In place of Italy's passionate, unfathomable blue, a shifting

greyness hung low over the tree-tops; a reservoir, it seemed, for all

the tears of all the earth. Most often Lilamani's great event, the

coming of the sun, could only be known by a stealthy, half-hearted

change from grey to a whitish pallor, through which, as daylight

grew, a moon-like disc peered, ghost-like; his passing, by a gleam in

the west, as it were a lifting of tired lids flushed a little with

weeping. Then the slow onset of dark; renewed patter of raindrops;

the unresting murmur of wind-swayed trees. Nevil Sinclair--sun-lover

though he was--could not know that for Lilamani these changed

conditions meant no mere deprivation of light and heat, but temporary

eclipse of the reigning gods of her Pantheon. Instinctively her

excommunicate soul had slipped back into the primal nature-worship of

Vedantic times; satisfying thus her racial instinct for religion, and

the deeper human need of worshipping, through the medium of the seen,

that "Great Unfading, who unseen sees, unheard hears, unthought

thinks, uncomprehended comprehends."

And now behold temple and gods alike obliterate! Only for a time,

she hoped; yet this fresh deprivation added not a little to the

difficulty and strangeness of the new phase of wifehood she was

called upon to fulfil. She said little to Nevil; lest she seem to

disparage the cradle of his birth. Only upon the fourth day of

weeping skies and whirling leaves she had asked half in joke: "Do sun

and moon nearly always keep purdah in your England?"

"Why, of course not!" said he, and the sympathetic note in his voice

assured her that he had not taken the question amiss. "Wait till the

autumn gales are over. Then you'll see!"

And the very next day, as if in ratification, behold the sun-god,

smiling genially, in a clear sky, flaked with drifting cloud. She

must come for a walk, Nevil decreed, through the beech-wood and up on

to the moor. It was sodden underfoot; and Lilamani, who had never

worn boots in her life, was chary as a cat about wetting her

silver-shod feet. But Nevil--not to be gainsaid--assured her that

walking in the wet was an accomplishment all who aspired to live in

England must learn forthwith. A pair of Christina's goloshes had

been unearthed; and for near two hours they had tramped, like a pair

of happy children, through the dominion over which they were king and

queen. Through the stately beech-wood, already on fire with burnt

sienna and gold, with here and there the bronze gleam of a pheasant

among the leaves: then out on to the open moor, where the October sun

had awakened a host of midges, that danced like winged motes in his

beams; and, from tip to tip of the mummied heath-bells, undiscouraged

spiders had woven their gossamer snares, that swayed and lifted,

changefully iridescent, in the afternoon light.

Standing silent and entranced, with the sun in her eyes, the

mother-longing had stirred in the young wife afresh; conjuring up

visions of a day when children's voices--her sons and his--should

fill moor and wood with the divinest music on earth. And he? Did he

also dream and hope? She stole a shy glance at him. But his

thoughts had gone off on a journey of their own; and he did not see.

When at length his eyes sought hers, the transfigured light in them

thrilled him strangely. But no word was said.

Returning, he had slipped an arm round her, secure in their vast

privacy; and they had walked home like lovers, oblivious of

everything in earth and heaven save themselves. Then, all too soon,

the house closed over them; the house with its mute reminder of

responsibilities, "needless ones," the minor tyrannies of

possession--changing them into Sir Nevil and Lady Sinclair once more.

On the second clear day he drove with her to return the visit of a

"needless one" who plagued her with the two reiterate, unanswerable

questions that seemed a part of this particular ritual: What did she

think of England, and how did she like Bramleigh? Then on to tea

with Helen Despard, in the rambling black and white oak-panelled

bungalow, that Lilamani loved at sight, like its mistress, and

secretly preferred to the spacious desolation of her own ancestral

home. There was endlessly much to be said, when the men left them

alone: but alas, the adopted mother, on whose sympathy and help

Lilamani had reckoned, would not be long at hand. The Despards

rarely spent a winter in England; and, like Christina, they would not

be back till early spring. In this double deprivation, Lilamani saw

the malice of her outraged gods. Yet how propitiate them without

offering or penance? For her the problem was a serious one, beyond

her power to solve.

Thus, between work and play, between driven clouds and fitful

sunshine, their fortnight had evaporated. In spite of interruptions,

the Token scene had progressed near to completion; and no longer, in

Nevil's opinion, could the crucial "week-end" party be postponed.

On Wednesday had come Christina--true spirit-sister, flower of purely

Western culture though she was. This afternoon had brought Sir

Robert and his wife, with "Aunt Julia," who had kissed her, a little

nervously, and called her dear child, but had failed to set her at

her ease. Then, before the arrival of the later train--bringing

George and "Phil," the Roscoes and Broome--she had pleaded headache

and fled to the solitude of her shrine, above the studio, arranged

exactly as in Italy.

Here, in one of her Yoga moods of receptive quiet, she had striven to

still the flutter of anxiety, lest in word or bearing she should not

satisfy her lord and those he loved: excepting only "That Terrible,"

whose secret antagonism, she felt convinced, would equal her own.

Nevil, divining her need, had not only refrained from seeking her

out; but had checked Christina's mistaken impulse of sisterly

kindness.

So, for an hour or more, there had been respite; the indefinable

refreshment of solitude and silence, and, by a merciful oversight of

the gods--a blazing sunset that fired all the west. Slipping a shawl

round her shoulders, she had flung the window wide, and sat there in

a carven stillness, till eyes and brain and spirit were saturate with

the molten brilliance; till all sense of self was lost in that

miracle of fusion which only intense gazers know; till living light

faded to a dull orange-crimson that glowed beneath the curtain of

cloud like the heart of a forge seen through an open door.

Even now, so long after, the ethereal fire seemed to glow in her

veins. But imagination makes cowards of the bravest--before action;

and detachment was hard to maintain when Nevil's footstep was at her

very door.

She rose as he entered and stood before him; breath suspended, eyes

veiled. He had not been allowed to see the dress till now; and he

stood a moment, appraising her with a long look, felt even through

her sheltering lids. Then he came quickly forward, took her in his

arms and kissed her with a lover's fervour on lips and eyes and brow.

"You are satisfied with your Lilamani?" she whispered, craving,

woman-like, the full meed of praise.

"More than satisfied. She is inimitable. Come."

Laughingly, he offered her his arm, and led her thus down the broad

shallow staircase.

Just outside the drawing-room door he felt her hand tremble, and

pressed it against his side. "Be a plucky little wife, for my sake,"

he pleaded; and they went in.

Lilamani had an impression of a graceless figure, uncompromisingly

black, that turned as they entered, and stood still. She heard

Nevil's voice say: "Well, Jane, here she is--the new Lady Sinclair!"

She felt a hand, harder than Audrey's, close upon her own; while

Nevil, fearing that his presence would only multiply embarrassment,

passed on to where the three elders were discussing the latest

evening paper, brought by George.

There was a moment's dead weight of silence between the two he left

behind. Opposite as the black and white they wore, they had yet one

trait in common. Both were too innately honest for surface

insincerities. Lilamani--startled by the fierce flame of hate that

had leaped in her at the touch of hands--was smitten dumb; leaving

Jane, woman of the world, to hit the happy mean between rank

hypocrisy and truth.

"I'm so glad you're both really home at last," said she. "We were

beginning to think we should never see you in the flesh!" Her

attempt at lightness rang false; and the new Lady Sinclair's small,

polite smile was a little disconcerting. But Jane Roscoe was not the

woman to be lightly put out of countenance.

"I suppose Nevil has shown you all round the dear old Place by this

time?" she asked conversationally.

"Yes; so much as possible in such uncomfortable kind of weather.

With sunshine it is beautiful."

Lady Roscoe nodded. "Autumn's a bad time, of course. Nevil should

have brought you home long ago."

"There was too much work in Italy."

"Was there? I'm sure he could have done it just as well here. Some

artist's fad about 'atmosphere.' Simply an excuse. He's

incorrigible over the Continent. But now we've got him into his

proper place at last, we must keep him there. We shall expect you to

use your influence!"

The soft mouth hardened ever so little.

"Best surely for--husband to do what he thinks right."

Her instinctive avoidance of Nevil's name gave an air of stiffness,

of sententiousness to her small remark; and Jane flashed out with a

touch of ungovernable asperity: "A good deal depends upon the

husband. Some men have a convenient knack of thinking 'right' any

mortal thing they feel inclined to do at the moment."

Lilamani's brows went up a fraction of an inch.

"Have they?" she murmured with a laming indifference that effectively

tripped up the subject.

Another dead weight of silence. Her eyes had wandered to the slim

figure on the hearth-rug, and Jane's chill antagonism was pricked to

active irritation. What an insipid little fool the girl was! And

why on earth had not Nevil insisted on a more decent show of

mourning? She herself still abjured white, except at throat and

wrists. By way of broaching the subject, she lightly fingered the

gossamer _sari_; and Lilamani needed all her self-control not to

shrink visibly from her touch.

"Very beautiful, indeed," she said, not without a shade of

condescension. "You never wear black in India?"

"No. Not custom. It is too sad, and too ugly with dark skin. So I

could only leave off from colour, though for me almost like breath of

life."

It was Lady Roscoe's turn to lift her brows. She stigmatized all

such phrases as "artist's jargon," and supposed the child had caught

up, parrot-wise, scraps of her husband's tall talk. She merely said:

"H'm! I suppose you can live without it for a time--out of respect

for Nevil's loss?"

"But naturally. What else?" Lilamani made answer with such

transparent simplicity that again Lady Roscoe had an annoying sense

of disconcertion, of being politely set at arm's length by this mere

child, who, but for Nevil's madness, had no business to be reigning

at Bramleigh Beeches at all.

"I was suggesting thin line of black along this border," the soft

voice went on; "but--_he_ did not wish."

"H'm!" Jane remarked afresh, and on her lips that ungracious

monosyllable had an eloquence of its own. "I can quite believe it!

He always _does_----"

But what he always did his wife never learnt; for at this point the

door opened to admit Cuthbert Broome, who came eagerly forward, his

sailor eyes agleam.

"Ah--there you are, my runaway bride of Antibes!" said he, enclosing

her hand in his great friendly grasp, while Lady Roscoe, to their

mutual relief, passed on. "And here's my girl, Morna, dying to make

your acquaintance."

Morna Broome--tawny-haired and blue-eyed like her father--flushed up

to her eyebrows. "It's all father's doing," said she. "He's a great

admirer! And his enthusiasms are so infectious."

"Yes. That I remember well!" Lilamani answered, the morsel of ice at

her heart dissolving like magic in the geniality that breathed from

both. "I cannot ever be thankful enough to your father for this most

beautiful summer in my first home."

She bestowed on the big man a look of melting tenderness, through

which laughter gleamed; and Broome nodded down at her, well content.

Jane, watching covertly from the hearth-rug, saw that look through

the distorting glass of prejudice; and misread it altogether.

"The harem type all over," was her thought. "Shamming shyness with

_me_--her husband's sister. But all smiles and sugar for a

man--though he's not one of US."

For Jane, like Aunt Julia, spoke the sacred pronoun in capitals.

To-night it was Lilamani's patent duty to ingratiate herself with

Nevil's People; and she would probably spend half the evening talking

Antibes with Broome! Nevil should have coached her in advance. Just

like his casual ways!

The three near the piano, joined by Christina, were soon engrossed in

easy, happy talk, the real Lilamani flashing out spontaneously, at

moments, in low laughter, and shy, playful sallies, to the further

confounding of Jane. Nevil--after praiseworthy efforts to discuss

Egyptian unrest with Lord Roscoe--drifted irresistibly back to the

piano, leaving the five elders regnant on the hearth-rug: immemorial

throne of the British home.

