italy as soon as things are more or less in order.

Probably the end of this week."

"And shut up the Beeches?"

"Why not? But as George is on leave, he might as well put in his

time here and see to things a bit. Jane, I know, considers him a

good deal fitter for that sort of thing than myself."

"Thanks, old chap. Awfully good of you." George's tone suggested

sarcasm. "Leave you free to devote yourself to the enchantress--eh?"

"I'm hard at work on a series of pictures," Nevil answered,

addressing his uncle and ignoring the thrust. "I hope to exhibit

them this winter. I've done one since my marriage of which Signor

Martino thinks very highly."

"The picture you wrote of?" asked Jane.

"No. That was her portrait. I gave it to her father."

"H'm."

This was more than Christina could stand. "He's got a ripping big

photo of it upstairs," she broke out eagerly. "You ought to see it.

Nevil, really they ought. Mayn't I fetch it?"

"Yes, if you like," he answered indifferently, chilled to disgust by

their reception of his news.

Miss Sinclair glanced up, mildly expectant:

"Dear Nevil, I am so glad there is a picture----" Devotion to the

entire family tree, even unto the remotest tips of its many branches,

was a part of her creed. Hindu or no, by some means she must manage

to assimilate this new niece.

Christina reappeared in no time, lifting her trophy high, for all to

see, and a murmur of reluctant admiration went round the room.

Miss Sinclair held out a hand. "Let me look at it closer, dear. My

sight is not what it was."

She looked closer and her brown eyes grew wide. "Why, Nevil, she is

really beautiful! And this is your work?"

"Yes."

"No wonder your Italian friend thinks well of it. Remarkable. Look,

Robert."

"H'm. Very good-looking. Quite life-like. You've come on

extraordinarily, Nevil, I must say."

"Yes. Thanks to my wife. Leseppes, the great French painter and

critic, expects me to make a name. Lucky--as things stand--that I

did take up art seriously. Bramleigh Beeches needs the shekels, eh,

Jane?"

"Very much so. If they ever come in," she answered, her gaze fixed

searchingly on the new Lady Sinclair's face. "This is promising.

Very. It's your staying power I doubt."

Without further comment, she passed the picture on to George; who

glanced at it half in disdain; then whistled softly.

"My word, but she's a beauty! Trust Nevil! What age, old chap?"

"Eighteen," said Nevil, jarred by a savour of the stable in his

brother's tone. But George, serenely unobservant, added, with the

experienced sagacity of four years' service in India: "M', yes. From

seventeen to twenty native girls are about as alluring as they make

'em, even the commoner sort. The deuce of it is they're middle-aged

by thirty. Run to flesh, and----"

"Damn you, shut up!" Nevil flashed out, losing control of himself at

last.

"Nevil--dear!" she protested in dismay; and Christina, snatching away

the photo, muttered wrathfully: "Upon my word, George! You are a

beast!"

"Sorry, Nevil," the delinquent remarked grudgingly. "I was only

telling you the truth."

"It's not the truth--altogether. The--the premature ageing is

chiefly the country; their feeding; their way of life. It doesn't

follow that Lilamani----"

"Lila--which?" from Harold, who had been more amused than otherwise

by what he privately dubbed "a family scrap."

"Lilamani," Nevil repeated with quiet emphasis, and was thankful that

just then Sir Robert emerged abruptly from his reflections.

"Look here, my dear boy. I'm still in a fog. You haven't told us

yet how this incredible affair came to pass."

"Another time, Uncle Bob," replied Nevil, unfeigned weariness in his

tone. "I've had about all I can put up with at a sitting."

At that Jane rose, decision in every square inch of her.

"If you don't mind, I'll ask you to go now. Nevil and I must finish

talking this out alone."

"Quite so, my dear; quite so," fussily, from Sir Robert. "Whatever

you think best."

And they went.

Then Jane turned to her brother.

"Now, Nevil."

"Well? What?"

Both spoke quietly; yet it was as if a pair of duellists had

unsheathed swords.

"How can you talk calmly of returning to Italy this week, when you

know quite well that your rightful place is here?"

"Of course it is. If there were not very good reasons for my being

elsewhere--just now. My rightful place, if it comes to that,

is--with my wife."

"And she refuses----?"

Nevil smiled, in spite of himself.

"If you knew her, even slightly, you wouldn't ask such an absurd

question. It is I who refuse to bring her here--yet. In the first

place, if Martino isn't quite misguided, the set of pictures I am

working at should be worth more to Bramleigh Beeches than my presence

here this summer; and I want to get them done, or nearly done, in the

right atmosphere. Then----" he hesitated. "You may as well have it

straight. I refuse point-blank to bring my wife to her future home

till I have clear proof that she will be decently received by you and

all the rest of them."

It was Jane's turn to hesitate.

"What--precisely do you mean by that?" she asked without looking at

him.

"I mean kindly, affectionately. Just as you would receive Miss

Weston if George were in my place."

"My dear Nevil, there's a difference! You ask a good deal----"

"I don't ask. I am stating conditions."

"And suppose the conditions--fail to satisfy you?"

"I am supposing," he answered coldly, "that my relatives, even if

narrow and prejudiced, are at least human beings; that they

will--later, if not now--give the woman, who is to fill my mother's

place, a fair chance of proving that she too is human, lovable,

admirable---- Good Lord, Jane," he broke out, maddened past

endurance by her chill antagonism. "If I'd married a Hottentot or an

American negro, I could excuse you. But I presume even you will

acknowledge that there's some racial connection between Indians and

Europeans, which makes all the difference in the world."

Jane drew herself up.

"Of course I see that, Nevil. I may be prejudiced. I'm not

ignorant. It's quite bad enough, in any case. But after all--we

gain nothing by recriminations. And as this child of eighteen will

be virtually the head of the family, we can but make the best of her."

"Make her _feel welcome_," Nevil corrected, with emphasis. "Write to

her before she comes."

"Yes. If you wish it. One can say the usual polite things. Kit, at

least, can say them honestly. Does she read English with ease?"

