Chapter IV

"Les rencontres ici-bas sont souvent preparés de loins."
PIERRE DE COULEVAIN.

He sent it in by Kali Das, with a message that Sinclair Sahib awaited an answer; and before many minutes were out Audrey appeared, in a little flutter of pleased surprise, very rare with her.

"My dear Nevil! Was it your plan?" she asked, scanning him with approval.

"Partly mine, partly hers. Do come, anyway--all of you." Then, after a pause: "Miss Blakeney palls, you know."

"Yes--I _do_ know! And I am to act as antidote?"

"Naturally!"

His frank smile was as frankly returned. "Very well. I'll try to persuade the child. If we do come, we shan't be long. But don't wait--please."

Of course he waited, not on the landing, but at the foot of the grand staircase where the lift comes down. And while he stood waiting, wondering, there came over him the strange sense--known to most of us--of having stood thus and waited thus, somewhere, somewhen, for the coming--of what?

At this point the ghost of a memory eluded him, and reality intervened. The iron doors of the lift opened with a clang.

Audrey stepped out, and after her--the "purdah lady"; no longer a simple evening primrose, but an iridescent vision of grey and gold, shot through with mother-o'-pearl tints that shimmered changefully when she moved. Her _sari_, drawn well forward, had a narrow border of pale gold cunningly inwrought with rose. For, as always, she had chosen a dress to match her mood--her sunset mood of peace tenderly flushed with hope.

Upon Audrey's introduction of Nevil she bowed her head without looking up; and he noted, through the semi-transparency of her veil, the dark, smooth ripple of hair; the red caste mark on her brow; the fine chain at her throat from which one blue moon-stone hung like a great drop of dew. There was not a detail he could have wished otherwise. Even while he shook hands with Sir Lakshman Singh, and appraised the clean-cut strength of the man, he was telling himself that in this dress he must paint her, though only the hand of an Alma Tadema could hope to catch its opalescent sheen.

The great door into the lounge was shut, and through it came the voice of him with the tambourine; not a voice of melody, but of sheer rollicking _joie de vivre_. Four or five hotel servants were flattening their faces against the glass; and an agile waiter pounced upon the door-handle. But Lilamani shrank backward, flushing to the temples. Her fingers closed upon her father's arm; and he turned promptly aside.

"She is right," he said to Audrey; "we will go round through the dining-room, and have chairs put in at the back."

The which they did; slipping in, almost unnoticed, while the whole room clapped and shouted, and the shock-headed Italian, in the shabby dinner-jacket, with a mouth like a slit in a turnip and no stage property save his tambourine, swept a burlesque bow to the woman at his side. For it was a duet--an Italian love-song--trilled and "tra-la"-ed with dramatic abandon by the tambourinist--an artist after his kind--who could wax playful, reproachful, fervent by turns over a "Bella" whose middle-aged plumpness was compressed into a puce-coloured cashmere gown of the same doubtful age as herself. No trace in her of the man's madcap surrender to the folly of the moment. Being a woman, and practical, music might be in her throat, but the collection-plate was at her heart. With the laboured zeal of one responsible for the number of francs it might contain, she marshalled her best high notes, her marionette gestures of coquetry, scorn, and final surrender to the triumphal clashing of the tambourine.

Then the real woman emerged; and she threaded her way among the guests, plate in hand. No band on earth could make sweeter music than the tinkle of the silver pieces as they fell. It was her supreme moment, even as the applause had been the man's.

Through it all Lilamani had sat spellbound; shyness and self-consciousness forgotten, in this fresh revealing of the unknown world into which she had flung herself with the valour of ignorance and despair. On the steamer she had rarely ventured out of her deck-cabin, except in those times of peace when hungry passengers gravitated to the saloon table, like filings of steel to a magnet. On _tamasha_ evenings, she had heard the sounds of revelry afar off, and watched the passing figures from her window.

Now for the first time, she saw in full--and was amazed: the ugly evening dress of the men, that her father must never wear when they were alone; the women laughing and talking as frankly with them as though all were brothers or cousins of the first degree: the lights, the movement, the waiters whisking away coffee-cups and small glasses. True, Audrey had told her of it all; but to see it, to sit in the midst of it, brought home to her with something of a shock the new conditions of her life. A couple of French women and an Italian wore full evening dress. They sat in a group with three men, leaning bare arms on the cane table before them, puffing cigarettes and gesticulating freely. Young as she was, the sight hurt her in a way few women of the West would understand. In truth, the whole scene, even while it fascinated, troubled her racial sense of dignity and reserve.

But with the end of the song came the end of self-forgetfulness. It dawned on her that people were looking and whispering. Mrs. Heath, peering expectantly through a tortoise-shell lorgnette, caught the sheen of her _sari_, and fluttered across to them, friendly and voluble; while Miss Blakeney, who found Audrey "superior" and the Indian girl "insipid," kept her seat and smiled alluringly at Sinclair, without result.