Sir Robert had twice consulted his watch, a trifle ostentatiously,

when George and Phillippa sauntered in, serenely unhurried; and there

was only time for a brief introduction before Lord Roscoe offered

Lady Sinclair his arm.

Phillippa's first thought was an unconscious echo of Jane's: "The

harem type all over." It is the brand wherewith the essential woman

is branded by an emergent minority; to which Phillippa Weston

pre-eminently belonged. A good shot, a straight rider, and mistress

of a clear five thousand a year--she was, as Jane had written, a

"sound and satisfactory" family asset. And if Jane's conviction plus

the thousands were, in a measure, responsible for George's fervour,

Phillippa had no inkling of the fact. She had the modern girl's

tendency to admire her own sex; and Lady Roscoe stood scarcely second

to George in her esteem. On one point alone were they at variance.

Jane was a passive advocate of women's right to vote; Phillippa an

active one. But it was quite understood that the martyr's crown must

be foregone if she desired to become Mrs. George Sinclair: the which

she did as heartily as any unit of the unenlightened mass. She was

woman enough also to note and resent the fact that George's glance

lingered unduly on his new sister-in-law, even while he gave his arm

to Morna Broome, who looked a trifle overgrown and rough-cut by

contrast.

As for Lilamani, bringing up the solemn procession on Lord Roscoe's

arm, she had thoughts for nothing but the lean, grave-eyed man, whose

over-punctilious politeness reduced her to monosyllables and murmured

platitudes; the more so because Jane, given over to Broome, walked

just ahead.

The hour that followed was one of undiluted misery for the

zenana-bred hostess of eighteen, condemned to sit through a

six-course dinner with a mixed party of strangers, who talked and

laughed incessantly while eating, and--worse still--had all of them a

covertly curious eye to their kinsman's bride.

Alone with Lord Roscoe, the veil of shyness might have been lifted.

But the noise and lights bewildered her, while Jane's proximity froze

all spontaneous speech upon her lips. Broome--who had not the clue

to her discomfiture--did his utmost to dispel it, with small success.

Once or twice Nevil caught her eye and smiled encouragement across

leagues of chrysanthemum-decked table-cloth. But he was so far off,

and That Terrible, with eyes that probed like gimlets, so

perturbingly near! Lord Roscoe, scholarly and unprejudiced, had to

own himself disappointed; and Miss Sinclair, who found dear Edward's

conversation so stimulating, reaped the benefit accordingly.

It seemed as if dessert would never arrive! But it did. And with it

came the alarming recollection that it would be hers to make the

move, to catch Lady Margaret's eye. From the moment the wine began

to circulate her mind became so concentrated on this achievement that

she could hardly hear what Cuthbert Broome was saying.

In the end it was Nevil who saw, and came to her rescue; and the

thing was done. They were all filing out, the black-robed figures,

in the midst of which she gleamed like a ray of light; and Christina,

hanging back, slipped a sheltering arm round her as they went out.

George, holding the door open, smiled genially upon her; and,

returning, sat down by his brother.

"By Jove, Nevil, you've my hearty congrats!" he said under his breath.

"Thanks, old chap."

Nevil spoke without enthusiasm and glanced toward the other end of

the table. But the elder men were discussing Sir George's cellar--an

engrossing topic; and George the younger went on, still in the same

confidential undertone: "Hindu or no, she's a jewel of the first

water. You don't get a sight of her sort in India. And perhaps it's

as well, for the peace of the community! Alluring. That's the word.

A woman all through as they still make 'em in the East; though we're

losing the art this side, worse luck."

Nevil--listening with amused indifference to the sort of comments one

expected from George--sipped his port and thought of Phillippa

Weston, who was none of these things.

But his brother's next words put indifference to flight.

"All the same, old man," he went on with a twinkle of jocose

sagacity, "when it comes to that type, the purdah has its advantages,

eh? No risk of complications----"

Nevil straightened himself with a jerk.

"Damn your impertinence! What the deuce do you mean?" he asked

sharply under his breath, and was grateful for a shout of laughter

from Broome.

"Oh, nothing, my dear chap, nothing." George's tone was a

metaphorical pat on the shoulder. "Can't you take a bit of chaff in

the right spirit? You seem to have grown almighty touchy since your

marriage. I'm a plain practical chap with a shrewd pair of eyes in

my head--that's all."

"Keep your shrewdness for your own affairs then." Nevil's cooler

tone had a touch of incision, and leaving his chair he sat down near

Broome.

George, scowling across at him over the top of a lighted match,

reflected sagely that a few years with the Regiment would have done

old Nevil a power of good. As it was, he half suspected his brother

of turning prig--most heartily hated word in the British language.

But Nevil Sinclair was neither prig nor Bayard. He had the

fastidiousness of his temperament--and its susceptibility. Did he

err, his heart must be involved. It must be the woman, however

transitory. For George the indefinite article sufficed: a radical

distinction.

Yet, in a sense, the younger brother's puzzlement was justified. Six

months of marriage and steady work had wrought imperceptible changes

in Nevil Sinclair, as he himself was aware; though he scarcely

realized yet how much was due to the girl-wife who swayed him by the

very completeness of her submission, as only the true woman-spirit

can. At this moment he was merely angry, and glad to be quit of

George, who--being deserted--took his own small revenge.

The opening flourish of a Chopin polonaise suggested the possibility

of quiet talk under cover of "Kit's fireworks"; and deliberately

extinguishing his cigar he went in search of amusement more congenial

than the dining-room could offer.

Phillippa, deep in shooting prospects with Jane, started and flushed

a little at her lover's entrance. But George, incapable of finesse,

had eyes only for the thing he sought.

"Jove! I'm in luck!" was his mental comment. For his sister-in-law

sat alone on a settee near the grand-piano, over which Morna Broome

leaned, absorbed and envious. Jane and Phillippa sat by the fire,

and Aunt Julia had taken Lady Margaret to her own room.

George made straight for the sofa, where Lilamani lay back with eyes

half closed, thankful for a brief respite from the need to "make

talk." At his approach she looked up and smiled.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" he asked perfunctorily as he sat

down. "And you don't mind talking a little while Kit makes that

unholy noise?"

"No," she answered untruthfully, as in duty bound; and he was content.

For a space he talked platitudes, one arm laid along the sofa-back in

casual brotherly fashion; while she murmured polite responses, seldom

raising her eyes. Once during a softer passage in the music her

lifted hand pleaded for silence; and he sat watching her, wondering

whether, after all, he would have had Nevil's pluck when it came to

the point. He began to believe he would. The longer he looked at

her, the more firmly he believed it. The conviction did not disturb

his placid affection for Phil. It enhanced the pleasure of sitting

so close to this delicately alluring bit of femininity--that was all.

It made him want to bring a light into her eyes, colour into her

cheeks, to enforce some sort of recognition that she was talking to a

man.

Renewed crashing of chords gave him his chance. He leaned nearer.

"Am I allowed to speak now--Lilamani?"

He paused before the name and pronounced it "Lilamarny." She winced

and shook her head.

"Not say it that way, please."

"What way, then? Teach me."

"Lilamani." She spoke the word with a dainty crispness; the first

syllable slightly stressed, the second "a" almost a "u."

"It's a thundering pretty name, the way you say it," was his

masculine comment. "And the meaning's prettier still. Nevil told

us. If I can't pronounce it to please you, let me call you Jewel

instead. Comes more natural to an Englishman, and they couldn't

possibly have picked anything more appropriate."

Something in the tone, rather than the words, called up the slow,

veiled blush that had so charmed Nevil in early days. He entered at

the moment with Broome; saw the blush, and noting his brother's

attitude, made straight for the settee.

George greeted him with imperturbable complaisance.

"We've been making friends--Lilamani and I."

"That's all right," quoth Nevil dryly; and drawing up a chair, sat

down beside his wife.

Talk languished; Christina's Polonaise crashed to its conclusion; and

George, seeing that no more blushes would be his, sauntered over to

the fire-place for consolation. But Phillippa, on his approach,

became the more ostentatiously engrossed in Jane; and he, with a

resigned movement of the shoulders, returned to the dining-room, to

enjoy the smoke he had sacrificed, and await a probable game of

Bridge.

His last glance was not toward the fire-place but toward Nevil's

wife, whose eyes were upon her husband's face, mutely demanding was

he satisfied with his Lilamani--now?

His answering smile reassured her; though, in his heart, he felt she

had been over-successful in the wrong direction, and hoped for better

results on the morrow.

CHAPTER II

"Heaven's own screen

Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow;

Closely withheld, as all things most unseen--

The wave-bowered pearl, the heart-shaped seal of green

That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow."

ROSSETTI.

The morrow brought its own fresh ordeal to the new Lady Sinclair;

added its own quota to the discovery, each day enforced more clearly,

that married life with Nevil, the rising artist, was one thing, and

married life with Sir Nevil Sinclair of Bramleigh Beeches, in the

stronghold of his fathers, was very much another.

Tea-time found Lilamani in the large hall presiding at the gate-leg

table over a bewildering array of Crown Derby tea-cups, and a purring

silver urn that carried its banner of steam. More girlishly demure

than ever she seemed, in dead-white dress and _sari_ bordered with

palest grey; more "impossible" than ever also, in the opinion of the

elders, who had made an honest effort to "draw her out" by talking of

India before the kettle arrived. Sir Robert, mildly pompous and

impersonal, had enlarged on the climate and the sport; Lord Roscoe

contributed a few polished and paralysing questions on India's

premier Native State; while Lady Margaret and Aunt Julia embarked

hopefully on the field of missionary endeavour. A barren field, in

this case.

Not that Lilamani's answers were other than intelligent and polite.

But these Western elders, inured by now to the airy self-assurance of

their own young, felt checked and a little chilled by lowered lids

and deferential murmurs; not realising that this was her idea of

correct behaviour to the more venerable members of a husband's family.

The arrival of the kettle had been a welcome relief to all. But soon

there would be other talk to make; fresh strangers to encounter.

Nevil and Christina had driven out to meet the new-comers; rank

Bohemians both; peculiarly distasteful to Jane. Morna and her

father, after a short turn with Lilamani, had wandered on through the

burnished glories of the beech-wood. George and Phil had gone for a

ride. There had been a slight coolness between them all the morning,

much of which George had contrived to spend in Lilamani's

neighbourhood. But fresh air and exercise readjusted things; and on

their return, the drive being empty, he had lifted his _fiancée_ out

of the saddle and kissed her soundly, on the lips.

"Oh--George!" she murmured, as he released her. But he had turned

aside and was opening the front door.

It was George's way of making love. Little of tenderness in speech

or tone; only an occasional kiss, half passionate, half shamefaced,

when heart or senses were stirred. Phillippa did not altogether

approve. But she wanted George--for several reasons; and one could

not accept a man piecemeal.

It was not so easy to accept his instant gravitation to the "harem

child" on entering the hall. Mere masculine instinct, she assured

herself; and bore Nevil a grudge for giving him a chance to gratify

it. But he had not gratified it for many minutes before wheels and a

stir outside announced Nevil and his friends.

Lilamani braced herself for renewed "inspection"; and her young

vanity craved the more distinctive setting of mother-o'-pearl or

almond-blossom _sari_; the golden gleam or armlets, belt and shoes.

She wearied of this eternal white and grey. Its insipidity seemed to

infect her soul; its----

"Lilamani--here is Miss de Winton."

Nevil's voice roused her. She started; smiled obediently, and held

out her hand. It was retained for a second or more while its owner

regarded her leisurely out of long, level-lidded eyes.

"This is a great moment, Lady Sinclair," said Leslie de Winton in a

full contralto as leisurely as her gaze. "I've been counting the

days and the hours ever since the invite came. I've known this Nevil

of yours"--she grasped his arm--"how many years is it, old boy?"

