Chapter V

"A spindle of hazel-wood had I.
Into the mill stream it fell one day;
The water has brought it back no more."
ROUMANIAN BALLAD.

"But this is good. Santa Maria, it is good! So slight a thing; yet--entirely alive. If you make not a picture of this, Sinclair, talk no more to me of your aspirations. No longer I shall believe in them."

Thus Andrea Martino, standing in a flood of afternoon light at his third-floor window, and holding Nevil's sketch-book at arm's length before him. His shock head of hair--jerked now this way, now that--suggested an intelligent blackbird considering a worm; a suggestion heightened by the beak-like nose that sprang boldly out betwixt eyes cavernously set under one dense ink-smudge of eyebrow. The single crease of concentration furrowed his forehead, and dull patches of colour on his cheek-bones, accentuating the hollow beneath, told their own tale. It was a fine head, too fine for the lean, undersized body, producing at times a contrast that bordered on the grotesque.

Sinclair, bestriding a bedroom chair, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, was doing his best not to look foolishly elate, and succeeding fairly well, thanks to a racial heritage of self-repression. Martino's studio was a corner bedroom, roughly metamorphosed by the removal of the washing-stand; a Turkish Djimjim flung over the bed; easel, canvases and a bare deal table sticky with paints. Two oval windows, looking west, framed sun-saturate visions of the twinkling bay, and white villas of Cannes, backed by the barren ranges and clean-cut peaks of the Alpes Maritimes. A third window looked upon open sea and sky, the twin islands and the carven outline of the Esterelles. Beside it, from a tall vase, rose plumes of mimosa, breathing out faint fragrance.

The one arm-chair was amply filled by Cuthbert Broome, chewing a pipe and correcting proof slips in the intervals of considering Sinclair's profile and wondering which emotion struck deeper--the thrill of Martino's unfeigned approval, or the thrill of laying siege to the self-poised girl with the disconcertingly direct grey eyes. It was a problem congenial to his psychological turn of mind. The girl--if her looks belied her not--stood for politics and a fairly assured parliamentary career. The picture, if achieved, stood for artistry and vagabondage, for possible success, and probable family discord and disapproval. For the moment, Broome felt doubtful which way Sinclair--the essential Sinclair--leaned. Last night he could have sworn to the girl. To-day, watching Nevil's face under Martino's volcanic discharges of encouragement, his assurance wavered: nor could he quite decide which way of leaning his own ripe, unbiassed judgment would applaud.

Even from the unfinished sketch it was clear that Sinclair's sleeping talent had genuinely caught fire. But one inspiration, however genuine, never yet made an artist. It is continuity of power that tells; as Broome had good reason to know. He knew, too, that the keystone of all imaginative work worth doing is capacity for great emotion--the furnace that fuses thought and inspiration, form and colour, into one living whole. In a life packed with observation, he had seen and noted how often lack of this very capacity stamps as ineffectual the clever, complex, highly civilized young Englishman of to-day; and, so far, it seemed as though Sinclair had not altogether escaped the disability of his race and age. No doubt smooth going along the line of least resistance had retarded development. But once let him reach the cross-roads, the true man must out....

And while the subconscious brain of the novelist played with probabilities, as a child with the pieces of a puzzle, his hand travelled down the printed slips, scribbling hieroglyphics in the margin with mechanical accuracy, while his ear missed little of the talk, or rather the monologue by the window.

"And she is in the hotel, you say? Under the same roof with us--this houri--this _bellissima_?" Martino had just demanded, slapping-to the sketch-book on one of his extravagant prophecies that set Nevil tingling to the roots of his hair. "And she walks in the garden?"

"Sometimes; not often," said Nevil, wondering amusedly, What next?

"Then why not have I seen her--I?"

"Because, my dear fellow," put in Broome with a friendly twirl of his eye, "when _you_ walk in the garden your expansive soul spreads itself over the whole sea and sky. Incidentally you may be aware of rocks and trees in the foreground. But anything so infinitesimal as a human being----!"