The devotees of the hat question, lately arrived, could scarcely keep curiosity within the bounds of good manners, and the Hebraic Germans stared so flagrantly that Nevil longed to smite them between the eyes and take the consequences: the more so, when he saw that she noticed it, and drew her _sari_ forward, almost hiding her face. During the song he had stood near Audrey talking of old times; though he, too, had been watching under his lids, and drawing comparisons between the sequined fluffy-haired Miss Blakeney, with her self-conscious poses, and the exquisite simplicity of this flower of Indian girlhood, her drooping grace and slenderness, as of a willow by moonlight. And now, smitten by her sensitive shrinking, he deserted Audrey, drew up a chair and sat down boldly beside his picture that was to be.

Unhappily, the end of self-forgetfulness had wrought her to an agony of shyness; and that this strange young man should come and talk to her reduced her almost to the verge of flight. But courtesy forbade. She could only incline her head in recognition of his presence, leaving him to begin.

And he found it astonishingly difficult. He who could talk fluently to anything human, from a guttersnipe to an archbishop, was smitten dumb by the beauty and aloofness of this mere child of another race. He cleared his throat and said lamely: "You find all this very strange, of course?"

"Yes. It is strange. I am not accustomed----"

She broke off to moisten her lips, and could get no further. Her slim fingers locked and unlocked themselves distressfully.

He tried again. "The music and the singing pleased you?"

She nodded. "Your music is very different from ours. I like it. But I like a great deal better the music and dancing of the sun upon the sea."

"So do I," he agreed more hopefully. "You'll get plenty of that here. It was wise of Miss Hammond to choose Antibes."

"Yes--oh, yes."

Another dead pause. Something across the room had caught her attention, and he felt himself forgotten. He also felt foolish, and vaguely annoyed. Uphill work with a woman was new to him, and not at all to his taste. If she would only help him forward with a smile, a glance. But her words, low and musically spoken, were seemingly addressed to the locked hands in her lap: and he could not know how her heart was throbbing in her throat beneath the big dew-drop on its chain. In his futile search for a fresh topic he was harassed by the twittering of Mrs. Heath, who believed she was making an impression on Sir Lakshman Singh, while her courteous victim smilingly allowed the waters to flow over his turbaned head.

Then the players in the corner dashed into a spirited mazurka; and Sinclair's next remark passed unheeded, unheard. A chill of disappointment quenched his admiration. As a picture she was incomparable, this child of seclusion; but as an entity she seemed unpromising, almost stupid. None the less did she exhale an atmosphere of her own. He felt it even while resenting it, because it seemed to exclude himself. More than ever he marvelled how Audrey could hope to make a doctor of her: yet Audrey was no fool.

Of a sudden he saw that she had realized his predicament and was coming to the rescue. He rose at her approach, and Lilamani looked up. It was as if a lamp had been lighted within; and Nevil's flickering spark of interest revived. Audrey laid a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder; but it was to the man she spoke.

"They are going to clear half the dining-room for dancing after this. Rather nice."

"Capital!" said he with grateful sense of passing from a too rarified atmosphere into the common light of day. "The first valse is ours, of course; not to say the second, if you will!"

He turned to Lilamani, his awkwardness gone. "Have you ever seen English people dance, Miss--Lakshman Singh?"

"No, never. And I think--I would rather not." She leaned nearer to Miss Hammond, speaking almost under her breath. "Oh! Audrey, please--there are too many people here. I want to go up again--now."

"Nonsense, child! You _must_ stay a little longer now you've come. Your shyness will soon wear off, and the change will do you good."

She spoke with kindly decision and with the comfortable conviction that zeal for Lilamani's enlightenment prompted her own wish to remain. It is common as it is consoling, this belief that the thing we would do must, in some way, subserve another's gain: and for all her steady pulses and advanced views Audrey Hammond was yet a woman; glad to recapture, even for a moment, the girlish spirit of enjoyment stolen from her by the strenuous years.

There was a stir throughout the room; a scraping of chairs on the tessellated floor. The singers bowed themselves out; the folding-doors were flung wide again; and the band struck up a memory-provoking valse. Audrey patted Lilamani's shoulder, and murmuring: "Don't be foolish, dear," went off on her partner's arm.

With feelings that veered between interest and vague distaste, Lilamani watched them go; watched the woman she loved and respected only less than her own mother, spin lightly round upon her toes, like any nautch-girl, in the arms of this strange man, who was neither brother nor betrothed. The reading of occasional novels with her father had taught her that the "Europe betrothed" might take liberties whereof no Indian would dream; but even so it astounded her that they did not think shame of themselves, capering thus for all the world to look upon. The very waiter-folk, peering in from the hall, showed like grinning emblems of derision. Yet, seemingly, all was well. It was _dastur_, a word that covers more sins than charity's self.

A dozen other couples followed Audrey's lead: whirling in the same graceless fashion; women clinging to the arms of men, even those flagrantly unveiled ones, who had chattered like bazaar folk that come to sell wares in the verandah. In some cases women twirled with women, which puzzled her less, though the distressing publicity remained. And in no case did the dancers dream that the shy strange girl, half hidden in her shimmering drapery, was sitting in judgment on them; weighing their conduct and finding it wanting in dignity, delicacy, and womanly reserve. Even Audrey, of the strong brain and will, did not come off scot-free; and the fact that she could criticize her mentor marked a new phase in Lilamani's progress.