"She's as well-read as Christina." He drew out his letter-case and

handed her--not without reluctance--Lilamani's June Love-Song. "She

wrote that."

Jane read it, with raised brows: evidently impressed; though so

unrestrained an outpouring of "sentiment" was, in her view, almost

indecent.

"Talented. And very devoted," she said in a changed tone, handing it

back. "I'll write to her, Nevil--later on, as nicely as I can."

But her brother, though mollified, was still sore from the

afternoon's ordeal, which was her doing.

"It's just as well you should write her a decent letter or two,

Jane," said he with a direct look, not to be misread. "Considering

all things, you owe that much, at least, to her--and to me."

For once in her life Jane Roscoe was quite put out of countenance;

and before she could recover herself--Nevil was gone. Four days

later he left for Italy: for Lilamani, and the Ramayān

pictures--and peace.

CHAPTER VIII

"In two little rooms my heart divides,

Joy, wide awake, in one resides,

While slumbering Sorrow in the other hides.

Oh, Joy, sing gently in thy glee,

Lest Sorrow wake through hearing thee."

HEINE.

The Lake of Como in July is only for the native born; or for banished

Lilamanis, who rejoice alike in the heat and the absence of vagrant

humanity. But for all Sir Lakshman's fatherly indulgence, that

fortnight had seemed to the bird with one wing the longest two weeks

in her life.

While irate and bewildered Sinclairs were passing their parochial,

though not unnatural judgment upon her, she lay alone in the night,

wondering sore whether "That Terrible" were trying to wean her lord

from his "foolish passion beyond control of reason." His letters

were full of tender devotion: but when night came, the spirit of Jane

prevailed. That haunting sentence pricked her like a thorn left

under the skin, and would continue so to do till time should prove

things definitely one way or another. But by day she smiled bravely,

because her father must not guess; and, as often happens, in sowing

courage, she reaped happiness--of a kind.

Sir Lakshman, intent on distracting her thoughts, had lured her into

excursions up and down the Lake, and even across to Lugano. Then, in

the quiet of their chalet, they had enjoyed an informal reversion to

the "studies" of early days, peculiarly welcome to the man, who by

rights, should have been back in India weeks ago. But the lure of

the West, that grew in him with the years, was intensified now by the

wish to remain within reach of his child. Stifling the voice of

conscience, therefore, he had secured leave for a longer stay, and

had written smooth things to Mataji, who tyrannized triumphantly in

his absence, yet hated, with a vitriolic hate, the unseen power that

took him oftener and oftener from her side. And, in a sense, she was

justified of her hate: she--mother of his sons, controller of his

household, guardian of his immortal soul, whose after-fate he

imperilled year upon year by these futile journeys across the "black

water," with its mysterious power to defile. Loyal though he was to

his own Motherland, the Big Mother drew him, as she draws all who

drink of the well of knowledge; drew him into the vortex of that

unresting flux, which, while satisfying desire--of mind and body, if

not of soul--recreates it at every turn. Multiplicity of

desire--that is the Alpha and Omega of our mercurial civilization,

that runs ceaselessly to and fro, in quest of fresh stimulant, fresh

satisfaction of a hunger that grows by what it feeds on. Hence the

insidious danger of Western education for the keen brain and sensuous

nature of the East.

After the dazzling complexity and movement of Paris and London, the

fundamental simplicity of Indian life beneath all its barbaric

splendour, is apt to lack flavour; and though, in a sense, discontent

may be divine, it does not touch all spirits to fine issues.

Unhappily for awakening India the average result hitherto is sterile

dissatisfaction; time and money spent out of the country; home duties

left undone. That the exceptions are most often brilliant

exceptions--doubly endowed, with the wisdom of the East by heritage,

and the knowledge of the West by acquisition--does not disprove the

critical nature of the ordeal. Sir Lakshman--himself a brilliant

exception--was yet, in some ways, a less satisfactory working force

in the great native state he served, than men of half his ability

whose hearts and minds were not torn between opposing interests and

beliefs. As a husband, also, he wearied increasingly of the

dissonance inherent in a house divided against itself: a dissonance

that makes the home-life of the "England-returned" one of the saddest

features of a progress-at-any-price age. But, when all is said of

drawbacks and dissonance, there remains the existence of a real

Indian renaissance, working, like all true growth, from within

outward, to what ultimate end who shall prophesy--as yet?

In Sir Lakshman's home, the daughter after his own heart had been the

main redeeming feature; and, bereft of her, he came near to dreading

return. The fortnight she found so long had, for him, been all too

short.

It was over now. To-night the man who had robbed him of his treasure

would return to claim his own. To-morrow he supposed he must be

gone. But Lilamani would not hear of that. Nevil would surely have

much to ask him of the Ramayāna pictures. He need not think

to escape so easily!

Would she not like to go over and meet her lord, he asked, the little

station of Menaggio--or even at Lugano. But she shook her head; eyes

darkly shining; and he understood. This meeting, after long absence,

was a thing too charged with sacred emotion to take place anywhere

but in their garden of dreams. Let her have patience, only a little,

and he would come in the Hour of Union--their veriest hour; even as

the sun, husband of earth, descends after the day's work to meet her

at the time of sleep.

And so it was. In the Hour of Union, he came. Sitting on the

balcony they sighted the little white boat afar off. She fluttered a

handkerchief, leaning over the rails; and he, standing up recklessly,

waved his hat.

Down she sped into the garden, and there awaited him in a shadowed

corner near the bench where he had won her back to life and love.

She heard the keel kiss the shore; saw the slim, alert figure--dark

now, because of his loss--hurrying up the slope with long strides.

Then, as he sighted her--his low call: "Lilamani"; and her throbbing

answer:

"King of me. I am here."

The rest was sacred to themselves and the unheeding stars, that

trembled into life one after one, while they two lingered, heart

against heart, humanly loath to let the good minute go.

"Darling, did it seem so long?"

"Endless ages--to me, waiting. For you it was different. So much to

think, to do--to suffer." She stroked the dark sleeve of his coat.

