Chapter II

"My heart in me was held at restless rest,
Presageful of some prize beyond its quest,
Prophetic still with promise, fain to find the best."
--SWINBOURNE.

Martino's approval of the _houri_ and something more dated from his first sight of Nevil's sketch. Constrained by that something, he had wrought, in the sea-piece that was his wedding-gift, a symbolic portrayal of his own soul, untamed and untameable as the waters that cover the earth. All wind-driven wave and cloud it was; save for one down-sweeping sword of radiance that struck a path of gold through the turmoil: the whole smitten into life by the illusion of light and movement that was fast gaining him recognition as one of the master-painters of his time. This much, at least, of himself should be hers: the quintessence of his nature purged from the dross. For outside his art, and his touch of heroic fortitude, Martino's code of morals did not bear critical inspection.

It was Sinclair's mention of her "soul-pictures" that had inspired his attempt at symbolical portraiture, in the hope that she might see and understand. She had seen and understood. On the day of its bestowal he had watched discovery creep into her eyes; had heard from her lips the tribute he coveted: "But, Signor Martino, it is you--yourself!"

"For which reason, Signorina--it is yours," he had answered with his awkward little bow of gallantry. And to-day, as he sipped his _chocolat_ in Broome's familiar study, he felt a thrill of pleasure in seeing "himself" hung in the right light, at the right angle; the only picture added, by Nevil, to the chosen few that adorned Broome's grey-green walls.

The French windows were flung wide; and the two men sat just within them. Out on the balcony, in full sunshine, gleamed the silver tea-tray, and beside it, on her lacquer stool, sat the _houri_; Signorina no longer, but bride of another; shyly conscious of her new dignity, shyly aloof, for all her flutter of pleasure at sight of one who recalled Antibes.

Lovelier and more desirable than ever she seemed to Martino, in her subdued glow of happiness and health renewed; the olive and rose-madder tints of her skin set off by a _sari_, delicately pink as the lining of a shell; its narrow border of almond-buds, breaking at each corner into a full-blown spray. Whatever pangs of envy may have pricked the man, the artist, at least, could find pure pleasure in watching her, while Sinclair unfolded her God-bestowed conviction that, between them, they could achieve a set of paintings from the great Hindu Epic, choosing scenes that should not involve an overcrowded canvas, or technical knowledge of detail, hard to acquire out of India.

"It's flagrantly ambitious, I admit," Nevil concluded, lighting a cigarette and holding his vesta to Martino's cigar. "But Sir Lakshman is a keen student of ancient literature; and--she is astonishingly well up in it all. She tells me he has a remarkable collection of old books, native pictures, and curios; and thinks he would gladly send out for some of them to act as "stage properties" and give me a better grasp of the subject. What d'you think, Martino _mio_? Is it a credible venture? Or has too much good-fortune turned my head?"

Martino considered the question a moment, his ragged moustache thrust out.

"Difficult to answer," he said at last. "It is I who am lost, confounded, by your so rapid advance. Your new picture!--how remarkable! ... All in one month. After that, it is not for Martino to say possible or impossible. In Paris you shall have worked like anything else than the Sinclair known to me these three years."

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

Nevil's eyes dwelt an instant on his wife's half-averted face; and Martino coughed till the tears came.

"That one can understand," he muttered gruffly. "But you painted no picture there--was it?"

"No. Only studies and sketches--scores of them. But without Leseppes I'd have been nowhere. He called himself my godfather. Even let his own work slide a bit on my account."

Martino nodded. "H'm. That is Leseppes--when the finger touches his heart. Which is not too often, I can tell you, Sinclair. It is--how you call?--feather in your cap. He knew it would be worth. And he knew right. One can trace Jacques Leseppes in that." He jerked his cigar towards the dreamers. "But I--Martino--knew it first. That is my _panache_. The surprise to me is how you were content, those many years, to play fool with a gift so precious----"

"My dear fellow, I wasn't content. That was the deuce of it all. Often and often I felt the ache and stirring of a power, that seemed as if it must work itself out--somehow, some day. But in between times conviction went to pieces; and I cursed myself for an imaginative, conceited fool----"

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

"Horribly disconcerting all the same. Without proof of unusual talent I could hardly ask my father to spend money on a gift he didn't believe in. So there I was! A failure in my father's eyes. Worse than that in my own. Only when I got into touch with you and your kind, I used to feel like a man who has a treasure locked up in a secret room of which he has lost the key----"

"And, by God, you have got it now, _amico mio_! Not often is it that an artist shall have the unique good fortune to find himself--in his wife."

