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.