"But now--all is past. Come in the little nest. Father will be

waiting us. He is saying he must go to-morrow. But we will not push

him away first minute, will we?"

"Of course not. He likes the picture?"

"Yes. He is so pleased over all. Not sorry now for trusting me to

English husband! Oh--and Nevil, he will tell you--such a plan! I

hope you agree."

"Something to do with you?"

"Yes, yes. With all three."

"Come on then. Let's hear it. I couldn't refuse you anything

to-night--Lady Sinclair!"

But having brought father and husband together, she left them "to

talk the plan" at leisure. She herself had inevitably some

mysterious dish on hand in honour of her lord's return.

Sir Lakshman greeted his son-in-law with genuine, if restrained

friendliness, and regret for his loss; regret privately increased by

a natural anxiety as to its effect upon his daughter's immediate

future. They spoke for a while of Sir George, of the crippled

estate, of Nevil's prospects as artist and landowner. Then came the

crucial question.

"You ought now to remain in England, and look after this home of your

ancestors?"

"Yes---I believe I ought," Nevil answered, pensively twisting his

father's signet-ring.

"Then you came back only to fetch Lilamani, and other belongings?"

Nevil's direct look put the Hindu out of countenance.

"Sir Lakshman, I gave you my word."

"H'm. The word of an Englishman. I should have known. But

remember, Nevil, I have had dealings with all kinds of humans. Even

the Englishman is not immaculate! And men of all races, desiring

some great gift, are ready for big promises that afterwards they may

conveniently forget."

Nevil smiled.

"True enough. But I think you may trust me, sir. Not that I'm any

better than the rest. Only--I love my wife a deal too well to run

risks with her happiness." He flushed awkwardly in making the

confession; adding, yet more awkwardly: "A man doesn't speak of such

things. But I do want to give you confidence in me."

"That I have more and more; especially since these days spent alone

with her. And--your family----?"

Nevil, not unprepared, looked steadily out of the window.

"My elder sister will write and make her welcome--and be good to her,

though they won't have much in common. My younger sister--more like

myself--is longing to know her. My brothers are seldom at home.

They all admired her picture. Then--there is Mrs. Despard----"

"Yes. That is good. She understands like few of your race. And you

mean to return--by what time?"

"Not till the summer's over--they're having a wretched one at

home--and my new picture's nearly done. But what's the great plan

she spoke of that concerns all three of us?"

"Ah, that----" Sir Lakshman's face lit up. "Since I do not now sail

till September, I was thinking how delightful if you and she shall

come only to Egypt. There we shall all spend a week together. Then

I go on by next mail; you returning same time--if you will. You have

seen Egypt?"

"No. I should like it of all things, only----" renewed awkwardness

here--"I must think it over. I believe we might manage."

But Sir Lakshman, guessing his thought, took him kindly by the arm.

"You do not quite take my meaning, Nevil. It is not for you to

manage. The plan is mine altogether. My parting gift--you may call

it--to my child. For her it will be greatest pleasure imaginable.

For myself--I need not say! And you--with these bold pictures in

your brain--though Egypt is much different from India, yet how

excellent to feel for yourself the spirit--what you artists call

atmosphere--of the East. Now--you will come?"

"Thank you, sir. It'll be splendid. Lilamani will love it, of

course----" A minute prick of apprehension checked him. Would she

love it more than he quite cared about? How would it affect him to

see his Eastern wife among Easterns, even though not her own people?

He thrust the disturbing questions aside; and Sir Lakshman, not

enlightened this time, added: "Of course, in September it will still

be hot. But that you would not mind?"

"Not a bit."

Vaguely disconcerted, he strolled over to his easel, and they talked

Ramayāna till the door of the shrine opened softly, and a

mother-o'-pearl Lilamani, with the buckles of Antibes on her shoes,

stood looking from one to the other with questioning eyes.

It was to Nevil she spoke.

"Have you planned the plan? Is it real and true?"

"As real and true and delightful as you are, little wife!" he

answered, smiling; and in the quaint young fashion that he loved, she

clapped her small hands lightly, without sound.

Sir Lakshman stayed three days longer; and the pain of parting was

alleviated by visions of "the plan." On the Sunday that followed,

Nevil asked a question that surprised his wife.

"Lilamani, would you mind much if I deserted you this morning, and

went to church?"

"To church?" She could only regard him in open-eyed amazement; and

he smiled, a queer, half-sad smile, unusual with him.

"Well, darling? Did you think your Christian husband was a rank

unbeliever?"

"Oh, Nevil! Please not say such things. But--I could not help from

wondering--did you ever----"

The words would not come; and he, slipping an arm round her, gently

kissed her cheek.

"Dear little saint! I did--and I do," he assured her none too

lucidly: yet she understood. "The trouble with our religion nowadays

is that, being a live thing, it is growing and changing its form like

all other live things: breaking through husks, throwing out new

leaves. But the Church says: No. The one ancient form must be kept

sacred from all change, like an embalmed mummy. And in consequence,

many thinking Christians have little use for Church, however honestly

they believe in the things that matter. You understand?"

"I do," she answered thoughtfully. "Same with us. It is always so

with priests. Nevil--I would like to hear more."

"That you shall. Another time. It would need a long talk and rather

a deep one, if I'm to make things clear. But you mustn't doubt my

belief in the Great Unseen; and now will you spare me to go and

worship Him in my own fashion?"

"Yes. I am so pleased----" She spoke without looking up; and there

fell a pause.

"Well--what more?" he asked, regarding her with a quizzical

tenderness.

"Only ... I am shy to ask ... is it quite beyond Possible ... that I

come also?"

"You? My dear little wife! Will you?"

"If--if it would not make shock to the Christian Peoples?"

"I think the Christian peoples might survive it!" he answered,

kissing her again. "There won't be half a dozen at this time of

year."

"And I can hide all Hindu-ness with my cloak and hood. Oh, Nevil--I

hardly believe! I never thought----"

"No more did I!" He pushed her gently toward the door. "Hurry up,

little woman. We've none too much time."