He jerked out the last with an effort; and the half-averted face was turned gently away. It was the custom of her new world, this open fashion of speech: but not soon would her sensitiveness become inured to personal allusions impermissible among Hindus of good breeding.

Her husband, keenly alive to the significance of that slight movement, answered, without direct mention of her: "I'm quite as much confounded as you are, Martino _mio_; and perhaps a little intoxicated with the wine of the gods, or I could hardly take this new notion seriously. But I do. Honestly, I do----"

"_Sapristi_! That picture gives you right. And to take seriously, is to achieve. Will you or ... the Signora tell me more of this Epic, Saga--what you call it?"

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

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

"If Signor Martino is wishing--I will try. But--it is so great and beautiful; and my telling so clumsy. I am not clever to such things."

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

The small man nodded vigorously.

"No fear for Martino to be critical, Signora," he said with unusual gentleness. "Outside of form and colour there lives no great knowledge in my black bullet head. Tell me, please, this Epic of your country. History, is it? Or legend?"

"Hard to say how much from each," she answered, clasping her hands to steady herself. "It is mixture of all things; war and philosophy and family love. But almost for us it is religion. Because Rāma, prince and hero, was incarnation of Vishnu, called Preserver, second great god of Hindu Trinity; and this poem tells of his many adventures in ancient forest of Dandak. There he was living fourteen years in banishment, because of long-ago promise made by that old king, his father, to second queen, who was favourite, and was wishing to see her own son in Rāma's place.

"Then, because royal word cannot be broken, Rāma must fulfil that promise; even if father, mother, and all the peoples break their hearts for losing such a Prince. In rough guise of pilgrim he chose to go; leaving all possessions, even Sita, beautiful and beloved wife. She must stay safely with his mother because forest life was too much rough and dangerous for high-bred woman. But now there came difficulty----"

Lilamani paused and drew in a low soft breath. The sacredness of Sita, of all communion between wife and husband, made the telling of so impassioned a love-story more difficult than she had foreseen. Nevil, divining her thought, frowned imperatively at Martino, checking comment on his lips.

And she, leaning forward, chin cradled in one hand, found courage to speak on; her eyes intent upon a fairy fleet of clouds, her voice hushed to a musical monotone, as if thinking aloud.

"Sita, dutiful beyond all women, refused in this one matter to obey her lord, caring nothing for danger or rough life if only she may behold his face. Rāma, too much anxious, would not hear such thing. Only at last, by saying she will take poison, even fainting with grief, she won consent. Lakshman, own brother to Rāma, said he will go also; and they three, in coats of bark, went forth to their strange adventures. There might come one picture. Another might come, months after, when Sita was sitting alone in forest hut, built by Lakshman, while Rāma has gone in search of wonderful deer, seen by her, and greatly wished. But this deer was only form taken by a Wicked One to draw Rāma far from his beloved. Because of his strength, no evil giants of that wood were able to conquer him; and they were desiring vengeance, because he spurned offered love of hideous giantess, sister of Ravān, that ogre-king of Ceylon. By his devising was such cruel trick played on Rāma, all-conquering one; only to be caught by deceit because his spirit was too clear for such muddy thoughts.

"So he was leaving his Queen in care of Lakshman, and following that deer. But at first prick of arrow, the Wicked One cried out, in voice of Rāma: 'Ah Sita, ah Lakshmana--help! help!' This they heard with fearful hearts; and Sita was insisting that Lakshman shall leave charge of her and follow that call. But even for her command, he would not disobey Rāma and desert his Queen; till Sita became angry, saying she must believe he wishes that brother's death, so he may marry with herself. Heart-broken from such suspicion, Lakshman must go.