He shrugged and laughed. "I'm weak at arithmetic! And I've lived a

lifetime this summer."

"Well--we'll say a lifetime then!" Her eyes seemed reluctant to

leave his face. "'We were boys together,' like Mr. and Mrs. Alphonso

Browne! And I couldn't induce myself to believe in Nevil's _wife_

till I'd seen her in the flesh."

Lilamani had no immediate answer at command. Something in the look

and tone of this mere stranger--little more than Audrey's age--who

laid hands on her man and called him "old boy" fired her with a hot

rush of anger. But she kept her gaze steady, lest hesitation be

deemed shyness, and a delicate shade of sarcasm lurked in her

question: "Perhaps you are a little more able for believing it now?"

Miss de Winton, vaguely aware of something amiss, turned it off with

a laugh. "Why, yes. Very much so! But even now, I can't manage to

believe in those pictures! The Nevil _I_ know could never have

achieved the amount; let alone the unique subject." Again her eyes

dwelt upon him with their odd look of veiled power. "It seems that I

am here to meet a new Nevil as well as a new wife! But I beg your

pardon, Noll"---this to Norris. "It's your turn now. Once _I_ get

into the middle of the stage I'm rather apt to stay there unless some

one kindly pushes me aside!"

Still unhurried, she moved on her way, shaking hands and talking in

the strong, deliberate voice that was almost a drawl; while Lilamani,

only half appeased, must endure the scrutiny of eyes the more

embarrassing that they were masculine, prominent and boldly

appreciative, under rough, irritable brows. But for Norris the

drawing-room and the tea-table were unfamiliar mediums--"not being a

placard-painter," was his own explanation; and he had no platitudes

at command.

Having covered his small hostess with confusion by a look that

comprised her from caste-mark to shoe-buckle, he announced bluntly:

"Strikes me, Lady Sinclair, that you came over from India expressly

to do this lucky husband of yours a double service. He's just the

Fate-favoured type that would get all the plums dropped into his

mouth, without any prelude of starving and agonizing such as we poor

devils have to grind through first----"

"Well, you shan't starve and agonize under my roof, old chap!" Nevil

interposed promptly, seeing that the speech was quite beyond his

wife's power to answer.

He would fain have set her at ease by a tender word or two, a hand on

her shoulder; but that he knew too well by this time how all her

"Hindu-ness" shrank from the lightest revealing of their hearts

before others.

"Give this ill-used pair some tea, Lilamani!" was all he could say.

"Unless you'd prefer drinks and cigarettes in the studio, Norris?"

No. They voted for tea. But Miss de Winton smoked a cigarette with

hers, and flicked her ash about the carpet, to Aunt Julia's amaze and

Jane's unspeakable disgust.

The family dispersed more or less during the interlude; and the

moment tea-drinking was over Leslie de Winton rose.

"Now then, Nevil, I'm in a most egregious hurry to be convinced of

the existence of these myths!"

"You look it!" said he, surveying with a smile her lazy length, that

held the same kind of power as her eyes. "You'll tear me into

ribbons between you. But you're more than welcome----"

He motioned her to the door; and as they went forward, he lingered a

moment to lean over his wife's chair.

"Aren't you coming too, Jewel of Delight?"

"Not now--please," she answered, and her eyes clung to his for one

appealing instant.

But as soon as he was gone, she lay back and closed them, simulating

weariness as a cloak for vague trouble and bewilderment of soul.

Weeks of monopoly had made the studio dear and sacred almost as her

shrine. It was one thing to admit Christina, who was "Nevil in a

girl." But to share it with strangers--the one, too openly intimate

with him; the other too likely to persecute her with his eyes, in the

fashion of M. Leseppes--was more than she would willingly endure. It

began to dawn upon her that this trouble of the way men looked at you

must be an inevitable phase of unveiled life: a phase that made her

long for the cloistered shelter of the Inside as nothing else had

done yet. Even George, brother and promised husband, was not above

reproach.

And to-day--fresh perturbation on her lord's account. If it were

_dastur_ that the free women of England should behave with the

husband of another as this bold-mannered one behaved with

hers--Lilamani's, then, better a thousand times that wife should be

shut away where she might not feel the poison-pricks of

jealousy--fierce and primitive in this gentle creature even as her

hate. But of what use to consider advantages? The unveiled life was

of her own choosing; and must be accepted, good with ill.

At this point the insistent murmur of voices tangled her thread of

thought. The room had fallen very still. All who remained were

occupied with pen or book. Only those voices came from the fireside,

where Jane and Aunt Julia discussed the recent misfortunes and

follies of a poor relation, Clara by name. She lived, it seemed, at

a place called Gunnersbury, where rooms were few and small; and

servants either were not, or did little to earn their wages; since

this Clara appeared to have "everything on her hands" from cooking to

making the children's clothes, which she did badly enough, according

to Jane. For there were children also in this abode of dinginess and

small space. That one word enchained Lilamani's attention; and a

vision of children, who were also relations, redeemed the sordid

picture. One had been ill. So had Clara herself. They spoke of the

ill one as "Nevil," and Lilamani's heart contracted. It was her

foolish thought that no living woman, save herself, could be mother

of a man-child and call his name Nevil. But the fact, though

disconcerting, quickened her sympathy for one so blest yet so

ill-fated. She listened eagerly. Aunt Julia was speaking now.

"Of course, dear, one _knows_ her capacity for muddling things almost

amounts to genius. But then--these illnesses, with her income! And

after all, she _is_ poor dear Richard's widow----"

"Which means you've been sending her another cheque. Aunt Ju, you're

incorrigible!"

Disapproval lurked in Jane's half-playful remonstrance; and a hint of

apology in Miss Sinclair's reply.

"Only five pounds, dear, to help her take the child to St. Leonard's.

But the money has melted; and they've never been. There were

difficulties----"

"There always are. There always would be, with Clara, if she had a

thousand a year!" This from Jane, with her touch of asperity.

"She's one of the patently unfit. And really, Aunt Ju, you make

things worse by pauperizing her. She knows quite well that whenever

a tight corner comes, a cheque will drop out of the sky. If she

didn't, she might at least try to make some sort of provision for bad

times like these."

Lady Roscoe had never troubled herself to discover by a simple sum of

arithmetic what manner of provision for emergencies could be achieved

by a woman of gentle birth, doomed to feed, dress, and educate four

children on a bare two hundred a year. Hers was the supreme handicap

of the unimaginative: utter inability to see life through other eyes

than her own.

Miss Sinclair, softer of heart and conscience, could only reiterate

her unanswerable argument: "After all, my dear, she is poor Richard's

widow."

And "Richard" having been first cousin to Sir George--though only a

degree less unfit than his wife--Jane could but acquiesce, and change

the subject; which spoilt everything. Lilamani wanted to hear more,

or be left in peace to think of this unknown "Clara"; this woman of

her husband's family, who lacked space and money, and even food,

while she and Nevil were overburdened with useless servants, empty

rooms and more than sufficient money to fulfil their needs. For

Nevil had said little to her of his own inability to make ends meet.

As head of the family, surely his duty was clear. If relations were

in need or sickness, their place was at Bramleigh Beeches. That was

her Eastern view. For in India organized charity is not. Each

family group is more or less responsible for its own. Possibly Nevil

had not heard, or did not realize. Children in the house--young

children! Her woman's heart thrilled at the prospect. Rising

quietly she slipped out of the room, and ran up to the Tower, that

she might think things out in her shrine. But she reckoned without

Nevil's quick ears and keen desire of her.

At the sound of her light step without, he opened the studio door.

"Come and join the private view, Lilamani," said he. "The pictures

are as much yours as mine. And so I've told them!"

"However much you are telling it, they will never believe such

foolishness!" she made answer, laughing; reluctance dispelled by his

tribute.

"I'm not sure of _that_, Lady Sinclair," quoth Norris, regarding,

with quickened interest, her girlish outlines of face and figure.

"Personally, I'm inclined to score under the polite remark I achieved

downstairs! This scene in particular, Sinclair, stamps you--places

you even more than the rest." He flung a declamatory hand towards

the easel, where Nevil had just set up Sita in the Asoka Garden, with

its grimly suggestive background of fiends vigilant, and its

foreground of delicate beauty veiled and blurred with grief, as the

face of the moon by passing clouds. "No man of our school could have

resisted such a chance--and the abduction gave you another--of making

your thrill the wrong way round. Even a touch of bestiality wouldn't

have been amiss. Degenerate or no, there's a certain chill down the

spine producible by vigorous, remorseless handling of the hideous

that leaves the more commonplace appeal to beauty miles behind."

For a moment, Nevil considered the matter, and his canvas; then shook

his head.

"I find more than enough of ugliness and terror in both scenes," said

he.

"Quite so. You're not Leseppes 'god-son' for nothing. But for all

he's left his mark on your work, you've the reticence, the delicacy

and mellow sanity of an older school. You're not afraid of

simplicity; and it's clear you believe in beauty all along the line."

"Yes, thank God, I do." Nevil glanced involuntarily at his wife. "I

hope no school or movement or 'ism' will ever tempt me into deifying

the ugly and abnormal, even for the sake of your chill down the

spine!"

Norris laughed. "For ever and ever. Amen! Eh? Wait till you've

seen Leslie's latest. But I doff my hat to the rising apostle of

sanity! I can still admire work on your lines when--and only

when--it bears the clear stamp of personal vision, in addition to

such notable brushwork and force of colour. Yes, my dear chap, in

spite of your confounded healthiness, I believe you'll do! But as

I've leave to quarrel with a thing or two--look here----"

And securing the "apostle of sanity" by the arm he launched into a

tangle of minor technicalities that swept the talk far above

Lilamani's head.

Leslie de Winton, noting this, drew her aside.

"Let them wrangle it out between them, Lady Sinclair," said she. "I

want to hear something more about this magical Epic, that seems to

have fired your husband as I've never seen him fired yet. One knew

the name, of course; and Nevil has given us the bare bones of the

story. What a big conglomerate thing it is! And what an

uncomfortably high standard of wifehood it reveals. Thank heaven,

our men don't set us on such heroic pedestals in these days! And I

suppose even Indian ideals have come a shade nearer to earth in the

last thousand years or so?"

Lilamani, half puzzled, half repelled, could only shake her head.

"I don't quite know your meaning about nearer to earth. Of course it

is difficult, always, for those not heroine-made to climb to such a

height. But Sita is still ideal for all true Indian wives to-day."

"Poor misguided souls!" The Englishwoman's genuine dismay set

Lilamani smiling in spite of herself.

"Not so misguided, nor so hardship as you think," said she.

"Not hardship? My dear Lady Sinclair! To be condemned to worship a

very fallible and human husband as god? _I_ should say insult would

be nearer the mark!"

The daughter of Rajputs frowned.

"It is not 'condemned,' nor insult," she said, with a touch of heat.

"It is by nature, by religion----"

"Then it's high time nature and religion tried a change of programme!

Rare luck for you, isn't it, marrying into a saner and more

reasonable state of things?"

"I? How you mean? No difference with me. I am still Hindu. You

think by change of name and country the soul can change beliefs,

ideals, as if like clothes."

"I'm afraid I didn't think. But then--good Lord----" The incredible

conclusion dawned on her. "You don't mean to tell me that Nevil

is--that if Nevil were to----"

"Please not say any more," Lilamani broke in hurriedly, the hot blood

surging into her face. "It is not--I am not able for discussing so

sacred subject ... with strangers----"

To hide her confusion and check further speech she turned abruptly

toward the window; and Leslie de Winton's sallow face changed colour.

She was sorry to have trespassed on this quaint child's preserves:

but irrespressible amusement narrowed her eyes. Nevil--most casual

and unheroic of men, whom no one but herself had ever seemed to take

quite seriously till now--

He turned at the moment, caught her smiling, and inquired innocently:

"What's the joke?"