So Sir Nevil and Lady Sinclair rowed across to the little English

Church at Cadenabbia; and if the Christian peoples were pricked to

undue curiosity by the veiled and hooded, figure in a pew near the

door, the subject of their scrutiny was lifted beyond all

consciousness of the fact. To-day the presence of others troubled

her not at all. For to-day, by her husband's wish, she was

privileged to worship, with him, that Great One, that "Brilliance at

the core of Brilliance," whose diverse names and forms are but the

manifold garments of His revealing.

The handful of "Christian peoples," hypnotized by ceaseless

repetition, found the service, with its scanty music and unimpressive

sermon, a rather lifeless affair. But to one privileged "heathen" it

seemed a thing of beauty and awe. The church itself, plain and

unpretentious, like most of its kind abroad--had yet its pervasive

atmosphere of sanctuary, above all in the region of the

altar--shrine, she named it--where the white-robed figure, tall

candlesticks and sober embroideries were glorified by sun-rays

streaming through stained glass.

As for the simple hymns and chants--it was her first hearing of organ

music, and the deep-toned reverberations set all her sensitive nerves

a-thrill. The hidden magician--bald and spectacled--chose for

voluntary a stately Largo by Beethoven; and Lilamani's hand, slipping

into her husband's, kept him seated till the last note shuddered

through the empty church.

Then they went forth into the blaze of noon, and rowed homeward, too

deeply and diversely stirred for common speech. Only once he

intercepted her brooding gaze and asked, smiling:

"Well, does our fashion of worship please you?"

"Yes. It is more simple--more solemn than ours. It speaks to the

soul."

Her husband's smile had a touch of envy. He had not found it so.

"Some day I will take you to a really great service in our Abbey," he

said; and the promise wafted her on a dream-journey that only ended

when the keel touched ground.

A small event; yet of no small significance in an experiment more

vital and far-reaching than they two, in their charmed seclusion, had

quite recognized as yet. That first church-going led to others, at

intervals; led also to more intimate talk of the "big-little things";

a strengthening of links for the long after-strain of marriage.

For the rest, throughout the blazing stillness of July and August,

they dwelt in an atmosphere of ordered peace, as needful to artistic

achievement as emotion and experience to artistic conception. And it

was just this absorption in a subject quite outside themselves that

saved them from those lavish overdrafts on the emotions that are the

peculiar danger of honeymoon conditions indefinitely prolonged. They

talked Ramayāna, read Ramayāna, and lived

Ramayāna, without fear that either could weary of the

obsession. Sir Lakshman's treasures from India supplied fresh fuel

for the divine fire, that burned clearer and stronger as the bold

pictures came to life under Nevil's hand. Martino--vindictively

jealous of all who trespassed on his sacred sea and sky--could

rejoice whole-heartedly in the growing vigour and beauty of his

friend's work. His monologues became more volcanic; his prophecies

more extravagant. He spent more time in Nevil's studio than in his

own; now and again bringing a brother artist to confirm his verdict,

lest it seem mere partiality to the man who felt himself in the grip

of a power greater than he knew.

Outside the pictures, worked at day by day and dreamed of at night,

their only events were constant letters from Sir Lakshman and rarer

ones from the house of Sinclair. Christina, zealous to atone for

Jane, wrote in genuine sisterly fashion to her "dearest Lilamani,"

regretting that she must be back in Germany by October, not to return

again for good till early spring. And Jane wrote also; kindly--yet

with a difference, which "the Hindu child" was not considered capable

of detecting. But she did. She discovered, also, that, while she

had supposed herself to be obeying Nevil in regard to that first

letter, it had in truth so tinctured all her thoughts of Lady Roscoe,

that mere sight of the square handwriting awakened a fierce

antagonism, personal and racial, that boded ill for the days to come.

Between the formal phrases of welcome her quick spirit caught flashes

of the two-edged sword. Yet, for Nevil's sake, she must seem

convinced; must even devise an answer, not too carefully studied,

lest he suspect. What the writing of it cost her, he never knew.

Nor did he know how, when it was written, she tore Jane's compulsory

welcome across and across; then burned the pieces one by one in her

brick oven, holding them in her dwarf tongs; watching them curl and

blaze with a gleam of primitive hate in her eyes that her husband

must never see. Could he have seen it, he might have thought twice

about taking his wife home at all.

As it was, Lilamani's answer pleased him; and the ardour of

work--that, for the moment, eclipsed all else--flowed over the

incident, as the rising tide over a rock that will rear its head anew

in the time of shallows.

CHAPTER IX

"Naught is done that has not seeds in it."

MORLEY ROBERTS.

For both husband and wife, as for Sir Lakshman, September arrived too

soon. Not even the lure of Egypt could make Lilamani other than

loath to leave a corner of earth saturate with memories, sacred and

imperishable as her love itself: and to Nevil, as the time drew near,

there returned that faint prick of apprehension for which he hated

himself the more because he could not disregard it altogether. But

Lilamani on the sea was a revelation enchanting enough to banish all

forebodings for a time; and present content was deepened by the

knowledge that--conceit apart--he had achieved a remarkable summer's

work.

In the seven weeks following on his return, three more pictures had

been added to Sita in the hut: her first pleading with

Rāma--that, as a portrait of Lilamani, excelled his study at

Antibes; the setting forth of the three; and the abduction of Sita by

Ravān. The completion of each had bred a larger confidence,

a deeper understanding of the great subject chosen and inspired by

his wife: while into the fourth he had infused a strange mingling of

beauty and terror that at once amazed him and fired his ambition to

bolder flights. A fifth picture, even, had been started: Sita,

broken with grief, in the garden of Asoka, while she-fiends, on guard

among the high enclosing bushes, leered at her through the dusk;

their hideous shapes, half human, half bestial, grimly suggested

rather than seen. They had given Lilamani nightmares; and her

self-identification with Sita had so wrought upon her nerves, that

she was not sorry to escape from the haunting nearness of

Ravān and his myrmidons, for a time.