"Then while Sita was sitting alone, beautiful as full moon, in robes of amber silk, with lotus-wreath upon her hair, came That Terrible, stealthily up from river, in guise of Brahman. First he was begging food, as holy man, that none may refuse. Then, throwing off disguise, he was speaking shameful things to that most loyal wife. In scornful anger she spurned him, as her lord had spurned his sister. More than this, weak woman could not do. So That Terrible--catching her by waist and by hair--carried her off in his flying car, over tree-tops to Lanka, now called Ceylon. Only one great vulture, friend to Rāma, saw them go and made battle with Ravān. But no use. He fell, with many wounds and arrows, killed almost to death----"

Another pause. Half-unconsciously Lilamani was identifying Sita with herself, Rāma with her lord; and now it was as if the actual sword of division pierced her heart.

"See a fresh picture--sorrowful beyond telling," she murmured, the thrill of oncoming tragedy in her voice. "Sita, broken of heart and hope--true wife still, pure as snow newly fallen--grieving alone in that garden of Ravān, where all was beautiful, except only the she-fiends--with head of wild beast and bodies of women--who must guard her and torment her with insult and cruelty; because not all flatterings or gifts or threatenings could make her disloyal by even look or word. Only one thing kept That Terrible from taking her in his palace by force. He feared she was daughter of high gods who could punish him for that sacrilege. Therefore he tried every way for winning her consent. But no use. So he grew angry, and gave her in charge of she-fiends that she might not escape.

"But on this day, unknown to her, there sat one among the branches with message from her lord: Hanuman, general of the monkey-peoples, by which is meant wild forest tribes. Lightly leaping down, he knelt before that sorrowful lady, telling her how one great prince Rāma had been searching many months all over Southern India for stolen wife dearly-loved; how he, general of monkey-peoples, had leapt across the sea to make search in country of Ravān. Hearing of beautiful prisoner in Asoka garden, he came, by his littleness and cunning, through the tree-tops to see. And now, if she is that lost Queen, he is begging token for her husband that she is still alive and true wife. Then he will bring great army and win her back. By this news, joy came once more to Sita's heart; and most precious jewel, gift of her father, she sent for greeting and proof of faithful love.

"Then, through many months the story is filled with noise of battle and chariot-wheels, and death and victory. No pictures here. Till, at last, came day of meeting between Sita and her lord. By his orders she was carried in litter to greet him on field of victory. And he, not approaching, called her to come forth, with face uncovered, before those many folk. From this so strange command she had fear of trouble; yet, shrinking greatly, she came forth. With eyes veiled, though face must be seen, she went proudly to her lord; heart and thought unstained as when her father made the gift.

"Then fell that unspeakable thing. There, in cruel speech, that all his army shall hear, he told her not for great love had he fought and conquered, but only to avenge insult and theft. There, before all, he named her faithless wife, Queen of Ravān, that could never any more be Queen for him. Oh, cruel! _Too cruel_----!"

Lilamani's voice vibrated with pain and scorn. The hand that lay on her lap clenched itself in passionate protest. Martino, pictures, Nevil himself forgotten, she was seeing all, hearing all; translated in spirit back to the morning of the world.

"Surely Rāma, true husband, must be lost in Rāma, proud Prince, to speak so. And Sita was answering, in such noble meekness, that he may doubt others, if he will; but not that truth which all her life has shown. 'Why,' she was asking, 'had he not sent such word through Hanuman, that she might die and be spared from deepest insult and shame?' Then she was pleading remembrance for early days of happiness and love: 'O King, is all forgotten--all?'

"From Rāma no word; and she, peerless one, turned to Lakshman, begging him, in broken voice, make ready funeral pyre. For loving woman, hurt beyond healing, what else was left?

"So there, before all, it was made ready, none daring to disobey: and Sita, not shrinking now, drew near those leaping flames, praying with uplifted hands to the God within.

