Chapter THE LAST

"O very woman, god at once and child,
What ails thee to desire of me once more
The assurance that thou hadst in heart before?
For all this wild, sweet waste of sweet, vain breath,
Thou knowest, I know thou hast given me
Life, not Death."
SWINBURNE.

And out there in full moonlight, while the two men talked, the dusky speck, seen of Nevil, moved restlessly to and fro in the open sandy space, where no balustrade intervenes between sheer rocks and the sea.

Not even night and silence could baptize the soul of Lilamani Sinclair with the dew of peace. Fleeing from her overwrought self, imprisoned within four walls, she found only that self, and none other, here at the edge of all things. None other: that was the horror of it. But there came another; a ghostly presence, unseen, yet acutely felt, close to her shoulder, whispering insistently at her ear. And the voice was the voice of Jane. One half of her mind knew it for a product of nerves and imagination; the other half shivered, at the chill nearness of it, like a naked soul in the winds between the worlds.

And through all these importunate unrealities of sight and sound, Nevil's voice, with its note of remonstrance, sounded clearer than all. "You don't quite realize what a big sacrifice you ask of me." "Give up Bramleigh Beeches and practically live abroad----"

Oh, it was impossible, past thinking. How could that dear father--always so wise--make fresh trouble on her account, when already she had made too much in this great English family. Nevil had told her nothing about his own bearding of Jane, save that she need not distress herself over George, who could be trusted not to fling away five thousand a year plus a woman who loved him. His parting with her had been awkward and constrained; Jane's, frigidly polite; and her own secret wish had been that she might see neither of them again. They had rubbed the bloom off everything with their "muddy thoughts." For that last encounter with Lady Roscoe, striking sharp on her joy in Nevil's triumph--and she peculiarly unfit for emotional strain--had produced upon her an effect out of all proportion to the cause; dashing her rudely to earth, just when her wings had begun to flutter afresh; obscuring the worth of her first great gift in renewed sense of her own unfitness, not for wifehood, but for Lady Sinclairhood and all it involved. Better for him by far, whispered the malign voice at her ear, had he married his true English mate--Leslie de Winton, who would have fulfilled the needs of his art and of his great house no less; and--bitterest "and"--would have given him sons of his own blood to carry on his distinguished name.

Yet of his own heart and will he had chosen her--Lilamani; perhaps without thought of sons or of great names. And now--when she told him, would he be glad in his inmost heart? Or would he----?

Oh, what foolishness to torment herself thus for more than a week! And yet--better uncertainty than a certainty she could scarce endure, and live. Had she been capable of pouring out her heart to Audrey, much had been spared her. But she was not so made; and it is written that passionate love has a danger for natures over-sensitive and reserved, unknown to the more volatile and expansive. Yet had her sole lapse from self-imposed silence--one shower of tears unexplained, one cry from her heart--wrought this gravest complication of all.

Instinctively her Eastern womanhood rebelled against the idea that her lord should change his way of life in any degree on her account. And her father--himself a Hindu--what possessed him to suggest such madness? Too well her heart knew the answer--love, sheer love, hard pressed by secret fears. For a week or more, whenever his eyes rested upon her, she had seen that love in them suffering dumbly, and yet had not found courage for speech. Oh, coward, and self-thinking, to spoil that dear father's last week with her, through fear of her own pain.

And in two small days he would be gone. The great sea, that brooded and murmured below among the rocks, would turn traitor, even like the moon to-night, and take him from her. If only they two might go also--they three, her heart whispered shyly, as she turned her steps seaward and stood upon a grey slab of rock, gazing out across that mysterious other-world which casts so strange a spell over dwellers on land.

Softly still and dark, the wide waters slept beneath the stars, save where moon-butterflies, in their thousands, made a shimmering path of light. The eternal wonder and glory of it was new every morning every evening. Yet to-night, for the first time, she hated it, almost, that it divided her irrevocably from the dear, deserted Motherland; that India, where no doubt could ever be how husband would receive such news as she had to tell.