With Nevil it was otherwise. To tear himself from easel and canvas

and the idea that dominated him was a greater wrench than he would

have credited six months ago. But, in this crowning summer of his

life, a very rage of work possessed him; a spontaneous flow of

inspiration, not to be denied. It was as if all the thwarted and

dammed up energies of those priceless years between twenty and

thirty, having at last found their natural outlet, would give him no

rest till they had atoned, in some measure, for achievement

stultified and opportunities lost.

Happily for Lilamani, she herself was the mainspring of her husband's

inspiration; while her absorption in his subject and her Eastern

capacity for long spells of stillness made her an invaluable asset to

his actual work. And afar, on the horizon of his golden present, the

promise of the future glowed like a lamp. In Egypt he looked to

imbibe large draughts of the colourful East; not in the

self-conscious, notebook-and-pencil fashion of the journalist, but

with all his creative fervour in abeyance, that the receptive

faculties might have full play. Then, returning by Brindisi, they

would spend a last fortnight in their land of enchantment before

putting the Great Experiment to its ultimate test.

It had already been arranged that "Dreaming" should make its

appearance in the Goupil Gallery at an autumn exhibition of English

painters; and Martino looked that this picture alone should bring

Sinclair's name into notice among the elect; thus preparing the way

for his bold design of showing the Sita series independently when

complete. Pamphlets, giving a brief outline of the Epic, should be

supplied to all-comers, with a special description of each chosen

scene; and Martino himself would brave the unspeakable English

climate that he might have the pride and pleasure of inaugurating the

Unique Event! Even Leseppes, prince of egoists, had shown keen

interest in the new venture and promised a flying visit to Cadenabbia

before Sinclair left.

With such stimulating visions and a radiant Lilamani for company,

Nevil paid small heed to the whisper of apprehension during the brief

voyage from Brindisi to Cairo; and through the first few days of

varied and leisurely sightseeing, he strove loyally to convince

himself that all was well. But upon the fourth day conviction went

to pieces. Too late he recognized the wisdom of his instinctive

recoil from Sir Lakshman's plan.

Hitherto he had seen the East through Lilamani's eyes, veiled and

glorified by her idealism. Now he saw it in the fierce unsparing

glare of its own sunlight; saw, too, how potently it drew and held

the woman who had renounced it for love of him. True, it was not

India; and the familiar-looking folk in street and desert spoke an

unknown tongue. But the East, Near or Far, has its own indefinable

atmosphere; and to Nevil Sinclair it was obvious that Lilamani drank

it in as though it were the breath of life. An under-current of

suppressed excitement vibrated in her low voice, and glowed fitfully

in the brooding softness of her eyes. Acute consciousness of it

pricked her husband to a not unreasoning jealousy, and even checked

in a measure his own ardour of enjoyment.

On the fourth day, in question, he found her standing at the window

of Sir Lakshman's private sitting-room, so absorbed in the street

scene below that his entrance passed unheeded. He was almost at her

elbow when she turned with a startled sound; and though her lips

smiled a greeting, he saw the gleam of tears in her eyes.

"What is it, dear?" he asked.

"Not anything," she replied mendaciously, for she missed the note of

sympathy in his voice.

The touch of her fingers on his coat sleeve elicited no response;

and, after a second's hesitation, he said: "I'd sooner have the

truth, Lilamani. You're not like yourself since you came. It

excites you, upsets you, all this: perhaps--makes you regret----?"

"Oh, Nevil! Could you think such a thing?" Her fingers closed

sharply on his arm. "Only--how can I help?--if it aches me

sometimes, with reminding of my own country, my own peoples. Even

though I cannot know their language; still, by their colour and

movement--even by smell of shops and streets--all is speaking to me

in the language of my heart. Have I made you understand?"

"Yes--yes. It's only natural. So long as it doesn't spoil your

pleasure, I am content."

But although he patted the hand that held him, his tone belied his

words, and he spoke looking down into the street, with its flow of

noisy, leisurely life, its blinding patches of light and clear-cut,

blue-black shadows.

A puzzled distress and the nearness of tears kept her silent; and he,

with a muttered plea of letters to write, went out, leaving her a

shade more puzzled, more distressed.

What was wrong? What was the nameless shadow that had come between

them, dimming the radiance of her perfect week? For the past two

days she had been vaguely aware of it; and now--his words, his

manner, so unlike himself.

She brushed away the disturbing thought as if it were a fly that

buzzed at her ear. But even as the fly returns, after futile

circling, so the feeling came back, whenever some spontaneous

outburst on her part forced Nevil to a show of response. Months of

the real thing made her fatally quick to detect the counterfeit; and

it saddened her beyond speech.

On the next night, when Sir Lakshman offered them another week at the

hotel after he left, Sinclair would not see the eager pleading in his

wife's face, while he thanked his father-in-law, and urged the need

of finishing the picture on hand before going home in October. Yet

after all, touched by her loyal seconding of his refusal, he stayed

on three days--and regretted it. There were moments of unreasoning,

yet invincible revulsion, when he could scarcely endure the sight of

those other Eastern women who, in a dozen trifling ways, so subtly

reminded him of his wife; robbing her, thus, of the unique quality

that was for him an essential part of her charm. True, in happier

intervals, he had absorbed much and observed much that was invaluable

to an artist who aspired to interpret the East: but it was with a

sense of undiluted relief that he trod the deck of their

homeward-bound steamer and felt the hidden heart of it throb beneath

his feet.

Not so Lilamani. Standing alone at the taffrail, while her husband

interviewed the head-steward, she drank in every detail of the

fast-retreating coast line, as if by intensity of looking she would

stamp it for ever on her brain--that fervent and colourful East which

spoke to her so feelingly in the language of her heart. No denying

that this brief return to the atmosphere of her girlhood and the

subsequent parting with her father had brought home to her the

completeness of her own severance as nothing else could have done;

had stirred afresh the ache of longing drugged, of late, by happiness

almost beyond belief.