"You are!" she answered, stepping closer and lowering her voice.

"You'll soon be invisible to us earth-worms--the rate you're going

up. A baronet; a budding R.A.; and now I find that mere marriage has

exalted you into a 'sacred subject'!"

"Oh, hang it, Les. Shut up." Nevil frowned sharply and glanced at

his wife's figure in the window. "It's not me. You don't

understand."

Low as he spoke, Lilamani caught the words and the "small name" that

hurt her like a blow. How little it might imply she did not stay to

consider. She hated its owner; and was racking her brain for a

polite means of escape, when the leisurely voice remarked: "Well, so

long, Nevil. It's good to be here again. I must go now and

uncrumple my evening dress."

To Lilamani it seemed a miracle wrought in her favour. It did not

strike her that an exchange of glances had sufficed; and that Leslie

had carried off the bewildered Norris by force, to explain "the joke"

in her own ribald fashion, outside. She only knew, with a lift of

the heart, that they were gone. What matter how? She only stood

waiting, with young intensity of expectation, for the beloved

footstep, the beloved arm round her body.

And when these came, quietly, without speech, in the English fashion

she had learnt to love, she turned swiftly and hid her burning face

in the roughness of his coat.

He gave her a minute or so to recover herself, his left hand pressing

her head against its shelter.

Then:

"You must make allowances, little one," he said, "if some of them

_do_ trample unawares on your holy ground. The sanctities are out of

fashion here, nowadays. But Leslie's a good sort. She meant no

harm."

"Is she--cousin, that you call her by that private name?" came the

muffled voice, shifting the issue in a manner so purely feminine that

the man smiled and pressed her closer.

"No. She's no connection. But we're very good friends. She's bound

to be here pretty often; and I want you to like her. She's a very

clever artist--and quite a good sort really," he repeated, feeling

the movement of negation under his hand.

Her speech confirmed it.

"'Good sort' your Lilamani doesn't know. She is horrid woman.

Profane woman. Not worthy for having a husband--or--or sons--ever!"

It was her supremest malediction, as Nevil knew by now.

"Poor Leslie!" said he, and his eyes grew soft with a passing memory.

"Worthy or not, the odds are against her having either--now."

He did not feel bound to add that at one time she had openly aspired

to become the future Lady Sinclair. Even with the dear head against

his breast he had a momentary qualm in realizing that but for a

timely separation, at a critical juncture, his house of marriage

would have been builded upon sand and this pearl of womanhood would

never have been his. Leslie, with her strong irregular features,

lithe body, and hint of power in reserve, had fascinated him

mentally, to the verge of obsession. She fascinated him still. But

this flower of the East, this very woman compact of fire and dew,

held every fraction of him prisoner in her softly-clinging hands.

"She mustn't be a hard-judging, narrow-minded Lilamani," he reproved

her in all gentleness. "And she mustn't make foolishness about the

'private name!' You didn't mind it with Audrey. She's no cousin

either."

"No. Yet not the same with her. I can't tell--I feel----" She

lifted her head in the effort to crystallize vague yet unerring

intuitions; and Broome's voice sounded at the door.

"You there, Nevil?"

Sinclair glanced at his wife.

"Yes--yes. Him I love!" she whispered, freeing herself from his arm.

"Come on, old man," Nevil called out; adding, as the novelist

entered: "Here's an honour that you dreamt not of. Lady Sinclair

loves you!"

"Oh, Nevil! I didn't mean--how trouble you are!" she cried, in a

pretty flutter of embarrassment; and Broome, with genuine pleasure in

his eyes:

"Don't spoil such a charming confession, my dear. I heartily return

the compliment."

Then, with one of those touches of the Southerner that so well became

him, he lifted her hand to his lips.

"I came to say," he went on, beaming at his astonished host, "that

Christina and Morna are having quite a concert in the drawing-room.

My infant sings rather nicely. She's shy of performing after dinner,

as yet. But I'd like you to hear her, if you've done with each other

_pro tem_."

Lady Sinclair crumpled her brow over that last.

"_Pro tem_? That is what Audrey was calling something in the food."

Nevil burst out laughing. "Proteids! Not half a bad shot! Poor old

Audrey's teaching didn't leave much of a mark."

"A girl to be reckoned with, though. Character enough for two!"

Broome remarked with a twinkle, recalling the day of the storm.

"Heard anything of her since Antibes?"

"Yes. She's in Scotland with her people. We've asked her to look us

up when she comes in this direction."

He opened the door for his wife in speaking, and they went out.

CHAPTER III

"Yet we are one;--

One is the perfect sense of Eastern meaning:--

Gold and the bracelet, water and the wave."

LAURENCE HOPE.

Dinner that night was something less of an ordeal; though it would be

long before this puzzling fashion of entertainment could be anything

but distasteful to Lilamani Sinclair. Lord Roscoe seemed a shade

less formidable; and in the drawing-room Jane made an honest effort

at friendly talk with Nevil's wife. But not all that wife's devotion

could impel her to genuine response. Wax in the hands of those she

loved, Lilamani had yet her share of the fighting spirit and fierce

pride of her race, that leaped in flame at every word or look from

this condescendingly dutiful sister of her husband, in whose heart

were poisoned arrows and a sharp sword. So the effort proved barren

of result; and Jane, having done her duty, reverted to the faithful

Phil.

Again there was music for the younger ones; Bridge for the elders;

and clumsy attentions from George, whom she smiled upon sweetly as "a

brother." But through it all she was acutely aware of Leslie de

Winton's tall figure in its elaborately simple grey-green sheath;

seldom far from Nevil's elbow. Some lightning instinct whispered

that here was only the mask of friendship; and every time the

deliberate gaze rested on her lord's face, or the deliberate voice

"took his name," Lilamani's heart burned with a murderous resentment,

for which no one present would have given her credit; least of all

her husband, who believed he knew her by now. And there was trouble

with Norris' eyes. Not such barefaced persecution as that of M.

Leseppes; but sufficient to make this child of seclusion feel

strangely unsheltered and defenceless, even under her husband's roof,

shrine of all the sanctities to an Indian wife.

Altogether it was a time of puzzling complexities and strange

discoveries, that interminable week-end; the forerunner of many such.

That was the worst of it. Nevil had explained that, at least while

shooting lasted, "the clan" regarded the week-end at Bramleigh

Beeches as its due; and little Lady Sinclair, with never a germ of

social or sporting instinct in her composition, must needs adapt

herself to a sacred form of ritual that seemed to take the place of

religion in the West. There were moments of pure enjoyment with

Christina and Morna, or Broome; moments of half-fearful pleasure with

the over-appreciative George; and one blessed escape to tea with

Helen Despard, she and Christina alone. Yet it was with unfeigned

relief that she received the last handshake; the last kiss on her

cheek.

They were gone--all gone! It was as if a ton-weight fell from her

shoulders. Christina would return in a few days to say good-bye. In

the meantime, tea in the studio, and Nevil all to herself for hours

and hours! He too was relieved. She felt it in the air; though she

did not divine that at least a part of his relief was due to the fact

that she had not produced quite the effect he had hoped for. He made

every allowance for difficulties no Englishman could fully

understand. But he had sincerely hoped "things would go better next

time."

As for her, she wanted to forget that next time would ever come. She

also wanted to talk of Clara, whose story, in outline, she had drawn

from Aunt Julia: a sordid, commonplace story of one of the world's

poor things, foredoomed to go under in the struggle for life.

Richard Sinclair, it seemed, had been an idle good-for-nothing.

Truth compelled Aunt Julia to admit the damning fact; while loyalty

prompted her to regret, in the same breath, that everyone noticed his

unfortunate likeness to his mother! He had died--two years

ago--leaving his second wife in genteel poverty, with a young stepson

and four children of her own. A feckless creature, it seemed, always

ailing; but devoted to the children; and the new niece's evident

sympathy had gone far to win Aunt Julia's heart.

Now--tea being over, and she, crouched on her low stool, arms resting

on his knees, while he smoked, the cherished plan found utterance.

Had he heard? Had he realized? Those others that he had invited

were well-provided as themselves. But this poor woman, widow of

blood-relation, mother of sons, sick, in trouble ... and they, with

so many empty rooms----

She broke off uncertainly, for Nevil had opened his eyes.

"My dear little wife--what are you driving at? D'you want 'em all

_here_?"

Her smile, tremulously pitiful, was a lovely thing to see.

"I thought ... only natural, like in India--when you knew there was

trouble----"

"But there always is trouble in Clara's direction. I'm awfully sorry

for her, poor soul; and I'd be glad to give her a helping hand,

though hardly to the extent of turning Bramleigh Beeches into a

_crêche_, overrun with unruly children----!"

Something in his tone brought her heart into her throat.

"Are you not caring very much--for children?" she asked, moving one

hand nervously up and down his knee.

He covered it with his own. "Of course I'm fond of children. Most

decent men are. But Clara's are a harum-scarum lot. She has as

little control over them as over anything else. And what would the

great Mrs. Lunn say to such an invasion?"

The soft mouth took a line of decision: but Lilamani had to swallow

before she could speak. The dimmest sense of disappointment in

him--her idol, was hard to bear.

"The house is belonging for you, not for Mrs. Lunn," she said,

looking intently at the long fine hand on his knee. "And--he is

ill--that littlest one called by your name. Aunt Julia was sending

money for a place called St. Leonard's. But one cannot go without

all. Oh, Nevil!" she looked up eagerly confident--"How easy to send

money for all! You have so much----"

He looked deep into her eyes before replying. Her appealing beauty

of soul and flesh moved him more, it is to be feared, than Clara's

need.

"I haven't 'so much.' That's the difficulty. This great house with

all its staff and hundreds of acres doesn't mean untold wealth

rolling in to keep it going. It may sound queer to you, but I'm

almost as hard put to it as Clara to make ends meet."

"Oh, Nevil--dear lord! But why then--have all these ... wealthy ones

... not in trouble?"

"That's a riddle not to be answered off-hand, little wife! It would

take a deal of explaining; and I wanted if possible to shield you

from all contact with the sordid struggle between ways and means. To

you money is nothing more than a name; and I should prefer to keep it

so as long as may be. But you're such a stern moralist, you creature

of sweetness and light! So imbued with the logic of your race that

it might save friction and misunderstanding if I make my position

clear once for all. Only you must have patience with dull talk and

ugly words!"

At that, she drew herself up radiantly elate. Here was privilege

indeed! So rarely is an Indian wife admitted to a share in the

masculine side of her lord's existence; at least until she be mother

as well.

"No need for patience. I am proud with all my soul that you are

wishing me to share. I know I am stupid for such things. But I will

try to understand."

It was not so easy, strive as she might. For a quarter of an hour

and more his quiet voice flowed on, leaving a very mixed train of

impressions in its wake. The mortgage bewildered her beyond measure.

She saw it as an actual bogey, to be propitiated by means of money

doled out at intervals; a bogey that he might be rid of in time if

his pictures "caught on." She understood his wish to try to keep

things going in the old way, for the sake of family honour, and that

sentence in his father's last letter. She began to understand also

that there is no family system in England, as in India; no great

nexus of responsibility, which obviates the need for workhouse and

orphanage, since none of the blood can look for support in vain.

But one discrepancy puzzled her; and when all was said, she drew his

attention to it, not without hesitancy.

"Lord of me--you are seeming to forget ... there is my dowry also.

Not small. Though how much, you know better than I----"

"Your dowry? But my dear, it's your own, always and altogether. Do

you suppose I would use it to keep up the estate or help my poor

relations out of the ditch they have dug for themselves? I hope I'm

man enough to win through my own muddles, without coming down on you."

It took her a second or so to grasp his masculine and very British

point of view; then she challenged it straightway with her Asiatic

logic.

