Chapter XIII

"Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment."
SHAKESPEARE.

No sign of Broome in the lounge-hall; and Sinclair, passing out on to the wide balcony-verandah, scanned the seats where smokers and newspaper readers basked in the strong unclouded sun of early March. Two of the benches on the path below had been transformed into open-air stalls; and toward these Sinclair was lured by the lover's imperious need of giving, that is, in its essence, divine. But choice was difficult, for a beloved so far removed from the usual type. The trinkets were too trumpery; hairpins, combs and brushes a trifle too intimate--as yet; paper-knives, and their like, too impersonal, too prosaic.

Then--while the rival pedlars volubly assailed him with impossibilities, his eyes lighted on a pair of oval buckles in mother-o'-pearl. By divine right of fitness, they were made for her small golden shoes; and pushing aside the human flies that buzzed at his ears, picked up his treasures.

While he stood so, querying the man's preposterous demands, behold Audrey, emerging from the olive wood, where she had been remodelling her "sacred programme," and metaphorically fighting the beasts, like any early Christian, without the stage properties of arena, audience, and the martyr's crown.

At sight of Nevil, appraising those shimmering trifles on his open palm, she set her lips and stood still. Escape were impossible, nor was she in the mood for it now. There are moments when self-chastisement dulls the edge of self-pity. Besides--she wanted to know.

He looked up and recognized her.

"Hullo, Audrey," he said, flushing awkwardly and closing his left hand.

"Too late. I saw them!" she rallied him, with a forced lightness that had its undernote of pathos and pluck. "Has the modern dandy progressed from striped silk socks to buckles on his pumps?"

"Not yet! No doubt he will--in time! But--if you saw them----" his boyish awkwardness was vexatiously engaging--"you must know--they weren't the right size----!"

"Yes. It puzzled me. Does it mean--congratulations?" she moistened her lips. "I understood you were to be banished for a week."

"So I am--bad luck to it."

"And yet----?"

"Oh, hang it all, it comes natural to a man. And I thought--I'd give a hostage to fortune. You might wish me luck, Audrey," he went on, paying for his hostages, and moving away with her, "though I have so egregiously upset your apple-cart. It's awfully tactless of me; and I apologize humbly. But one couldn't foresee--this."

"No, indeed!"

"Well then----? Are you quite too angry to wish me well? Or do you disapprove, as usual--root and branch?"

She lifted her shoulders. "Yes. I disapprove. But I'm not angry. I've no right to be. Only disappointed, for the moment. Though I don't see that my disappointment or disapproval need matter much--to either of you."

She had turned down toward the sea in speaking; preferring the pain of his nearness to the pain of his absence; and she stepped beside him in resolute fashion, with long leisurely strides. But the calm of her tone did not carry conviction; and Nevil scrutinized her well-cut profile with troubled gaze.

"I wonder why you say that, Audrey?" he asked in the voice of sympathy against which she steeled herself in vain. "Seeing that we owe pretty nearly everything to your pluck, in persuading Sir Lakshman to bring her home. And yet--I'm hanged if I know what's gone wrong with you!" he broke out in honest bewilderment. "A fortnight ago we were such good friends, I'd have sworn nothing could come between us. But ever since I started the picture----"

"My dear Nevil, it's not like you to make mountains out of molehills!" Only a show of anger and open speech could save her from betrayal. "Naturally I was anxious about Lilamani when I saw what was happening to her. I never believed for a moment you would dream of asking her to become--the future Lady Sinclair; and I dreaded another emotional crisis, that would upset her studies and her health----"

"Well, then--now, you ought to be satisfied. And you're not."

"No. You've only turned my anxieties into a fresh channel. To me such a marriage seems little short of madness--for you both."

"You think I'll not understand her--that I'll make her unhappy?"

"God knows! If Lilamani were more like the average Indian girl--a precocious little woman, graceful and gentle on the surface, sensuous and subtle underneath, my chief concern would be--for you. But she has a personality, a rare spiritual power that may just possibly enable her to transcend the limitations of race. I'm not over-fanciful or impressionable; and at first I looked upon her simply as an attractive child, with brains that I was keen to develop for the service of her country-women. But of late I have been compelled to recognise--quite against my will!--that this mere child, ten years my junior, could teach me deeper things than I could ever teach her. Nevil--when that girl gives herself, she will give all, without reservation or stint, as few English girls can, or will, in these days. It's this that makes me tremble for her: and I confess I half resent such a complete burnt-offering of personality being made for the sake of--any man."

"Even if he feels his own unworthiness in every fibre?" Sinclair cried out with sudden fervour: and for a second or two--her own pain forgotten--she regarded this new Nevil of Lilamani's making.

Then: "If you honestly feel that," she said slowly, "if I could only believe you might continue to feel it--after the gift has been given, my own loss would be easier to bear. It will be a big loss in many ways; how big I hardly knew--till I read that."

Obedient, for once, to an impulse she did not stay to analyze, Audrey Hammond handed Lilamani's note of the morning to Lilamani's lover, and watched him while he scanned it; the ache of jealousy clashing with the ache of mother-love.

Nevil Sinclair read the note twice through, lingeringly, before handing it back.