A verse from the English psalm-book she loved, spoke the cry of her heart: "Oh, that I had the wings--the wings of a dove----!" And with evil intent that voice at her ear whispered of strong unclouded sunlight, the still lakes and feathered palm-fronds of her own Hyderabad. The temple-bell, the familiar street cries and scents assailed her with poignant vividness. And through it all, as through a brilliant veil, she saw the chill grey skies of her husband's land; the great house, the ubiquitous servants, the "needless ones" for ever at her gates! By some fiendish freak of her distraught imagination, Nevil seemed purposely to obliterate himself from the picture----.

What did it mean? What madness had come upon her? Pressing her hands to her temples she stood so, striving for self-mastery. And lo, another voice--a voice of temptation, from the great sea itself, "Here is rest. Here forgetfulness," murmured the lazy breakers that lapped against her rock. Like Eve in the old, old legend, this daughter of lake and plain, seemed to have hid a wave of the sea in her blood. And now, wave called to wave, with alluring insistence.

A little foam upon the water; and the sea, that incomparable, insatiable lover, would take into his deep heart the dream that was her body, while the dream that was her soul passed on----

Startled, she stepped back a space; and the wonder grew and strengthened in her--was this no temptation, but inspiration rather, pointing the way, not so much to rest from her strange weariness, as to freedom for him--her god among men? No passionate impulse now--as on that night by the waters of Como: but the innate desire of her storm-tossed heart to win happiness for him at any cost to herself. Would not Sita, model of wifehood, have done no less? Sooner than shadow of stain on her lord's name, or shadow of trouble on his heart--an end of Lilamani----.

True, that night on Como he had been angered, desperate, hurt. Yet now--how different! Then--she had much still to give. Now, it seemed she had given all that he had need of--from her; all that she and none else could have given. Must she then pass on; leaving that other--(a red-hot shaft of jealousy here)--to give him those things which were beyond her power----?

How should she tell? How think clearly when thoughts and voices buzzed in her brain like angry bees----!

Stepping again to the rock's edge, she stood looking down into the waiting depths--stone still, as one who listens for a signal.

But there came no signal: only the alluring whisper of the sea.

With a despairing gesture she flung out her arms; swayed a little backward; then forward----

"Lilamani--Lilamani--where are you?"

The call reached her just in time. Almost miraculously she regained her balance, and stood rigid, scarcely able to believe her ears.

The desperate note in her husband's voice stilled every tremor, every doubt. It was the signal. The gods did not demand this twofold sacrifice at her hands.

"Lilamani!"

The call came again, appreciably nearer.

"Come to me. I am here," she called back; a ring of triumph in her clear tones.

Two minutes later he sprang, a flying shadow, out of the massed shadows behind--

For almost an eternity, it seemed to her, they stood, locked together; his pulses hammering, his breath coming in short gasps from the speed of his race. The terror of that night on Como had been his, increased fourfold by his lightning-flash of knowledge: and now that he held her warm and living in his arms, emotion struck too deep for any word of love, or of thanksgiving. He did not even kiss her. It was enough that he held her, almost crushed her against him, forgetful for once of her fragility. The pain of that mute passionate embrace was pure balm to her heart; and when at last he spoke, his voice had an under-note of sternness more thrilling than a caress.

"I believe--I was only just in time?"

"Yes." The word was a breath merely.

"You really would----?"

"Oh-h, not say it!" She shuddered; and he gripped her closer. But the note of sternness deepened.

"Lilamani, when I left Como last year, you swore to me, by--the most sacred of all things, that this madness should never come back. How--dare--you break your promise?"

"Oh, Nevil! I promised--for then. Not thinking beyond. But now--so different. I am no more needed for Sita; no more making sister of you seem like murderer. I am only making too much trouble in your family, your home. And to-night--passing the door, I stopped--I heard----"

"_What?_"

"You were saying--true enough, how can you give up Bramleigh Beeches and be living abroad, because of me. Much too big sacrifice----"

"Think a moment, little wife. Did I say 'too big'?"