"Oh Nevil--dearest, what a foolishness! Forgive me for saying that.

But think only--can there be any of me altogether my own when every

part is belonging to my lord, for this life and all lives to come?"

Lightly touching head and feet, she indicated the completeness of his

dominion. "All great things, real things--life and body and

heart--you let me give without making this trouble of mine and thine.

How then talk of holding back so small a thing, like money. That

your Lilamani will never understand if you explain up to night-time."

"Then my Lilamani must accept it without understanding!" said he,

drawing her close against him, till head touched head.

Still she shook her own with gentle obstinacy. "It is foolishness

between wife and husband, this pretending of thine and mine;

especially when there is trouble." Then her logic triumphed afresh.

"But Nevil--if mine, I can give where I please; even to relation of

yours. For that you cannot refuse permission!"

He could not; and he gave it straightway, in the fashion she loved

best.

"But look here, darling," said he, when their lips were free for

speech. "Unless I keep some sort of check on you, you'll be flinging

away the lot. So listen to me and be sensible. We'll send her a

cheque between us--say twenty pounds. That will give them all a

month at the sea and help square the doctor. Will that suit you,

Lady Sinclair?"

She nodded, beaming, and clapping her hands without sound.

"That is beautiful! And after----? Can they not come here ... ever?"

"Why, yes. For a visit. If you're so keen."

"I want ... oh, I want to hold that man-child ... called of your name

... in my arms," she whispered, a thrill in her low voice. "You said

there must be family party for Christmas; and that is your feast for

worship of children. Could it not be then?"

"M--yes. A bit of a crowd. But still--anything to please you. By

the way, Ronald, the stepson--he's a good-looking boy of

twenty--wouldn't make half a bad model for Rāma. I believe

my father had some scheme about training him up as agent to take

Thornbrook's place. We'll have him down one week-end and see."

So the matter was settled, and the letter written; Lilamani leaning

over her husband's shoulder while he filled in the magic paper that

stood for twenty golden pounds, ten of them her own. Not until next

morning was Nevil tripped up by the question--what would happen when

these unconstitutional doings should reach the ears of Jane?

CHAPTER IV

"There is a bitter drop in the cup of the best love."

NIETZSCHE.

It was a clear morning of sharp, white frost; the first of the year.

Lilamani's spirit sprang out of sleep with a sense of being suddenly

very much awake. The window of the large old-fashioned bedroom stood

wide. Nevil had all the strong young Englishman's faith in fresh

air. And through the opening his wife caught a glimpse of tree-tops

dazzlingly arrayed. Even lying in bed she was conscious of a new nip

in the air.

Curiosity at this rare sense of alertness tempted her to creep out of

bed--very gently, so as not to disturb her lord. Slipping into her

quilted dressing-gown, she stood looking down at him in a rapt

adoration, undimmed by the manifold disappointments and difficulties

of this bewildering English fashion of life. And the five weeks that

had elapsed since that first coming of the clan had held their full

share of both for husband and wife.

Three more week-end parties, each bearing a strong family likeness to

the first, had come and gone; and Nevil's confident hope that "things

would go better next time" had been scantily fulfilled. His own

flexible nature had responded readily to the wholesome reaction from

six months of secluded, unswerving dedication to the twin lodestars

of his being--art and the woman. For the moment, at least, he was

thoroughly enjoying his first taste of dispensing hospitality under

his own roof, and naturally desirous that the woman of his heart

should shine in the eyes of others even as in his own. This, in a

limited measure, she did. Her cool, perfumed apartness and

unmistakable high breeding gave to her beauty a distinctive quality

that men were quick to approve; though the women, with one or two

notable exceptions, were apt to label her "insipid" or "impossible":

the last, an unconscious tribute to her clear-eyed insistence on

essentials, which they believed themselves to have outgrown. Thus

she still remained over-successful in the wrong direction and still

shrank from strange human beings in the mass, especially at

food-time. More than all, her own enforced prominence--so unbecoming

in a young wife--distressed her soul and made her seeming shyness the

harder to overcome.

It is difficult for the West to understand the Eastern woman's

complete lack of social instinct; difficult also for a race inured to

the arrogant pre-eminence of its youth to realize how slowly, yet how

surely, she of the _purdah_ comes to her own: and it did not occur to

Nevil Sinclair that in these early days of marriage his young wife

felt herself more or less in her novitiate, one who must walk humbly

and possess herself in patience till the great consummation was hers.

But the consummation came not: and once again the haunting fear crept

in lest he regard her as a failure in respect of the supreme gift.

For the first few weeks his sympathy, with her fish-out-of-water

sense, had been unfailing. But of late she had detected an

occasional undernote of irritation; and could but decipher his moods

by the light of her own lamp. Only last night something had seemed

to vex him; and on her venturing to ask what was amiss, he had

answered with a touch of weariness: "Oh, nothing, of any consequence.

Things will right themselves in time." Fervently she prayed that

this steadfast conviction of his might be fulfilled, while yet

remaining far from a clear understanding of all that fulfilment

implied.

In her view one event alone would work the miracle without fail. And

now, standing at the bedside, lost in worship of the beloved

face--the vigorous brow, straight nose and tender mouth with its

endearing touch of the woman--pain and bewilderment gave place to the

rapturous certainty that some day, some day the son who should bear

his name and nature would lie warm against her breast. And on that

day things would right themselves once for all.

One hand lay uncovered on the pillow. Holding her breath, she

touched it lightly with her lips; then sped to the window, dread of

cold forgotten in the new wonder that met her gaze.

Out there, in the blue-grey dusk of dawn, the familiar garden lay

translated. A world of enchantment--all crystal-white, pencilled and

stippled with delicate shadows, grey and sepia and black. No leaf or

grass-blade, twig or pine-needle but wore its fairy garb of frozen

dew. Crisp brown beech-leaves were silver-edged, and a group of

young birches reared plumes of diamond-dust against the pallor beyond.

A real, visible awakening of earth and sky had become almost an event

in the procession of tearful days that was called November: and

sudden longing seized her to escape, as a bird from its cage; to

stand alone in the midst of that enchanted world at the moment when

it would flash into many-coloured laughter at the kiss of the sun. A

childish spirit of adventure stirred her pulses. She would go. They

might think what they pleased: "they" being Jane and George and Phil.

For it was Saturday, and a select party of "guns" had assembled for

three days' pheasant-shooting.

It took no time to slip noiselessly into her clothes, crowning all

with fur-lined cloak and hood, and a high, dainty pair of snow-boots,

the only form of boot she could endure to wear. A cup of tea, made

in her shrine, fortified her against the cold. Then she flew down

and out, unmindful of amazed glances from the second housemaid, who

was shaking out the hall mat.

The garden slept in silver, softly still. But the moment of

awakening was near. Once outside, the novelty of it all and the pure

joy of freedom lured her on. She craved the wide spaces of the moor,

the scrunch of frozen heather underfoot. A short cut up through the

pine plantation soon brought her out into the open; eyes alight and

blood astir with rapid movement. Stepping to the edge, she sat her

down upon a rock overlooking the valley where Bramleigh nestled; grey

church tower and groups of dull red cottages only half awake, their

trailed pennons of smoke tilted southward by a light breath from the

north. Plunged knee-deep in misty hollows, the pine woods on the

farther rise stood dreaming, their sharp tops fretted upon a toneless

sky, that only at its zenith achieved a hint of blue.

Still as any tree among them all sat the lone small figure in the

purple cloak, while behind those dreaming woods the benign smile of

morning grew wide and wider. Quietly, without pomp and flare of

cloud-pageant, the God of Light slipped up over the edge of the

world. Trillions of diamond-sparkles from furred ling and gorse

flashed back the mild light of him. And it was day.

Lilamani sat on, yogi-fashion, letting that mild light baptize her

also and chase away the greyness that had entered into her very soul.

Even on this wonder-morning of fairy raiment and keen sweet air she

was aware of something lacking; of stirrings deep down in her

primitive, passionate nature that found no response in this gentle

dimplement of moor and field; these half-tones and blurred outlines;

this pastoral, emotionless peace. Her Eastern soul craved colours

more vivid, stronger lights and shadows, a Nature more fiercely,

radiantly athrob with the pulse of life. The memory of a certain

blazing Egyptian sunset--crimson-red as though the heart of heaven

were laid bare--smote her almost with a pang. Here in England the

heart of all things, and even of most humans, lay hid so deep, that

at times she dared to wonder was it there at all.

Loyalty might refuse to admit the fact; but, in truth, the whole

atmosphere of her husband's country--that she had so ardently desired

to love for his sake--chilled and repressed her sensitive spirit,

that had blossomed in the sunshine and close comradeship of Italy.

There the essentials had been their bread and wine of life. Here

non-essentials triumphed; and she, having small talent for these,

began to feel herself a futile, ineffectual thing beside these

vigorous Englishwomen who could carry guns, talk politics,

literature, art with fluent ease, and treat their men-folk with scant

respect. Was it possible that he would ever feel the same----?

The desolating question produced a physical shiver; a reminder that

in her absorption she had sat still too long. The warmth of walking

had subsided. Hands and feet were bitter cold. Foolishness again!

She ought not to have sat down at all. For the last few days there

had been uncomfortable symptoms, and Nevil had feared she was "in for

a cold," that distressing and unbecoming ailment which seemed almost

as persistent a feature of English life as the rain. Now he would be

vexed again; the more so because she had forgotten that breakfast was

earlier on shooting days.

Luckless Lilamani! A fit of sneezing shook her. She ran across the

open to regain her lost warmth; and on reaching the pine plantation

entered a new realm of faery delicately aquiver with sun-smitten

mist; the breathing of earth made visible, like her own, by the chill

air. Bathed in it, the slender pine-stems showed almost black, their

eastward rims painted clear golden, their shadows barring the ground,

where moss-cushions gleamed like great emeralds dropped by Sita in

her flight. And at intervals, through the stillness came the soft

flutter and rush of a breakfast-hunting bird. Hard not to linger and

worship afresh; but duty lent wings to her feet: and she sped on.

They were all in the dining-room when she entered--flushed, and a

little short of breath. Jane had made tea and was dispensing it.

Lord Roscoe stood over the fire, airing _The Times_. George and Phil

were discussing the merits of a new gun she had given him. Young

Ronald Sinclair and Captain Shadwell of George's regiment were

helping themselves at the sideboard.

A polite murmur greeted her appearance, and Nevil shook his head at

her without severity. "Not a very wise Lilamani!" he whispered, as

she slipped past him to take her rightful place.

Jane, resigning the tea-pot with reluctance, muttered pessimistically

of pneumonia and advised ammoniated quinine.

"_Much_ more sensible if you drove out to lunch with the guns instead

of running about alone at unearthly hours," she concluded sagely.

"Yes--perhaps," murmured the gently persistent renegade with a

half-smile at the characteristic remark. "Sensible" was the keyword

of Jane, even as health was the keyword of Audrey, and _dastur_ of

Mataji. But at thought of Mataji, her heart contracted strangely;

and she forced herself to join in the general talk.

Breakfast over, there was bustle of departure, and a few seconds

alone with Nevil in the dining-room. He was not vexed, it seemed.

But if anything, a shade more tender than usual.

"Take good care of yourself, little girl," he said, kissing her.

"Don't mope. And you might do worse than try that quinine!"

"Very well; if you wish," she agreed meekly; conscious of burning

eyeballs and rasping throat.

In the large hall Ronald Sinclair contrived a parting word with her.

It was not his first visit, and she had a sisterly affection for the

boy, strengthened by the fact that an occasional turn of the head and

shoulders recalled her husband. Wasn't she coming out to lunch, and

wasn't she well? he asked with frank, boyish dismay. How rotten! It

would just spoil everything. But he daresayed he'd get back early.