Yet did she not forget the price of return; the impasse from which

her husband's love had so miraculously saved her: and even had it not

been thus, regret were unthinkable. To belong body and soul to Nevil

was, without question, the best fate that could befall a woman.

Only, at this moment of parting, a perplexing conflict of emotions so

perturbed her that when, at length, her husband came to her side, she

could not turn and greet him because of chill tears that crept down

her cheeks.

Nevil saw them, and for the first time they moved him to irritation

rather than pity. His tone betrayed him.

"Crying again, Lilamani? Wishing you could have gone on with your

father, I suppose, instead of having to come back with me?"

She winced and bit her lip. "Unkind to speak so," she murmured

without looking round.

"I'm sorry. But you provoke it. You seem so heartbroken----"

"Not that. Only--a little sad. How can I help?"--then controlling

herself, she looked up at him, smiling mistily. "But it is

foolishness. And surely--we shall come again?"

He frowned. "I don't know. There won't be much surplus money for

pleasure trips just at present. I've a big place to keep up, you

see, and precious little to keep it on."

"How pity," she said softly, not quite following the drift of his

last remark.

Again the vanishing coast line absorbed her; and he, still frowning,

regarded her delicate profile in a speculative silence. Then he

turned abruptly away; and strolling down the deck, soon fell into

talk with the first officer.

Left alone again, the tears fell faster; till, in shame at her own

weakness, and fearful of discovery, though dusk had fallen, she

stumbled blindly down to their cabin--alone. In crossing the

hatchway, she caught sight of Nevil and his companion pacing the

deck. He saw her go. She knew it. But the minutes passed and he

did not come. He was content to walk and talk with a stranger, while

she lay crying softly in the half-dark; not only because the East was

slipping farther from her with every throb of the ship's pulses, but

because the radiance of her wonderful ten days had been dimmed by a

shadow whose substance she could not divine.

So deeply and entirely had they lived hitherto in the world of

imagination and emotion, wherein their unity was complete, that she

scarce recognized, as yet, the possibility of serious divergence.

She only knew that for near a week they had been living in a tangle

of cross purposes which she was powerless to unravel; that now, for

the first time, her tears had moved him to vexation, and he had left

her to find her way about this strange ship alone: events of no mean

significance in the early stage of marriage. But why? What harm had

she done to cause this break in his unfailing tenderness; this first

real sense of apartness from him who was more than ever her all,

since India had claimed her father? Only one answer suggested

itself. Always, at such moments, that unforgetable sentence in

Jane's letter would prick softly, like a thorn left under the skin,

reminding her--"I am here."

By the time he came into the cabin, tears had ceased; and bending

down he kissed her flushed cheek; then, without a word, passed a

soothing hand over her hair. She caught the hand and pressed it

passionately to her lips. So, once again, comfort was restored--for

the moment. Yet still--she did not understand: and therein lay the

seeds of tragedy.

Egypt once out of sight things readjusted themselves insensibly,

though the effect produced on Nevil could not be lightly shaken off.

There was no more jarring irritability. But there were times when

his wife was still aware of that intangible barrier; times when he

was so absent and distrait that she felt as if the real Nevil had

slipped miles away from her and only the shell of him lay beside her

in the long deck-chair. Once, when she ventured on comment, he had

frowned as if interrupted in a train of thought, and answered that

between digesting new impressions and heavy responsibilities ahead,

he had a good deal on his mind just then: which was true, though not

the whole truth, as she was quick to divine.

Thenceforward she kept silence. But her thoughts were less easily

bridled than speech, and during that short return voyage, she found

herself too often at their mercy. On most nights Nevil would take

her down to the cabin, and there leave her, while he himself returned

to pace the deck in troubled meditation; faintly, indefinably

alienated by a nameless something too elusive for definition; hating

himself heartily; yet temporarily at the mercy of his mood. More

than ever was he thankful for the few weeks of seclusion in store for

them at Cadenabbia. Both being hypersensitive to the spirit of

place, and of association, he relied confidently on these to restore

that completeness of harmony, of fusion, without which he scarce

dared contemplate the last great test of England and Bramleigh

Beeches.

In this reliance they were unconsciously at one. Through the long

hours when she was supposed to be asleep, Lilamani lay listening,

instead, to the rhythmical swish-swish under her port-hole and the

heart-throbs of the ship that bore her, minute by minute, nearer to

the familiar peace of their sanctuary. There at least she had

reigned supreme; there she had been essential both to his life and

work; the woman's incurable need. There, surely, this shadow of

division, of disappointment, would pass.

Yes, it was disappointment; that she had decided; having arrived at

her own solution of the problem in those wakeful hours; a solution

characteristic of her race. Six months a wife and yet no promise of

that other--the supreme gift, that should crown her first one, the

finding of himself. For the Eastern woman, marriage means

motherhood, or an abiding sense of failure: and the least delay in

the fulfilment of her divine mission breeds a lurking anxiety lest

the worst befall. Already it knocked softly at the door of

Lilamani's heart, and that it should visit her husband also seemed to

her the most natural thing imaginable. He too had hoped. He too was

disappointed. And although his tender consideration forbade speech

he could not hide it altogether from one who loved and understood.

Thus she wove around his perplexing mood her primitive-womanly myth

that was leagues removed from the truth; and longed only for courage

to broach the subject, that pain might be lessened by sharing. But

the mere imagining wrought her to such agony of shyness that she knew

speech could not be between them--as yet. She could only wait--and

pray. In the meantime she hoped great things from the spirit of

peace that dwelt in their balcony, their little white boat, and their

garden of dreams. Absorbed once more in their joint enterprise, the

evil demons of vexation and disappointment must be driven out--if

only for a time.

And it was so. The spirit of place and the very real love Nevil

Sinclair had for his wife achieved their perfect work. The mood of

aloofness vanished as though it had never been; and again, as after

the lesser interruption of Jane's letter, the ardour of work flowed

on over the incident, blotting it almost out of memory.