"Chut!" Martino waved him aside with a laugh that broke midway into a cough and brought a crumpled silk handkerchief to his lips. "It is to Sinclair I talk. You love not to speak your true meaning except with your pen! I remember me now--I have seen a dark man in a turban. He is her father--no?" Nevil nodded. "Then it is him you have to make believe what a picture this will be. If you are too modest, send him to Martino, who will have a tongue of gold at your service. But, my friend, lose no time. In art you must strike while your iron is hot. You wish in earnest to become an artist. But all these years, I tell you, Sinclair, you have been playing fool with a brush that was made for work. A spark from the fire of God burns in you, waiting to spring into flame. But you have choked it with earth that it cannot burn. And now, see--right out of heaven, this star dropt at your feet. Waste no more time, making glowworms with your eternal cigarette. Santa Maria! How can you with your insolence of youth and health know--as I know"--he beat upon his damaged chest and coughed again--"that time is gold and diamonds and all the riches of the earth rolled into one mass. Know it or not, only hear this poor devil with one lung and paint your picture while you can. Paint it that it shall please me, and Jacques Lesseppes--and then----" He stayed for breath, and again it was Broome who interposed, instinctively keeping the balance of things by putting all his weight into the opposite scale.

"You forget, Martino, that as the eldest son of an old English family Sinclair owes it to his father to make an honest bid for a parliamentary career----"

"Huh! Parliamentary candlesticks----!"

"Fiddlesticks, you mean, my dear chap!"

"_Ah, bene_! Fiddlesticks--candlesticks--it is all one."

"Oh, no; not quite!" Broome's twinkling gravity held its own. "Structural differences, you know, to say nothing of value! Besides, in this case----"

The Italian flung up his hands in an ecstasy of impatience, and clapped them over his ears. "I am a deaf. I hear not anything!" he declared, not all in jest; and Nevil, springing up, gripped his friend by the shoulders from behind.

"What shall we do to him, Martino _mio_? Gag him with his own proofs?"

"If--you--please," the small man answered with grave emphasis; and at their joint shout of laughter his black brows went up. The gods who gifted him at birth had overlooked the saving grace of humour. "You are always making some kind of foolishness--you two," he said, looking from one to the other with puzzled intensity. "But it remains that for candlesticks or fiddlesticks, I care nothing; and for fathers and parliaments not a great deal either. With art it must be as with religion. To those who are called she speaks as the Great Master to his disciples--'Leave father and mother, leave all--and follow me.' You--Broome, you have written books to her dictation. You know that is truth."

The man's ardour and sincerity were irresistible, and Cuthbert Broome answered in all seriousness: "Yes, my dear Martino, I know it. But like all councils of perfection it is 'more honoured in the breach than in observance'; except among pseudo-artists, who find it a convenient cloak for egregious disregard of others. And in any case, a man must be very sure of his call."

"_Ebbene_--it is _I_ who am sure--for Sinclair. He doubts, because he has modesty. But give him at least one chance to prove I am right."

He turned briskly upon Nevil. "You will speak to that man?"

"Rather! But I believe they have odd prejudices--these Indians."

Martino dismissed them with a snap of the fingers. "You show him the sketch, my friend. It will suffice. But when?"

"To-day, I hope. I'm to meet them at tea-time." He took out his watch. "By Jove, it's late. I ought to go at once."

"Be off, then; and bring me word to-morrow that all is arranged."

"I thought of asking Sir Lakshman to dine with us to-night."

"Good! Better than all. Then Martino can get in his word--and the thing is done. Go now--and the saints prosper you."

Nevil Sinclair went whistling along the passage and on down the wide staircase to the first floor. In three days his world had grown singularly interesting and stimulating. More than ever did he bless the house-party that had driven him to Antibes.

It was as Audrey had foreseen; his invitation to tea in the verandah the day after the dance had been refused on the score of Lilamani's shyness. Also, on that afternoon Sir Lakshman had promised her two hours out in a boat with himself: but he hoped Mr. Sinclair would come to them for tea on the following day. Mr. Sinclair had accepted with alacrity; and--Audrey being "off duty"--had suggested a walk with her along the sharply indented coast to the picturesque old town of Antibes, returning, as of old, via the Lighthouse hill, highest view-point of the headland. No word of the picture had been spoken; Martino being too ill, for the moment, to be troubled with such matters; and Nevil preferring to await his verdict before taking any definite steps in the matter. Both had thoroughly enjoyed the easy sense of comradeship, the picking up of dropped threads, and not least the pleasant flavour of reminiscence running through it all.