"I'm not much of a hand at shooting," he added by way of excuse.

"And I'd far sooner have a quiet talk with you."

"I would like it also," she agreed, smiling, unaware of the vigilant

eyes of Jane, who had already noted and resented her disturbing

effect even upon the sound and satisfactory George. Now it was to be

Ronald Sinclair. Really Nevil was a fool! Further proof of it had

lately come to her ears. For the past few weeks she had been too

busy organizing an Emigration League and shooting the pheasants of

political friends to keep abreast of family news. But she had heard

of Clara's windfall now: and finding Aunt Julia innocent, had come

down, determined to impress on Nevil, for his own good, the fatal

mistake of establishing that sort of precedent with poor relations;

Clara, above all: a determination strengthened by Lilamani's evident

predilection for Clara's stepson.

When they were gone a great silence fell; a great emptiness. No one

to speak to; nothing to do, for the next five or six hours at least;

unless Ronald returned soon after lunch. And she hoped he would.

Since pheasant-shooting had become an obsession, there had been many

such lonely days; and for the first time since her marriage there

awoke dim longings for that life of the Inside, where the daily round

did not hang entirely on the ways and whims of a man. In Italy there

had been work and comradeship, and certain small duties which she had

insisted on performing for her lord. But here----! Work was, for

the time, in abeyance; and comradeship no less. In this unlovely

craze for slaying beautiful birds by the score, she had no wish to

share; and even the smallest duties were taken out of her hands by

silent, ubiquitous servants, whom she had almost grown to hate.

To-day incipient illness darkened her despondent mood. The promise

of the morning had not been fulfilled, without or within. Her cold

was decidedly worse; and by now the sky was overcast. A brisk wind

from the west lashed the windows with fine rain. Lilamani sighed.

There seemed no end to this English sky's capacity for tears. Having

completed a long letter to Mrs. Despard, she lunched alone in her

shrine; cooking the meal herself, as always on shooting days; let the

tyrants belowstairs think what they would.

The lunch post brought two letters: a welcome interlude. One from

her father; one from Audrey. But neither contained cheering news.

Her father wrote that the chances of getting home next spring were

far from certain. At best he could only hope for a flying visit; and

she must not count too much on that. Audrey's was a belated answer

to Lilamani's invitation for Christmas; a week, at least.

Disappointing here also. Audrey wrote with sincere regret. For

Lilamani's sake she had forced herself to live down the dread of

seeing these two as man and wife. But there had been illness at

home, and much nursing; and now she herself had "gone all to pieces."

The doctor prescribed a long rest if she hoped to be fit for India in

the spring; and directly it was possible she would go straight out to

Antibes. She would try for a night or two at Bramleigh on her way

through----

Antibes! Antibes! Headland of blessed memories. Every nerve in

Lilamani ached for the glowing warmth and colour of it all; the

laughter of the sun upon that sapphire sea with its foam of diamonds;

and his strong, warm kisses on her face when she lifted it to him

shielding her eyes. Lying there on her couch by the rain-blurred

window, half-thinking, half-dreaming, she fell into a light doze,

from which Madgwick's knock roused her with a start.

Young Mr. Sinclair was in the drawing-room, said Madgwick, and sent

to ask was her ladyship at leisure?

Yes. Her ladyship would come at once; though burning eyeballs and

chilled limbs made her wish she had been left to sleep on.

His young concern at sight of her, his protective airs of budding

manhood, were very engaging, slang or no. He was a tactless duffer

to have disturbed her. A cold made you feel so rotten; and it was

stunning of her to come down. Just like her sweetness! But, having

come, would she please lie there--he dragged the Chesterfield half

across the hearth-rug--and not trouble about him any more than if he

were the fender-stool! He sat down on it forthwith and produced a

silver cigarette-case; her gift.

"Just one. You're not rigid about it, are you?"

"Oh, no."

"And you don't want to hear how many brace we shot?"

"No--please."

The delicate wrinkling of her nose emphasized her recoil from all

thought of the beautiful slaughtered birds; and he drew her on

instead to talk of her own country, its legends, ideals and beliefs.

From the first she had felt singularly at ease with this sympathetic

young cousin, whom she treated frankly as a brother; there being

small distinction in her own land between the two. In truth, she

admitted to him a closer intimacy than George; first because of his

youth, and second because, for all his frank admiration, he never

troubled her with his eyes.

While they sat talking dusk drew on, peopling the great dim room with

restless lights and shadows from the blazing wood fire, worshipped by

Lilamani only a few degrees less than the sun. She was feeling

soothed and rested; headache almost forgotten; when an unmistakable

step sounded without and Lady Roscoe came briskly in.

"No lamps!" Her surprise was tinged with irritation. "We expected

to find tea all ready. Why on earth are you two moping in the dark?"

"Not moping," Lilamani answered, a faint note of challenge in her

tone. "I had a headache. It was pleasant; and I forgot the tea. I

am sorry. Please to ring, Ronald."

He obeyed, and moved towards the door; anxious, boy-like, to escape

"ructions" that seemed to lurk in the militant tone of Cousin Jane.

Directly the door closed on him, she spoke.

"He's not half a sportsman, that boy. A great mistake to have him

always idling about the house. I shall tell Nevil. Quite easy to

find some young fellow on the spot, who would come in now and again,

and do just as well."

Lilamani roused herself and sat upright.

"No. You are mistaking," she said, with unwonted decision. "Others

would not suit, like Ronald. And we are so glad for chance to help.

He--Nevil, is thinking to train him for land-agent here, like his

father wished."

"Agent, is he? That's the first I've heard of it. Nevil seems

remarkably solicitous for Clara and her contingent all of a sudden.

Or is it you that are so keen, because she happens to have a

good-looking stepson?"

The question was unworthy of Jane. But sport had been poor, and she

was annoyed at finding no tea; or she might have refrained. The

thrust glanced harmlessly aside.

"Yes. I am liking Ronald very much. But especially I am glad to

help because of that smallest son--godson you call ... of Nevil's

name----"

Had Lady Roscoe been in another rank of life she would have sniffed.

As it was, her smile had more than a hint of scepticism.

"That's all very well, my dear. Very charming in theory. But if

Nevil is still such an infatuated fool that he will dash off

twenty-pound cheques to order whenever one of Clara's chronically

sick offsprings needs a change----"

She broke off short, for Lilamani had sprung up and stood confronting

her; anger smouldering in her eyes.

"That is unkindness and untruth! He--he is not like ... what you

say; and you shall not speak such rude words of him to me!"

Jane, though hardly less amazed than Balaam on a memorable occasion,

was by no means nonplussed.

"Your wifely airs and graces are quite thrown away on me, child,"

said she with her exasperating air of condescension. "It strikes me

the rudeness is on your side; and I shall say precisely what I please

about my own brother. For it's true."

"Not true!" Lilamani flashed back fiercely. "It is simply ... you

cannot understand such big feeling. You said same thing before----"

"I? What d'you mean? I've never mentioned the subject."

Lilamani, realizing her slip, went hot all over. "What do you mean?"

Jane persisted, angered at her silence.

"It's pure invention on your part. Just to make mischief, I suppose."

"Not invention." Lilamani's tone had grown suddenly cool and

restrained. "Only--being angry, I made mistake. I was

forgetting----"

"What, pray?"

"I ... cannot explain."

"Very mysterious! Perhaps 'won't' would be nearer the mark."

At that Lilamani's head went up.

"You are right. Better to speak truth. I will not explain. That is

all."

Then--startled at her own temerity, she went swiftly out through the

morning-room, avoiding the large hall.

Even as she went, Madgwick appeared.

"Lamps, please. And tea in the large hall," said Jane.

Nevil crossed him in the doorway, and looked quickly round.

"Hullo! Where's Lilamani?"

Jane made an ungracious movement of her shoulders.

"Gone off in a fit of temper----"

"Temper? She?"

"Yes. Is it news to you that she has one? Is she always butter and

honey with you?"

Nevil ignored the question.

"Ronald says that she's not at all well. What did you say to upset

her?"

"Merely commented on your latest bit of folly about Clara, and she

flew out at me furiously. I suppose one may express an opinion about

you to your divinity, who seems peculiarly unwilling to bestow any of

her butter and honey on me----"

"My dear Jane--that's all nonsense!"

"My dear Nevil, it's a fact. I've been as decent as I could to her

for your sake; and at least she might be moderately pleasant in

return. It can't be----" she eyed him with sudden keenness. "You

weren't mad enough to show her my first letter?"

"Oh, Lord, no!" He fairly flung out the denial; thankful for the

sheltering dusk.

"Then it's sheer whim, and you should give her a good talking to.

One reads that Indian wives are paragons of obedience. But yours,

under all her surface sulkiness, seems no better than a spoilt child;

and you, in your blind infatuation, are laying up a bad time for

yourself----"

"Look here, Jane"--Nevil's voice had a touch of her own

decision--"you don't understand Lilamani. Never will. I do: and

there's an end of the matter. She's my wife----"

"She is also mistress of the dear old Place, worse luck, and the

possible mother of future Sinclairs. Though I tell you frankly, it's

my fervent hope that if children must come of this crazy marriage

there may at least be no son----"

"For God's sake, keep your fervent hopes to yourself!" Nevil cried

out sharply, white-hot anger in his eyes: and turning on his heel he

went out, leaving her to put her own construction on his flash of

wrath.

All things considered, it did not displease her. She took it for

indication that her shaft had gone between the joints of his harness

and touched the one weak spot in his seeming blind content. She was

sorry to have hurt him. But, on the whole, he deserved it. Upon

which righteous conclusion, she went in search of tea.

CHAPTER V

"Weak souls are apt to lose themselves in others; whereas it is in

others that the strong soul discovers itself."--MAETERLINCK.

It was Christmas Eve. The empty rooms and silent passages of

Bramleigh Beeches were alive with footsteps and voices and the high

clear music of children's laughter. All the pulses of the staid old

house seemed athrob with the immemorial spirit of the day: that

child-spirit of loving and giving that shines, like a star fallen on

a dust-heap, through all the cynical indifference and vulgarization

of our sophisticated age, even as it shone in the Bethlehem Manger

near two thousand years ago. Lilamani's eager interest in all that

concerned this "Great Birthday and festival of children-worship" made

her husband the more desirous to show her the traditional English

Christmas at its best. Hence his readiness to invite Clara, that the

child element might be supreme; as indeed it had been ever since the

coming of the "contingent." Rather more so than Nevil cared about.

But he had said little, and devoted himself strenuously to his first

big, complex picture--the meeting between Rāma and Sita in

the hour of victory.

And now the days of fevered activity, of secret preparation, were at

an end. In the morning-room a home-grown Christmas tree, bedecked to

the last parcel, the last tinsel star, stood alone in the dusk

awaiting its brief apotheosis on the morrow. Windows, doorways, and

portraits of distinguished Sinclairs, bore their yearly burden of

evergreens starred with the living scarlet of holly, the moonlike

pallor of mistletoe. George had not failed to catch and kiss his

alluring sister-in-law under the great bunch in the large hall with

results that plunged the simple-minded soldier in amazement and

dismay. She had thrust him fiercely from her, cheeks and eyes

ablaze, rubbing the desecrated waxen lobe of her ear as though an

insect had stung her: and it had needed much soothing and explaining

from Nevil--who rejoiced not a little at his brother's

discomfiture--to restore peace. Only in Phillippa's memory the

pin-prick rankled. Not the kiss itself, but his desire of it, his

exceeding readiness seemed to justify a fundamental doubt of her

lover that at times threatened to wreck the "sound and satisfactory"

engagement altogether.

By now the clan was assembled in force; Sinclairs, by blood and

marriage, sixteen in all. No outsider save Leslie de Winton; her

advent the one bitter drop in Lilamani's present cup of content.