Leseppes' promised visit proved a foretaste of triumphs to come. He

applauded Martino's verdict; insisted upon hearing long extracts from

the Ramayāna; and covered Lilamani with confusion by

advertising his admiration with a frankness of gaze that in her view

amounted to insolence. For himself, he enjoyed her embarrassment.

It added a provocative quality to her beauty; and to stare a pretty

woman into a crimson silence was a delectable amusement that never

palled. But of this by-play his host was unaware. He took good care

of that, and Lilamani was too shy to speak.

For Nevil, in truth, the artist eclipsed the man. For him Leseppes

the prince of egoists, the reputed libertine, was submerged in

Leseppes the inimitable colourist, the godfather of his own lesser

gift; and the great man's words at parting exalted him as the praise

of no other living painter could have done.

"I tell you this, _mon ami_, and I speak from wide knowledge," said

he, wringing the younger man's hand in the effusive fashion of his

race--"those pictures of yours are unique, of their kind. They have

the colour and sensuousness, the emotion and idealism of the East.

_Mon Dieu_! They shall stir the blood even of those colossal

Philistines, your own countrymen! I shall be over with Martino when

your exhibition opens."

It was a very elated husband and wife that drank "Success to Sita" at

dinner that evening.

"And it's all your doing--yours, my own little Sita Devi," he assured

her, silencing her protest, as it deserved. "We'll block out the

Hanuman scene to-morrow. I wish to God we could stay on here till

the whole thing was done!"

How passionately Lilamani echoed that wish she dared not confess.

Yet a flicker of hope gleamed in her eyes as she asked: "If you are

so much wishing, Nevil--could it not be?"

"'Fraid not. Don't tempt me, sweetheart. Jane would have a fit; and

there's a deal that needs my personal supervision. No joke playing

the double rôle of artist and impoverished landowner. But after all

its high time we started our real life together in our real home.

I've picked a capital room in the East Tower for the studio; and

we'll have one blessed fortnight all to ourselves before the new Lady

Sinclair takes the family by storm!"

Lilamani shook her head, smiling uncertainly. "Lady Sinclair is

afraid----"

"Afraid? Nonsense! She is going to be an unqualified success all

round!"

His serene optimism stilled her qualms--for the moment at least. The

date of their departure was fixed; and on a golden afternoon of

October the little white boat set out for the last time. Lilamani,

crouched in the stern, elbows planted on the cushioned seat, watched

their chalet recede and dwindle till all outlines were blurred, and

in spite of herself a muffled sob betrayed her "foolishness." This

time it did not move Nevil to irritation. Balancing his sculls he

leaned forward and caressed her shoulder.

"Why break your heart over the good days gone, beloved?" he reproved

her gently. "There are plenty more ahead; and we'll come back here

again, I promise you."

"Yes--yes; we must come back," she murmured, choking down her tears.

But young as she was, already she began to perceive that the scheme

of life does not admit of "coming back." It is an eternal,

inexorable passing on.

END OF BOOK II

BOOK III

THE FRUIT

CHAPTER I

"Whom does love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet its

impact deluges a thousand shores."--E. M. FORSTER.

"Lilamani! You're a moonbeam incarnate! I don't wonder Nevil went

crazy over you; and if the rest don't follow suit--in their sober

Sinclair fashion--I shall disinherit them forthwith!"

Thus Christina, appraising her sister-in-law with Nevil's own smile

in her eyes. It was evening; and the new Lady Sinclair stood before

her cheval glass at Bramleigh Beeches arrayed for the supreme ordeal

of her marriage: a dinner-party of fourteen, all members of the clan,

save two.

A special dress lately arrived from India had been set aside for the

critical occasion; and the pale golden sheen of it in the light of

two tall candles justified Christina's simile. Unable to mourn for

her husband's father in "English fashion," she could only forswear

the least touch of colour, to the secret regret of Neville the

artist; though Nevil the man loved her the more. He had explained

regretfully that gold was not mourning; and she that Hindu women wear

silver only on the feet; with the result that they had compromised in

borders and embroideries of palest gold like the new-risen moon.

To-night, the shimmery under-dress was shot with it; and through the

filmy _sari_ ran a network of gleaming threads, that, more closely

woven, formed the narrow border. Only the vermilion caste-mark

glowed, as always, between her brows. For jewellery--her father's

star, Nevil's pendant, and his last flagrant extravagance, a

bracelet-watch set in diamonds.

No beautiful girl so arrayed, and blessed with a wholesome share of

vanity, could feel other than elate; and gratified by Christina's

frank approval, she answered softly with her veiled blush:

"I shall be getting too much spoilt--if all were like you----"

"Oh, but they're _not_ like me, poor dears!" Christina's equally

frank commiseration was far removed from conceit. "And none of them

recognize their misfortune! Still--Jane isn't half bad really;

straight and strong-minded and as common-sensible as a chest of

drawers. She's fond of Nevil too--in her queer way; and probably

wants to be fond of you. But the door of her heart is a bit rusty on

its hinges. No doubt she'll just shake hands, and ask how you like

Bramleigh; while, if she had half an ounce of real mother-feeling in

her--which she hasn't in spite of two plain children--she would take

you in her arms and kiss you straight away."

A faint involuntary change came over Lilamani's face.

"That I should not like at all. Though relation by marriage, I am

quite stranger--with Lady Roscoe."

"Lady Roscoe! My dear, you _must_ call her Jane. You call me

Christina."

"But how different! Through many letters we became like sisters

before meeting; and for me, you could never be stranger. You are too

like--like Nevil in a girl."

Even now, racial instinct made her shy of "taking her lord's name"

before others; custom impermissible for wife or husband among her own

people, as Christina had come to know.

"Does that make you love me very much, little Moonbeam?" she asked,

slipping an arm round the slender shoulders; and for an answer two

warm lips pressed her cheek. "It was awfully good of Nevil to give

me this quiet time alone with you two before the influx of the clan,"

she went on, well content. "And I half wish I could put off going

back to Germany. But now I must fly and dress. Are you going down?

Or will you wait here for your 'lord?'"

Lilamani did not miss the gleam of amusement in her eyes.