Nevertheless, while pain deepened in her, a reluctant fascination deepened also. Assuredly the music had some sort of magic which even she could feel. The entrancing rhythm of it spoke to the feet, impelling them to move. Doubtless it bewitched those others even as strong wine was said to bewitch men, so that they knew not what they did.

At this point, her trance of thought was broken by the voice of Sir Lakshman--mercifully delivered from the kindest lady alive by one who had persuaded her to dance.

Straightway he came to his daughter, and sitting down beside her, spoke low in their native tongue.

"Thou art troubled, my child? Or doth it please thee, this strange _tamasha_?"

Slowly she shook her head, and turned upon him wide, wondering eyes.

"Strange it is, father mine. And yet--I am here to learn many new things. Is it needful I should become--in all ways--as these----?"

"The Great God forbid!" he said fervently. "But before long thou wilt better understand how in some matters--this for instance--we see through one glass, they through another. In their eyes this form of _nautch_ is harmless as child's play. For them, therefore, it is not evil. And in truth," he added with a reminiscent smile, "it is pleasant enough! I myself tried it in student days."

"You--oh, father! With these white women? But not now----!" Her light fingers on his coat-sleeve gave her entreaty a hint of command.

"No, no," he said soothingly. "In those days, being young, I was eager to drink the waters of pleasure, as of knowledge, at all fountains. Now, being old, I eat the fruit of discretion, and it is the daughter of my heart who ventures along strange paths!"

"To-night this daughter of thine heart hath seen enough of strange paths. Why wait we for Audrey? Take me back, quickly--to 'the Inside,' where alone is peace."

Her tone had a light touch of petulance, very endearing to him; and the familiar Indian word for the women's quarter struck a note of home that went to his heart. He rose and offered his arm.

"Come, then. I am ready. Miss Hammond can follow when she will. She seems to be enjoying herself after her own fashion."

So they went forth together, the tall, straight-limbed man in faultless evening dress, with the iridescent vision on his arm; and many curious eyes followed their going.

Audrey Hammond saw it also, not without a passing sense of relief from responsibility. Most certainly she was enjoying herself--in her own fashion; which was not the fashion of Lilamani, or of Miss Blakeney; still less that of Miss Swithin, whose blue bow bobbed jauntily, if a little tremulously, above the elbow of Cuthbert Broome. She found it good to be dancing again with Nevil Sinclair. But no stir of the pulses enhanced the discovery. It is a question whether girls of her type--products of extreme reaction from mid-Victorian ideals--are not cultivating brain and ego at the expense of the natural emotions; a doubtful gain for themselves and for the race, in an age already overloaded with intellectuality and all its works.

Certainly for Audrey Hammond much of Nevil's value lay in the fact, that he could seemingly give and take friendship with as little after-thought as the most inveterate "bachelor-girl" could wish. The understanding between them seemed curiously complete; and to both it appeared quite natural that they should spend the whole evening together if they chose. As each fresh dance struck up Nevil remarked airily:

"Well--shall we go on?" And she:

"Yes, of course. Why not?"

So they went on, to the disgust of Miss Blakeney and the amusement of Cuthbert Broome, who saw Nevil's heart apparently rent and riven at a stroke. Clearly both were enjoying themselves to the top of their bent. For the moment, Sinclair had even forgotten his picture: and not until the dancing was nearly over did he speak of his wish to see more of the Lakshman Singhs.

"A pity they didn't stay longer," said he. "And a pity she's so shy. My attempt at making friends was a dead failure. The deadest I've ever known with a girl."

"Very good for you!" Audrey answered in what Lilamani called her "medicine voice." "But very trying for her, poor child. Her education didn't include the art of talking to strange young men."

"It must now, though, if you mean to make her a doctor; and I offer myself as a dummy to be practised on!"

"You really want to try again?"

"Why, of course." His hidden motive was almost on his lips; but he knew her capable of thwarting him if she saw fit, and added instead: "She is charming enough to be worth looking at even if she refuses to talk! How shall we arrange things? Will you all have tea with me in the verandah to-morrow?"

"I doubt that--after to-night! The next day would be more probable. But she's a creature of moods and rather spoilt, as I told you. If you really want them to come you had better ask Sir Lakshman."

"That I will. He seems a capital fellow."

Audrey nodded. "If modern India produced more of his type we should hear little or nothing of political unrest."

"Very clever of you to bring them here, and very clever of me to turn up at the psychological moment! A thundering good plan all round."

"Thundering good!" she agreed frankly: upon which conclusion they parted; at peace with themselves and the world.

Nevil saw her into the lift; then lit a cigar; and its flavour was enhanced by a pleasant conviction that his impromptu descent upon Antibes bid fair to justify very completely his egregious desertion of Jane.