Yesterday had brought Nevil's crowning surprise: Christina, home on a

brief holiday at her brother's expense; an extravagance Jane herself

could not cavil at. For promise of success was in the air. Even she

could doubt it no longer. Cultivated London was manifestly impressed

by the picture at the Goupil Gallery. Captious and contradictory

critics concurred in recognizing that Sir Nevil Sinclair was no

longer to be dismissed with the kid-glove applause due to a gifted

and titled amateur, but dealt with faithfully as an artist very well

worth watching. Better still, in Jane's regard, had been rumours of

a purchaser; an art patron with a discerning eye for new talent and a

long purse. A week ago rumour had crystallized into fact.

Negotiations were in progress. Hence his wire to Christina.

And to-day, sitting alone in his studio, smoking the pipe of

reflection while daylight ebbed, he found himself looking back upon

the casual, aimless amateur of ten months ago as upon another Nevil

Sinclair in another life. Ten months; an infinitesimal fraction of

man's allotted time on earth; yet into them had been concentrated

more of real living, feeling, thinking, and doing than he had known

in the ten years that were as stepping-stones to his appointed goal.

The surprise of it all smote him afresh in meditative moments like

the present. Almost it seemed as if the instant he set eyes on the

Arabian Nights' Princess in her balcony, the current of destiny had

changed its course. Through her and the love that was her genius, he

had found not merely himself, but a new world and new values. Yet

now--when promise of achievement crowned the twofold joy of love and

possession, the one shadow in his sunlight was just this small

passionate woman who filled so great a space in his life.

It needed no word of complaint from her, no glaring social failure or

open clash with Jane to convince him that her new rôle was as

ill-suited to her as she to it. Six weeks of shooting and

shooting-parties had tried her sorely; and Ronald Sinclair's boyish

devotion had cost her more than one jarring scene with Jane, though

she had not grasped as yet the underlying implication.

He in his fashion had been tried by return visits to the "needless

ones." But what would you? He was not the man to send her forth

alone in quest of the British matron on her native hearth-rug; and in

the course of these dutiful peregrinations from tea-table to

tea-table Nevil Sinclair had perceived more clearly than his wife

that not even his own prestige as one of the county could reconcile

Bramleigh to the fatal Hindu-ness of his girl-wife. For Bramleigh,

being High Church to its kid-glove finger-tips, was disposed to be

more zealous in the manner of correct genuflexions and the strict

keeping of holy days than in fulfilling the law of love. The former

is so much simpler and leaves such a gratifying after-glow of

self-righteousness; while the unloved brother is too often unlovable

to boot. At best Nevil foresaw kindness tempered with condescension

such as the Rajput spirit of his Lilamani would not brook: nor his

own Anglo-Saxon one either, if it came to that.

The only result, so far, had been a sparse crop of invitations to

dinner; and once or twice, in a dutiful mood, he had suggested

acceptance. Lilamani had looked pathetic and submissive; Nevil,

thankful to spare her, when feasible, had refused. For himself, he

was glad enough not to go. But, at this rate, what of the future,

for her? In the summer there would be Helen Despard and, when

possible, Christina. Outside these two, if she could not have him,

it seemed that she preferred to be alone.

The modification of their own close comradeship had been no less

unwelcome to him than to her; but his masculine nature saw it as

inevitable, if he were rightly to fulfil himself as artist,

landowner, and husband. The Italian conditions had a perfection and

fitness all their own. They could be renewed; and should. But they

were manifestly incompatible with the demands of the moment. Even

when the shooting obsession gave place to a renewed zest for work,

there was much in the complex picture now on hand in which she had no

part. The crowded background, being new to him, brought fresh

faculties into play; while his fastidious eye for grouping and the

thematic use of colour made him untiring in regard to preliminary

studies, the groundwork of all fine achievement.

At this time the week-end brought artist friends in place of "guns."

With these Lilamani had seemed more at her ease; and Nevil himself

had frankly enjoyed picking up the threads of his lapsed friendship

with Leslie de Winton. Apart from the stimulant of talk with a

fellow-worker on totally different lines, he found Leslie's comments,

whether of blame or praise, singularly illuminating. Once or twice

the two had sat up talking in the studio till near midnight; while

Lilamani lay throbbingly awake with murder in her heart. Her

complete silence, since that first protest, deceived her husband into

the belief that she had accepted the friendship for what it was

worth: and he enjoyed it accordingly while the mood for mental

stimulant was upon him.

At this time he would have dearly liked a short spell in town. But

to leave Lilamani was as yet unthinkable; and to take her there

hardly less so. By way of experiment he had suggested spending two

nights with Broome before Clara came; Mrs. Broome being away. He had

baited the suggestion with the promise that on Sunday she should hear

a service at the Abbey, and on Monday buy Christmas presents to her

heart's content in a shop full of Indian arts and crafts. For in the

"gift-buying" phase of the Great Birthday, she could and would take

her full share; investing it, in true Eastern fashion, with a

sanctity rarely dreamed of by professing Christians; and Nevil had

need of all his authority to save her from spending every penny she

possessed.

As for that service, in the dim, richly-toned twilight of the Abbey,

it surpassed her most exalted imaginings. Kneeling beside her

husband at its close, in awe-smitten ecstasy, while sonorous organ

music vibrated through all her sensitive frame, the innately

religious heart of her cried out like Festus, "Almost thou persuadest

me to be a Christian." Not to be at one with her husband in so great

and vital a matter hurt her more keenly than he ever guessed; while

yet the ancient wisdom of her race warned her that, if change so

radical could be genuinely achieved, it must neither be forced nor

hurried. And on that morning, in the hush that fell upon her soul

when the music ceased, something within whispered that in due time

the change would come--as come all great living changes--slowly,

imperceptibly, like the opening of a flower.

Yes; the great church, the great shop were wonderful exceedingly;

each in its own fashion. But London itself--a monstrous fog-blurred

phantasmagoria of life and death, laughter and tears--that was

another matter altogether. Driving from Waterloo Station through

mean streets, grimed with past fogs and seen through the ochre veil

of a present one, she had clung to her husband's arm as to a

life-belt in mid-ocean, shrinking close against him, frightened,

repelled. To her vivid fancy it seemed that they fared through some

hideous fashion of Hell, through which lost souls in their hundreds

surged aimlessly to and fro.

"Oh, Nevil, is all this noise and ugliness your so great city?" she

had ventured, after looking for improvement and finding none.

"Only one unsightly corner of it, at a very unbecoming time of year!"

he had explained, smiling.

"And do people really live here, who have choice to live otherwheres?"

"Yes. Hundreds. Wait till you see Broome's house. London's not

half so black as she looks at first sight, little wife."

"Not----?" A sudden fear seized her. "But you--would you ever----?"

"No--I've no such deadly designs!" he hastened to reassure her. "Of

course, I'd enjoy an occasional month or two in town. But I promised

your father I would never keep you here long, or ask you to live

here."

Her sigh of relief spoke volumes.

"Ah, wise one! He knew how the wings of my soul would become

crushed--broken in so nightmare a place."

The two wonder-days that followed were days not readily to be

forgotten.

None the less, on Monday she sped joyfully back to clean air and grey

skies.

"Like a bird escaped from the snare of the fowler!" Nevil had said,

laughing as he lifted her from the landau; while in his heart he

relinquished forthwith the desired fortnight in town. He would

devote himself instead to the completion of his big picture by the

end of the year.

It was close on completion now; and, though far from faultless, he

saw that it was good. Yet, as he sat smoking in the dusk, a shadow

clouded the native serenity of his eyes and brow.

The past week had been a trying one. Neither Clara herself nor

Clara's children were attractive specimens of their kind; and

Sinclair was fastidious to a fault.

Mrs. Lunn wore her air of resigned martyrdom with ostentation. "They

childer," she confided to her ally, Mr. Barnes, "with their 'can'ts'

an' 'wont's' an' their ever-lastin' muddiness are a deal more trouble

in the house than twenty normals. An' the way her ladyship fags

after 'em, ill or well, gits me altogether."

It "got" her husband also, after another fashion. Almost he could

forgive these undisciplined intruders on his peace, for the sake of

the new Lilamani their presence brought to light. Her twofold joy in

their mere youth, and in her own opportunity for service, was a

lovely thing to see. All the true womanly charm of her--dimmed of

late by vain strivings to be the thing she was not--shone out with

fresh lustre when seen against the right background. But man, though

reputed more reasonable than woman, is nothing if not--well, let us

say human; and the sudden preoccupation of this new Lilamani in

things other than himself gave Nevil Sinclair the first real twinge

of jealousy he had known. In her zeal to give the overtaxed widow

some measure of rest she spent herself without stint. For, as usual,

Clara was ailing, even after her month at the sea; and within three

days of their coming, Cissy, aged five, developed tonsils and a

temperature, to Nevil's disgust.

Lilamani, armed with a confused jumble of Audrey's teaching and

Mataji's primitive skill, begged leave to nurse the child: and

Clara--amazed at this heaven-sent heathen cousin-in-law--murmured oh,

no, she really mustn't; while devoutly hoping that she would. Nevil

remonstrated in private. Lilamani looked pathetic; and won the day.

Nevil, half angry, half adoring, had carried Ronald off to the studio

and devoted himself to studies of Rāma for the ordeal scene;

while Lilamani did what she could for her fractious disobedient

charge.

Between Cissy and Christmas parcels and the privilege of bathing Baby

Nevil every night, it had been a hard week. And though the spirit

rejoiced in service, flesh rebelled. That first cold had led to a

second, which left her curiously tired, with a small dry cough that

broke her sleep and stirred vague apprehensions in her husband's

heart. But Cissy revived; and Nevil welcomed the influx of the clan

that would merge Clara's contingent in the general crowd.

More than all he welcomed Christina, whose love and understanding of

Lilamani came within measurable distance of his own. It was his hope

that her tact and good temper might serve to mitigate friction with

Jane. The latter had scarce been three hours in the house when some

disparaging comment upon Clara had fired Lilamani to hot retort; and

there had followed as near an approach to a scene as good breeding on

both sides would permit. Nevil, for once, had spoken sharply to them

both, and been at odds with himself ever since.

Discord, whether in sound, colour, or human relation jarred the whole

nature of the man; and it was this increasing antagonism between wife

and sister that clouded his brow to-night; the more so since he was

honest enough to recognize that Lilamani herself, though never the

aggressor, was the more implacably hostile of the two. Jane's

friendliness was a rough-cut jewel at best; and her not very gracious

attempts to proffer it had been barren of result. Mercifully, she

had never reverted to the letter; had in fact almost forgotten it;

while every sentence lived poignantly in Lilamani's brain. If only

she had trusted him and left those cruel words unread, it was at

least conceivable that all might have gone well in time. Devoted as

he was, he could not quite exonerate her from blame, though always he

blamed Jane more for the writing of them; and his own unthinking

carelessness most of all.

Is it one of life's inimitable ironies, or proof conclusive that

accident is not--this growth of tragedy from the chance-flung seed of

careless unthinking acts? There were moments when it maddened Nevil

Sinclair to contemplate all that those half-dozen lines left in his

blotter had brought to birth; and to-night he bethought him of an

appeal to his wife. Hitherto he had stood aside of set purpose.

Even the name of Jane was tacitly avoided between them. But the

season, with its insistence on peace and goodwill, seemed to pave the

way for speech; and an innate strain of loyalty to the sister he

could not love impelled him to do what lay in his power.

The odd thing was that he could by no means foresee the result. At

least he knew where to find her at this time of evening: and rising,

squared his shoulders as one resolved not to countenance defeat.

CHAPTER VI

"Mine ear is full of the murmur of rocking cradles;

'For a single Cradle,' says Nature, 'I would give every

one of my graves----'"

ROUMANIAN BALLAD.