"Hindu or no--she's an angel of God," he said under his breath. "Thank you for letting me see it. But it makes me feel madder than ever at being banished for a whole week!"

"The best thing that could happen, all the same," said she. "I admire Sir Lakshman's wisdom. When d'you go?"

"This afternoon, I think; if I can fix it up with Broome. I came out to look for him. But I'm glad I stumbled on you first. It's been a relief, and a pleasure, to have a friendly talk with you again. Have you seen anything of Broome?"

"Yes. He went past, while I was in the wood, with Mrs. Despard and Signor Martino, who had his easel. I believe he's painting on the Cap."

"Good. Let's join them."

"You can. I'll turn back."

"Why? Don't you like Mrs. Despard?"

"Yes. She's charming. But we don't see life from the same angle. She'll prophesy much smoother things to you, and wipe out all the effect of my foreboding! Good-bye!"

"No--not that: _au revoir_! And you won't wish me luck--even now?"

"I can only wish--what is best, for you and her; and honestly I don't yet know what that is."

"But you won't frighten her off with your forebodings, will you, Audrey? You'll play the game?"

"I've too much of the boy in me to do anything else," she answered, half proudly, half in bitterness. "If she is really--yours, nothing will keep her from you."

The last words gave an added warmth to his hand-clasp. "If you believe that, Audrey, it should soften your disappointment. She wasn't yours from the start. I'm convinced you brought her all the way from India, simply that we might meet. And some day what is really yours will come to you for a reward."

"Will it? I wonder."

Her eyes and tone had a strange softness.

"Take my word for it," he assured her, smiling: and again, as on that first night of revelation, she stood watching him while he left her--alone.

Yet was Sinclair thinking more of her, in that moment, than of his banished love. This was not the Audrey who had greeted him, and rated him, less than a month ago. There were new inflections in her voice; and, just now, he could have sworn to the gleam of tears in her eyes. Then--a sudden suspicion darted into light. Did it mean----? Could it be ... that she...? Nonsense! He thrust away the thought as an impertinent ebullition of masculine vanity; and hurried on to the gleaming headland where Martino's easel and small figure were silhouetted against the blue, while Broome and Mrs. Despard lounged near at hand on a fragrant cushion of lentisk.

They waved letters and newspapers at his approach, and Helen Despard patted the empty space at her side.

"Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. Come and laze with us on the most luxurious spring couch in Europe! How that Colossus of industry, Signor Martino, can stand and paint, hour after hour, in this lotus-eating atmosphere is beyond me altogether. But you have earned the right to loaf; and I want you to talk to me about that charming girl."

"I'm ready!" Nevil answered, sinking easefully down beside her, and sniffing the aromatic sweetness of crushed leaves.

Broome, leaning round on one elbow, eyed him keenly.

"Thought I noticed a glorified air about you this morning," said he. "What is it, my son?"

"The best it could be. I've asked Miss Lakshman Singh to be my wife."

"Good Lord, Nevil! You don't mean that! I thought----"

"You thought I was amusing myself--legitimately?" All a lover's indignation burned in his tone. "I've just been trying to persuade Sir Lakshman to let me marry her at once."

"Well?"

"He's turned me off the premises for a week to think things out with a cool mind, and give her a chance of doing the same."

Broome nodded three times decisively. "'A Daniel come to judgment!' You mean to leave the Cap?"

"Yes. A week's spin in the motor would meet the case, if it suits you."

"Right. I'm your man. The last of my proofs went off yesterday, which leaves me a free agent--till next time!"

Helen Despard, prone upon her cushion, looked from one to the other with sympathetic interest, awaiting her cue. But Martino, hearing vague snatches of their talk, suddenly caught the drift of it and pounced round upon them as a dog upon a bone.

"_What_ is that you are talking, Sinclair? Not enough that you have painted such a wonderful picture, but you are marrying the _houri_ herself?"

"The minute her father gives me leave," Nevil answered, proudly content.

"_Sapristi_! But that is true romance; too seldom seen in this age of dry bones! And I applaud your choice. I--Martino--would have done same myself, only that I have--lost my one lung."

It was as if he had said "I have lost my umbrella"; and his stoical coolness smote so sharply upon Nevil's sensitized heart that it cost him an effort to answer, laughing: "No fear, Martino _mio_! Not while I was alive and could wield a pistol!"

The Italian shrugged his lean shoulders. "_Ebbene_! The better for my art; even like my lame inside, that forbids me from unfaithfulness, such as you will fall into, my friend, when that _houri_ makes you the necklace of her arms, and you cannot see the stars of heaven for the shining in her eyes."

But for Sinclair the vision eclipsed the warning.

"It's my belief I shall see them ten times more clearly," said he.

"Ah, the incomparable lover! For that I shall petition the Holy Virgin and all the Saints. Only through some great emotion, some lightning-flash into Heaven or Hell--small matter which--is great achievement born. So! If you can make full surrender, you gain the more. For myself, I paint for your bride a sea-piece--the finest that Martino's brush can achieve. It would please her--no?"

"Beyond everything!" Nevil glowed visibly, Englishman though he was. "Let it be all sea and sky, Martino. That's how she likes it best."