"N-no. You said 'what a big----' But, dear lord, it was madness of my father to speak such a thing. It is not possible--not right--that for one small woman such great sacrifice shall be made."

"Not even when that small woman"--his lips were close to her ear--"is to be the mother of my son?"

At that word, heard for the first time, she drew a soft breath of rapture.

"How--how did you know?"

"From something Audrey said--I guessed."

"And--you are wishing--that son, truthfully, in your heart?"

"I am wishing him truthfully, with all my heart."

A long pause, filled with the whisper of the sea; tempter no longer, but prophet of peace. Then she--taking courage in both hands, determined to know all: "Nevil, have I been hurting my soul with pain and doubt for nothing? Did you wish him--just so much--from the first?"

Freeing a hand, he pressed her head against his shoulder.

"Lilamani--if there is to be an end of doubt and pain between us, you must have the truth," he said quietly. "I did not wish him--just so much--from the first. For some time I simply put away the thought. I had you. That was enough. Then--when we got home to the Beeches, I began to realize--well, how much I was my father's son, after all. It was a bad minute for me, little wife; and it came just when things were so discouragingly difficult. You remember?"

"How shall I forget?" she spoke quietly as he; all her quivering sensibilities held in leash. "And you were wishing--no children?"

"Not that. Never that. I thought--if we had daughters----"

"O-oh!" Her low sound of dismay was Eastern to the core. "And since when--were you feeling different?"

"Since Christmas Eve. When I saw you that night, worshipping that other Nevil, who was no son of mine, a rage of jealousy flamed up in me; and I knew--not quite then, but afterwards--that no narrow prejudice of race could come between me and the need to see you so, with a son who should be yours and mine."

"You are not wishing him daughter now?" she murmured in an ecstasy of content.

"No indeed. Shall I tell you just how I see him?"

"Please tell."

"You have given me a new spirit of understanding in so many things, my Sita Dévi; and in this one above all. Six months ago I confess I shrank from the idea of a son handicapped by the stigma of mixed blood. But now--you being his mother--I refuse to admit the stigma. I see him as one who will have the strength of his handicap, as one doubly endowed with the best that two great races can give--the spirituality of the East, the power and virility of the West; one whose destiny it may be to draw these mighty opposites nearer together by his own intimate love and understanding of both. Is it a good vision you have given me, beloved?"

She drew in a deep breath.

"Glorious past telling. But it is not I that gave. It is your own so big heart, and----"

"Hush--listen again. There is more---- You remember I told you once India was impossible for us?"

"Yes?"

He heard the thrill of eagerness in that whispered question; and had a fleeting instant of hesitation before committing himself irrevocably to the inspired impulse of a moment. Then he burnt his boats.

"Well--I had no right to say that. Nothing but my own selfishness stands in the way of our going out there--later on. Next time your father comes home we will go out with him--we three. For your sake, and for the sake of all your inspiring love has given me, I promise never again to grudge India her share in the heart of my son."

And she, laying both hands upon him, looked up at last--her face a beatific vision, in the full light of the moon.

"Husband of me--you are ready for doing all this, only because of--your Sita Dévi?"

"Only because of my Sita Dévi," he made answer gravely. "But I also ask a promise in return. Never--while you live--must you let to-night's madness conquer you again."

"No--no. I promise for always in the name--of him that shall come after."

And stooping, he sealed that promise with his lips. Suddenly, the wonder of it all, the incredible change in heart and hope and outlook, swept over her with the force of a breaking wave.

"Oh, I am not deserving!" she cried out, half pushing herself from him. "All these things you will do, only for your little wife; and I--I thought, I feared--oh, I have been a wicked, doubting Lilamani, this long time. But now--now----"

Swiftly she hid her face against him; and once more, as on the day of betrothal, the deeps of his manhood were stirred by her passionate murmur: "Live for ever, my lord and my king----!"

THE END