The door of the day-nursery stood ajar; his own day-nursery, the one

room in the house where the spirit of his mother seemed still to

linger. He had grudged it not a little to Dick's unruly offspring.

But well he knew how she would have approved, both the act of

fellow-kindness and her who had urged it--that fragile-sweet wife of

his, who, for all her gentleness, seemed rather to set her impress on

others than to take colour from the enveloping influences of the West.

As he neared the door a low crooning reached him; broken wordless

music, and gurglings of baby laughter. He guessed her alone with the

"man-child called of his name," whom she had longed to hold in her

arms; and, promising himself a glimpse of her unseen, went forward

lightly, without sound. A gentle push when he reached the door; and

a long pause while he stood on the threshold scarce daring to

breathe; the artist entranced, the man inly and deeply stirred.

At the far end of the great dim room she sat, in a mellow zone of

light from the green-shaded lamp on the table at her side. A flannel

apron shielded her silken daintiness; and on it lay the two-year-old

boy in all his pristine rosiness and roundness, kicking out dimpled

legs and stretching up eager hands to the glitter of gold and glass

dangled above him just out of reach. Rapt, entranced, Lilamani

leaned over him, brow, cheek, and delicately aquiline nose outlined

in light; the curve and tinting of her lifted arm a picture in

itself. Released from strict mourning, she wore her night-sky _sari_

of betrothal, and the great wood-fire woke quivering points of light

in breast-girdle and armlets, rings and shining shoes.

A Madonna true to type, was the man's thought. Some day he would

paint her thus, with the mother-worship in her eyes. And the

child----?

A sudden pang smote him. Jane's voice proclaiming her fervent hope

came to him, startlingly clear, across the intervening weeks. Jane,

for whom he had come to speak, could find it in her heart to wish--to

hope----. Now as then, white-hot wrath flamed up in him. And

yet----? Had he himself----?

"Oh Nevil--I did not hear----!"

An unconscious movement had betrayed him; and her low voice put

questionings to flight.

"Sorry if I startled you," he said, smiling. "I may come in?"

"Dear lord--what need to ask?"

She glanced from him to the child, and the colour flooded her face:

part shyness, part emotion. It was the first time he had sought her

out in these regions. That unworthy twinge of jealousy forbade.

Even to-night he would scarcely have come, but for Jane. Well, at

least he owed her one unforgetable moment; and such return as he

could make was very much at her service.

With an undersense of treading on holy ground, he went forward and

stood beside his wife.

"A bonny little chap," said he, looking down at the jubilant creature

that rollicked on her arm. "You'll miss him when he goes."

She nodded; then glanced up at him, softly content. "You were

wanting me?"

"Am I ever doing anything else worth speaking of?" he asked with a

sudden access of lover's ardour, that quickened every pulse in her

body; and catching his hand that hung near, she pressed it to her

lips. Even after nine months of marriage this was still almost her

only spontaneous form of caress. There fell a silence. Two cinders

clinked on to the hearth, and the small Nevil chuckled at some

private joke of his own.

"I was meaning--did you want me for special reason?" she said.

"Well--yes. I'd like a talk in the studio before dinner."

"I also. I will come."

Deftly and quickly she slipped on the small night-things, untied her

apron and rising, stood before him with the other Nevil clinging

about her neck, his petal-soft cheek against her own.

"Just one minute for putting him in bed," said she.

"No--no!" in commanding tones from the embryo lord of creation,

jigging up and down like a thing on wires; and she pressed him

closer, her lips caressing his hair.

"Little Auntie says yes, O Princeling. And not to cry," she told

him, a hint of authority in her cooing tone that the child never

heard in his mother's and instinctively obeyed.

Then she passed on to the night-nursery, with the rhythmical grace of

movement that was hers, and the man stood looking after her with very

mingled feelings at his heart. It annoyed him that he must needs

dispel her mood of mother-tenderness with sententious talk of Jane.

He wanted simply to make love to her, to enjoy their rare moment

alone; wanted it still more when she sped back to him with flying

draperies, and slipped a hand through his as they went.

Till the studio door closed upon them neither spoke. Then it was the

woman, softly solicitous.

"Dearest, what now? Something troubling you? Difficult to say?"

And he, pressing the fingers he still held: "Little witch! How did

you know?"

"From your eyes; from your touch of hand," she answered simply.

"True?"

"Yes, true. Better speak straight and be done. It's about Jane."

Chin and brows went up ever so slightly, and the gleam that recalled

her father lightened in her eyes.

"You are still vexed for that? I am sorry. But how to help being

angry? She has no kind feeling when there is trouble. Her heart is

little and dried up like a nut. Oh, forgive that I speak like that

of your sister! But it is truth. Pity that we must talk of her at

this so happy time."

"A pity indeed. I own I shirked it, as you realized before I spoke.

And yet--isn't this 'so happy time' just the right moment, Lilamani?

My dear little Hindu wife has been so eager to share the spirit of

our Christmas festival; and the core of it is peace and goodwill.

Could you choose a better time than this for trying to think more

kindly of her?"

"I? Oh Nevil--it is _she_----!"

"Lilamani, ask yourself--is it _only_ she?"

The blue eyes, that were her heaven, looked straightly, almost

sternly into her own; a look that steeped the whole of her in one

burning blush. Yet she returned it bravely while he went on: "I know

her manner is often brusque and disagreeable to the verge of

rudeness, and yours never. She is hard, unimaginative, everything

almost that you are not. But in her own queer fashion she did try,

just at first, to be friendly with you, for my sake. Did you ever

try to make a shadow of response?"

"No," she answered very low, her voice steady as her gaze; and for

the unadorned directness of that denial he admired her the more.

"Isn't the door of your heart bolted and barred against her?"

"Yes. How shall it be otherwise--ever?"

"But, my darling!" His dismay held a note of reproach: "You--the

soul of tenderness--how can you be so implacably unforgiving?"

"In our belief there are things it is not good to forgive. Insult to

great race of my father, and cruel wound to you, lord of my life.

Only by chance was it that in my madness I did not go from you,

leaving you without Sita for your so great pictures. Can inmost

heart of me ever forget--ever forgive?"

The very quietness of her tone intensified its primitive fierceness

of conviction. Before it, he stood speechless, half in amaze, half

in admiration. Here was no pretty child to be coaxed into good

behaviour; but a woman with all her woman's heart on fire of such

strong love and hate as are the heritage of her emotional race.

Capturing one small clenched hand he drew her nearer. "Not an easy

task," he said gently. "But you have never tried. Won't you try

now, Lilamani, for your lord's sake--and for the sake of the Great

Birthday we shall keep to-morrow?"

"Oh, Nevil!" She drew a deep breath. "Easy to make such promise

with the lips. But how to keep? Loving and hating are not any more

to be commanded than sun or sea."

"No; but at least controlled," said he of the West, using the

key-word of his race. "And you have to remember this, little wife,

that although Jane may be harsh and prejudiced, the real trouble on

your side springs from your having read a letter you were never meant

to see----"

She started. "You are still thinking I did wrong by that?"

"In a sense--yes. But it was a great temptation; and I blame myself

more than all. I hardly realized then what a proud, fiery-hearted

little woman I had to deal with. But unhappily, the thing's done.

You know what Jane must never guess that you know; and it follows

that you must either be more forgiving or be constantly misjudged by

one who is already prejudiced, and who is, after all, my sister. I

don't want things to come to such a pass that she shall feel herself

unwelcome in my father's house; and this incessant friction hurts me

even more than it hurts either of you. So you see, it is for my sake

I ask you not to go on cherishing anger, but to give your own tender

heart a chance. Will you try?"

For a long minute she stood silent and very still, but for the

quickened rise and fall of her breast. Even now he did not feel sure

of her answer, till she unveiled her eyes.

"King of me--I will try," she said gravely; and the concession was a

bigger one than he realized. "I cannot promise for succeeding. But

because your wish is like command to me, I will try."

Then, with a swift, enchanting transition from Indian to English

wife, she lifted her lips for the reward that was her due.

"Now--shall we have a quiet time here till dinner?" he asked, his arm

still round her. "Or have you a hundred more things to do?"

"Only to fill three small pair stockings in my shrine."

"Santa Claus, masquerading in _sari_ and spangles!" he said, smiling.

"Are the contents a sacred secret? Or may I come too?"

"Come too."

But as he opened the door of her room, she flew past him with a

little cry: "Oh, I had forgot----!"

The lid of her sandalwood casket stood open, and she closed it

swiftly as he came up. Never yet had he seen its contents; and

knowing her a creature hedged about with reserves, had refrained from

question. But the last few minutes had brought them very near

together; and now, obeying his natural impulse, he spoke.

"Shall I ever be allowed to see the treasure hidden in your holy of

holies, little wife? I have often wondered what it might be, and

when you would think me worthy----"

"_You_? Oh, dearest--that was never my thought! It is only---- How

to explain? Indian wife has always some private god for worship; not

speaking his name to any, even to her husband. But now--I am trying

also to be English wife. There comes no priest between us, as often

in India. And--if you are really wishing----"

"I am wishing very much----" he said quietly; and she, with head

reverently bowed, lifted the lid.

It has been said that to overhear the prayer of a man is to know him;

and Nevil Sinclair, looking down upon the tiny blue image of

Babyhood, gold-crowned, with gilded lute and scroll, had a sense of

overhearing the most intimate prayer of his wife's heart. The

primitive simplicity of it moved him beyond speech; and it was she

who broke the silence, speaking softly with lowered eyes.

"That is Krishna. Him you have read with me in Bhagavad Gita. That

colouring of blue--like sea and sky--is for symbol of infinite.

Scroll is for symbol also, meaning the Gita; and lute because he was

humbly born among cow-herds, by river Jumna, even like your Christ in

that manger. For us he also is Holy Child, Healer of World-disease,

Shepherd and Lord. Indian mothers are calling this Baby-image their

Gopala, little cow-herd; and to him we pray always for desire of the

heart----"

A pause. Her own heart's desire and secret fear trembled on the

verge of utterance. Never in their most blessed moments of intimacy

had she felt quite so near to him she worshipped; so certain that he

would understand. Secure in that certainty, she found courage to

speak on.

"To him I pray also for the coming--of that other, too long delayed.

And though yet he is not seeming to hear, surely there will come

promise soon." Her voice dropped a tone; and she spoke as one who

consoled him for lack of that which he needs must crave. "Then you

can no longer feel--I am useless wife----"

"Useless! You--my Sita, my main source of inspiration! What put

such a notion into your head?"

"Nothing put. It is natural," she answered quietly. "I am--oh, so

glad for the pictures. But they cannot always be. And then--what

use for wife who cannot command servants, or shoot with gun, or make

all kinds of talk for dinner-table, unless--by giving of that great

gift----"

She could say no more. His arm was round her; his lips against her

cheek.

"My darling, you must never think such foolishness again. And as

for--the other---- All in good time. Why, you're still almost a

child yourself----"

"I am _not_! I am woman!" she cried out with sudden vehemence;

contradicting him flatly for the first time and half withdrawing

herself from his clasp. And he, looking back on the past half-hour,

knew that she spoke truth.

"You are. Very much so. I spoke thoughtlessly," he admitted,

smiling. "But still--it's full early to be troubling your head about

it. And if it's me you're concerned for, you may set your mind at

rest----"

"You mean, you do not--you have never----?" His attempt at

reassurance chilled her strangely. He seemed suddenly very far away.

"In all these months you have not thought--have not wished----?"

"Is that very dreadful of me?" he asked, drawing her closer; puzzled

to know what was wrong. "I suppose the truth is I've been so well

content with my Sita Dévi and the splendid field of work she has

opened up for me, that there has hardly been space for other wishes,

other hopes----"