Only when Audrey had left him to stroll awhile on the gravel path with his cigar, did the wandering thought slip into Sinclair's brain that there went a woman who would make a man "sit up and do things," if she cared for him; a wife such as Jane would surely approve, had he any leaning toward marriage in the abstract, which he had not. Hitherto, at all events, the modern man's dread of responsibility and the artist's need of individual freedom had proved stronger than any vagrant impulse of the heart.

Yet the impression made on him by this girl was no light one. In many ways he found her eminently to be desired; and now, looking backward, he wondered vaguely why he had not fallen in love with her years ago. Nor did he guess that other men, who also found her eminently to be desired, had wondered the same thing without stumbling on the discovery that, like many admirable girls of her type, Audrey Hammond lacked altogether that indefinable essence called charm, atmosphere. Even as a landscape at noon fails to thrill the imagination as at sunset or dawn, so does the clear-cut, self-complete woman of transition fail to stir the tumultuous deeps of passion. In one respect, at least, evolving man remains eternally the same--"it is mystery that he chases finally, not beauty or love or any success." Like to like is for friendship. For love--that can lift a man's heart near to worship--the charm that eludes, and by its very elusiveness, holds him fast.

Not that Sinclair, even now, realized all this any more than the rest had done; but at least it was with a glow of satisfaction that--on entering their sitting-room--he found Audrey alone, standing by the tea-table in broad straw hat and cream serge coat.

"You're not long in, then?" he said as they shook hands. "I thought I was late."

"You are late! So are we. Lilamani begged for another 'ride on the sea'; though the glare was terrific and it gave her a headache."

"She's coming in, though--I hope?"

"Oh, yes. Are you so keen?" Her amused eyes scrutinized his face; and in another moment the tale of the picture would have been told. But lo, the door opened and the living picture appeared: simplicity's self this time, in the creamy, clinging softness of Indian muslin; only her _sari's_ hem threaded with the gold she loved.

At sight of the tall fair man, whom she had scarcely taken in on that bewildering evening, her head drooped delicately, while the blood glowed under the clear olive of her cheek and throat. For an instant it seemed as if she would turn and fly; then Audrey's protective arm enclosed her, and Audrey's kindly voice of decision was at her ear.

"Come, child, and shake hands with Mr. Sinclair. You mustn't be shy with him. He is an old friend. Almost like my brother. I have been telling him how you love riding on the sea in spite of glare and headaches!"

At the magic word her smile flashed on him like a light; and she spoke with the eager spontaneity of a child while Audrey poured out tea.

"Oh, yes--yes. I love it! And to-day--it was wonderful, past telling. No waves to ride upon; only a blue, blue bigness and stillness, like gliding through the sky. How could I mind a little ache of my head when my heart inside was 'kuroo-koo-ing' like a dove in spring!" Sinclair's smile at the pretty conceit puzzled her, and she added with shy apology: "You know there is not any sea in Central India where I come from. It is only since these few weeks I have known it for the first time. When you have known it always, perhaps it does not seem so wonderful."

"Indeed it does," he assured her. "More wonderful the better one knows it; at least to those who have enough imagination to wonder at anything. Audrey must let me introduce you to my artist friend, who has been painting it for fifteen years; and declares he would not come to the end of it if he could paint for a hundred. Then look at sailors, who live on it, year in, year out----"

"Ah, that would be better than all!" she broke in softly. "I feel always I want to get out far, far, where it is all blue, over and under; not even a trimming of land round the edge."

Shyness had fallen from her like a cloak. Her serious eyes dwelt confidently upon his face. The subject, the reassuring word "brother"--most flexible in the Indian language--had wrought like a charm; and Sir Lakshman Singh, entering while she spoke, had a shock of surprise and pleasure, vaguely tinged with apprehension.

"Glad to see you have made friends with my daughter," he said genially as Sinclair rose to greet him. "And I hope you will justify to her my high opinion of your country. For her, at present, you are representing the whole English race; which I have taught her to admire as I do myself."

"A poor look-out for England if she's to be judged by me!" Sinclair retorted, laughing. "The sooner I introduce your daughter to my friend, Mr. Cuthbert Broome, the better. I shall hardly dare open my lips to her now."

"Oh, please--please," Lilamani murmured so distressfully that everyone laughed, and that sent the blood tingling into her cheeks. "He was praising the sea, father," she added, bravely ignoring her discomfiture. "He could not begin better, could he?" The words were for her father; but her shy glance was for Sinclair, who answered it forthwith.

