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.