"Why do you make fun for that?" she asked simply. "Does my

husband-worship seem to all English peoples--foolishness?"

"I don't know about all English peoples! To me it seems rather

beautiful. Rather enviable. And I'm quite sure Nevil's in luck to

have picked up a wife who believes in that kind of foolishness. At

the rate we're going, they'll soon be as extinct as the dodo."

Lilamani puckered her brows. "Extinct--gone out, is it? How pity?

But who is the dodo?"

Christina laughed.

"I give it up! Ask Nevil, you angelic little anachronism. Now go

down and knock the bottom out of my noble sister's condescension; and

_don't_ forget to call her 'Jane'!"

Lilamani's answering smile did not imply acquiescence. But Christina

was gone; and soon--far too soon--Nevil would come to take her

downstairs. There she would meet face to face the woman whose

poisoned shafts of speech still pricked her heart. Knowing all, she

must yet appear unknowing. She must endure the touch of hands; the

meeting of eyes; but the touch of lips--never! For beneath her

surface gentleness throbbed the passionate, unforgiving heart of a

soldier race, strong to smite, swift to revenge.

With a last lingering glance at her own reflection, she smiled,

sighed, and sank into a chintz-covered arm-chair, heartily wishing

the evening well over. And not this one evening alone; but the next

few days, which she must learn to call "week-end." It was her first

dinner-party; and the mere crowd of strangers dismayed her, apart

from the fact that all were her husband's relations and friends;

curious, interested, or disapproving, even as those who had come in

carriages to "inspect her" and deposit bits of pasteboard on the hall

table.

Nevil had prepared her to the best of his ability; had sketched them

all for her, with touches of not unkindly humour; and had much to

tell her of two artist friends, Miss de Winton and Frank Norris, who

would come on the Saturday, and were eager to see the pictures

destined to establish the impression already made by "Dreaming," at

the Goupil Gallery. Jane alone, Nevil had left to his wife's

imagination; merely remarking that she was a "good woman under

chain-mail," and that Lilamani must make allowances, for his sake.

And now--the time was at hand. The "blessed fortnight" all to

themselves had melted like snow in a thaw. Even then, they had only

been nominally alone; and she had found it hard to hide from Nevil

how the great rambling house and its retinue of servants oppressed

her. Mrs. Lunn, Queen-Regent of the household--grown portly and

domineering in the service of her widowed master--filled Lilamani

with awe unspeakable. Her scrupulously respectful bearing was

tinctured with too perceptible a pinch of condescension toward this

"heathen chit of a child, from goodness-knows-where," whom she, Sarah

Lunn, was called upon to serve.

"Enough to make poor dear old master turn in 'is grave; _that_ it

is!" she confided to Barnes over their nightly glass of wine in her

sanctum. "If it wasn't but what I firmly believe he'd _feel_ it,

even where he is, I'd 'a' given notice the first day I set eyes on

her."

Barnes nodded in sympathetic comprehension. The discovery that his

astuteness was superfluous had put a severe strain on his own loyalty.

"That's your magananimus sense o' duty all over, Mrs. Lunn! An' Sir

Nevil he may be thankful. Without you the old place 'ud fall to

racking ruin." He sipped meditatively and shook his head. "It's bin

a quare business all along. At first I thought----" No. His

thoughts on the subject would scarce bear retailing to the

Queen-Regent of all the proprieties. "Well--I _had_ me qualms. Who

wouldn't? But I own I _did_ give Sir Nevil credit for more good

sense than this 'ere fiasker amounts to."

"Good sense, Mr. Barnes?" Mrs. Lunn's sniff expressed the

quintessence of contempt. "You, with your experience, didn't ought

to be looking for good sense from a master that wastes his time

messin' about with dirty paints, instead of tramping or riding round

the old Place natural-like, with the dogs at his heels; a master that

can't even use 'is droring-room after dinner like a gentleman; 'e's

so set on them heathen pictures of his, and that musked-up room in

the Tower."

It was true. The great drawing-room still languished, empty and

desolate, while the misguided pair spent their evenings in the

studio, with its friendly litter of books and painting gear; its

memory-provoking atmosphere of cigarette smoke and attar of roses.

For the artist in Nevil Sinclair, having survived the barren years of

discouragement, could challenge even the sacred obligations of

heritage. It would not suffer the real man to be entirely overridden

by the thing possessed.

As for Lilamani, that sacred hour or two of isolation in the Tower

room had come to be the crowning-point of her day; a light toward

which she moved, with a deep and conscious yearning that pervaded her

every thought, her every act. For she of the East lives in and

through the one supreme emotion with a singleness of soul scarce

credible to the many-faceted woman of the West: and despite Mrs.

Lunn's lamentations, "the old Place" inevitably absorbed more of

Nevil's time and attention than seemed good to a young wife little

used to rival interests that took him from her side. For Nevil

Sinclair, temperament or no, was at core an Englishman true to his

breed, as Lilamani to her own. Yet withal, they must contrive to be

true to each other. There lay the pith of their problem.

There were mornings spent in the saddle with Thornbrook--land-agent

and confidential adviser; tramps through the beech-wood with Mills,

the gamekeeper; a visit from Reynolds; a call from a bachelor

landowner, who must be asked to lunch, and whose talk of bags,

coverts, and meets was pure gibberish to the "ripping little beauty,"

who sat with lids downcast, praying for his departure. Worse than

all--just when she had secured Nevil to herself--were the superfluous

strangers--who "came only to look what queer kind of creature Indian

bride might be." This conviction--which at once hurt her

sensitiveness and fired her pride of race--was proof against Nevil's

most tactful denials. At this time he discovered in her a fund of

quiet, unreasoning obstinacy, unsuspected hitherto; and great was her

joy when, in pity, he revealed how she could frustrate "those

needless ones" by the magic formula "Not at Home." Thereafter she

was insatiable--when he would permit; and her childish joy in

pronouncing the shibboleth made refusal seem sheer brutality.

Only one thing had failed them entirely: the one thing most like to

fail home-comers in an English autumn.