"Universal witness, Fire,
Protect my body on the pyre!
As Raghu's son has lightly laid
This charge on Sita--hear, and aid!"

"When these cruel flames closed upon her loveliness, most piercing cry went up from all; and tears came in Rāma's eyes. Then down from heaven came the great Gods, in cars golden like sunbeams, revealing to Rāma he is no mortal man--but Vishnu himself in human shape; reproaching him for such treatment of his Queen, like man of common clay.

"But see--see! Those flames are rolling backward, and out of their burning heart came the Lord of Fire himself, carrying that stainless one, no fire could harm. Fresh, like she came from the litter; not one flower of wreath scorched nor hair of eyelash singed, that Universal Witness gave her again to her lord of life. Then Rāma was proclaiming, before those many peoples, that never had he been doubting her word and her love; only for princely honour there was need that searching fire should give proof to all. Now he will cleave to her as hero cleaves to glory; and never leave her again. Oh, if he kept that word ... if he kept it----!"

The low cry ended in a broken sound; and Lilamani sat motionless, her face hidden.

Martino glanced at Sinclair. His cigarette had gone out. He leaned back in his chair lost to everything but this fresh revealing of his girl-wife; and the Italian, more poignantly moved by her distress than by Sita's sufferings, leaned impulsively towards her.

"It was not kept? That demi-god, was he so despicable? Tell me, Signora--is that the end?"

Nevil frowned sharply. Lilamani started and looked up. Tears hung on her lashes.

"That is the ending--for my pictures," she said quietly. "True ending of story also, in my belief. But in such far-away times, who can tell? Long after death of that great poet was added _Uttra Kanda_, after-part, telling of triumphal return to their own kingdom, where they two lived in happiness, too perfect, one year only. Then came to Rāma's ears that people were murmuring doubts of his Queen in spite of all. Not one doubt had Rāma. But for honour of his kinghood, he was believing Sita must go. So he sent her, even before birth of his child, to that far hermitage; and she, in great grief of her heart, said only: 'Husband is God of the wife; what seems right to him she must do even at cost of life.'

"So for twenty long years she was living, without anger or complaint, in that hermitage of early days; till twin sons of Rāma had become men. Then they, without knowing, went to sing glorious deeds of their father at his Court. There came recognition: and Rāma was crying out that he will bear separation no longer; that Sita must come back to grant forgiveness, and once more reign as his Queen.

"She came; proud, but sad from too much pain and waiting. There, before chiefs and kings and all subjects, she stood in crimson robe, still beautiful as dawn. But--oh terrible!--even while Rāma was greeting her, came the people's murmur: 'Let her be tried by fire.' Even for such a great heart that was too much. Like one pierced with a sword, she covered her face, crying in broken voice: 'If unstained in thought and action--Mother Earth, receive thy child!'

"Then that great Earth-Mother, quick to answer, cleft the ground and came up, there, at her daughter's feet. Beautiful beyond telling her throne: wide her arms of welcome. Vain, all vain, outcry of Rāma and his people. The earth was closing on mother and child. She is gone ... that stainless one----!"

With a shuddering sob Lilamani sprang to her feet, flung both arms heavenward in a gesture half triumph, half despair: then, stabbed awake by sudden acute self-consciousness, turned and fled.

In the silence she left behind her, the hush of sun-sinking seemed still to palpitate with ghosts of dead emotions interwoven with live ones. The breathing of both men sounded curiously distinct. Nevil lit a fresh cigarette, mechanically, as if his mind were elsewhere. Martino sat gazing at the empty chair; then, with awkward haste, brushed a hand across his eyes.

It was Nevil who stepped first out of the cloud.

"Well, Martino--it's a big thing, isn't it? What do you think?"

Martino grunted. Then he coughed.

"My friend, at this moment, I _think_ not at all. But this I know. Through her clearness of vision you shall paint those pictures in such a fashion that they shall make your name. I, Martino, have said. Let your strong imagining take colour from her. She is like flame to your mind--to your life. No?"

"She is."

"_Bene_. That I thought. Of lesser matters we shall speak another time."