It was then that Helen Despard leaned forward, laying a hand on his arm.

"This makes the fairy-tale sound astonishingly real," she said, with softly smiling eyes. "I was charmed at first sight. I always found Indian women curiously appealing: but I have met few of her quality. I had my suspicions on Thursday--about you both; and I wondered very much how far the Bohemian element in you would dominate the average Englishman's instinct for the beaten track. It's a daring venture. But, like Signor Martino, I applaud your choice."

"Thank you. I felt sure you would," Nevil said simply. But though his words were for Mrs. Despard, his eyes were questioning Cuthbert Broome.

"You don't feel quite so sure of me--eh, old chap?" quoth the novelist, pensively tapping his pipe against a rock.

"Well, it's always been the trouble--hasn't it?--the Bohemian element under your Park Lane surface! I admit the girl's attractive enough to knock any man off his centre. But still--what of Sir George?"

Sinclair winced. "My affair, surely," said he, with a touch of constraint. Then, because Broome was Broome, and licensed to say what others might not, he added in a changed tone: "It's rough luck on the old man, of course. But I'm free to choose for myself. He'll admit that, if I know him, when the first vexation's over; and I shan't take her home till it is. Once get 'em together, I can trust her for the rest."

"H'm. It's conceivable--after a time. What's more, if you leap into fame with a picture or two, as Martino prophesies, and turn up in town with a beautiful Eastern wife, it's quite on the cards that, in this day of volatile fads and crazes, she might become the rage. I can just picture certain hyper-cultivated, esoteric hostesses of my acquaintance thrilled to the tips of their French suede gloves over 'a new find,' and discovering, with enthusiasm, that _saris_ and Hindu philosophy are the only wear--

"Confound you, Broome!" Nevil broke in hotly--a new Nevil indeed. "D'you think I'd let her be exploited by a parcel of society women?"

"No, no, my dear boy, he doesn't think anything of the kind!" Thus Helen Despard extinguishing the egregious author with wave of her hand. "He's only talking ribald nonsense because it is his nature to! Let him alone, and listen to me. I didn't spend fifteen years in India with my eyes glued to one side of the picture, as some of us do. I made many friends among high-caste native ladies and girls, who are entering on a phase of transition as full of disadvantages and difficulties as our own; and even more fertile in distressing incongruities. Anklets jingling above heavy Oxford shoes. Saris draped over unspeakable 'English jackets.' A smattering of music, and a veneer of education from Zenana schools. But this girl--like most Indian women of real distinction--seems to have been educated mainly by her father, a very remarkable specimen of the Anglicized native. Still--if you _do_ marry her, don't Westernize her more than you can help. Keep her away from superficial English influences----"

"Yes, yes, that's my notion," Nevil assented eagerly, with a triumphant glance at Broome, the extinguished, who was consoling himself with a second pipe. "I wouldn't change one iota of her unique, delicately-poised personality. Her pretty poetic fancies and her quaint turns of phrase are as much a part of her as the scent and colour are of a flower."

"Happy for her that you are poet enough to discern the essence of her charm--once lost, never to be recaptured. Again and again I have been puzzled and distressed to see how all that is vivid, beautiful, and alluring in the Indian woman's personality becomes crude, inartistic, and inadequate through too close contact with Western things: the wrong things, no doubt. But it's hard to discriminate. Keep your _houri_ Eastern, in thought and feeling--_and dress_, Mr. Sinclair, and it's possible you may learn much from her that will make you a better man and a finer artist. There's rank heresy for you!"

"Then you may write me down the rankest heretic that ever stepped." And while Broome chuckled in his beard, Mrs. Despard patted the artist's sleeve.

"In that case it won't shock you if I add that we have more to learn from the East--especially perhaps from its women-folk--than our native arrogance will let us admit. There! my sermon's over; and I shall see all I can of Miss Lakshman Singh while you're away. When d'you go? At once?"

"This afternoon; eh, Broome?"

"M--yes. By the way. I promised to run over to Monte Carlo for the night, on the trail of that mis-begotten lunatic, de Lisle, who went off three days ago with some infallible new system in his pocket, and every penny of his wife's spare cash. Not a line from him since; and she seems afraid he might make away with himself if he lost it all. Best thing that could happen for her, in my private opinion."

"Poor soul! But how is she managing without the spare cash?"

It was Helen Despard who spoke; and Broome, studying the horizon with interest, made answer gruffly: "Oh, that's been squared--for the present. And, for her sake, I've agreed to hunt for a needle in a hay-stack. It's worth trying on the chance. You don't mind, Nevil?"

"Rather not. We can put in the week-end there; and then take a run into the low hills--Cagnes, La Tourelle, Gorge du Loup. Good to see all the old places again, with new eyes."

"That's fixed up, then. Two o'clock sharp."

And on the stroke of the hour a snorting motor whirled them forth upon their pilgrimage, through the iron gates of the Cap Hotel; while a girl in a primrose _sari_ looked after them from the corner balcony, and knew, for the first time, that strange and terrible feeling, as of the heart being dragged out of the body and flung quivering into space.