"It's easy talking. But what will you think when I say that my father wished me to serve my country on the sea, and--I refused."

She shook her head incredulously at the slab of cake she was crumbling with nervous fingers.

"It is hard to believe. But--how can I tell? There might be difficulties----"

"Oh, there were--there were! One of the biggest was that I would rather paint the sea than live on it, any day----"

"Ah," she looked up again, all eagerness. "You also paint pictures--like your friend?"

"Yes. I paint pictures; but not like my friend. I wish I could," he answered ruefully, scanning as he spoke the radiantly receptive face, and wondering how he--the "double-distilled amateur"---dared aspire to render its quicksilver quality in the lifeless medium of paint and canvas.

Yet the resolve to aspire remained; and mention of his art having slipped in, by a happy chance, he dwelt upon it guilefully in view of that which was to come. To Sir Lakshman the subject was a congenial one. The two men were soon deep in animated talk; while Lilamani sat entranced, drinking it all in as an opening flower drinks in sun and dew; and even taking her own small share in it without a trace of the overwhelming shyness that had baffled and disappointed Nevil at the start. Her intelligence amazed him. Audrey was right. She was more than a picture, after all; more than a child, too, it seemed, though even now he scarce regarded her as woman.

A memorable tea-drinking it was for all; though at the time none guessed its significance save Nevil himself, increasingly aware as he was of hidden depths stirred by the wind of the spirit, that bloweth where it listeth, making music through the children of men as the wind of earth through an Æolian harp.

The invitation to dinner, lightly given and lightly accepted, the suggestion--Lilamani's--that when next they rode upon the great deep he should come also, filled him with a boyish exultation out of all proportion to the bare facts; and the dinner itself confirmed his hopeful mood. Sir Lakshman, having spoken once or twice to Broome, and read much of his work, welcomed a chance of closer intimacy; and Martino, mindful of the hidden houri, plied his tongue of gold to good purpose throughout the meal.

But the subject of the evening was not broached till privacy and the congenial atmosphere of the "studio" paved the way for confidential talk. Broome had not yet come up, and Martino was rummaging in the adjacent bedroom for a couple of Italian studies, when Nevil took his courage in both hands--and spoke.

"Sir Lakshman Singh, I have a confession to make--and a favour to ask," he said simply.

"A confession--to me? On so slight acquaintance?" the Indian asked with his kindly smile.

"Yes. It sounds odd. But, you see--it's like this----"

A moment of tingling hesitation, then it all came out in straightforward, boyish speech--the vision, the temptation, the resulting sketch, and--with a fresh access of boldness--the final aspiration fostered by Martino's praise.

Sir Lakshman listened with contracted brows, and Martino, returning while the tale was in progress, could scarce restrain his good word till their guest had spoken his mind: no easy matter for a man torn between clear vision of the Western standpoint, and innate recoil from its application to his Jewel of Delight.

"I fear you will not understand me in this matter, so well as I understand you," he said at last, courteously, yet not without constraint; for the high-caste Hindu does not speak of his women folk to other men. "If I were English, doubtless I should feel flattered by your request. As it is--well--I have allowed my daughter, for good reasons, to break through the customs of my caste and country. But to remove a screen is not miraculously to remove all--that the screen implies. For the women of India the significance of Purdah is deeper and more complex than we can ever hope to make Westerns believe. It is ingrained in the soul of the race. It is----" He paused, looking from one to the other, increasingly reluctant, and all that was best in Sinclair sprang spontaneously to his aid.

"If the notion distresses you, Sir Lakshman," said he, "please think no more of it. In fact--if you really wish it---I will tear up my sketch----"

"By God, Sinclair, you shall do no such madness!" Martino broke in hoarsely; then turning upon the Hindu, twin flames in his eyes: "Sir, you do not understand what it means for him to say that. He has in him the divine spark. I know it--I. And beauty like that of your daughter----"

"Shut up, Martino, for God's sake!" Sinclair cried out, goaded to irritability by the uncertainty that racked him, as the artist was swift to understand.

"Then talk no more madness," said he, with less heat. "And at least show your work to Sir Lakshman Singh, that he may judge if I have not right in what I say."

"Yes--yes, let me see what you have done." Repressed eagerness lurked in the father's tone; and Nevil, too perturbed for speech, took up his book, doubled it backwards, and handed it to the arbiter of his Fate. For the moment, he felt as though all things worth anything hung upon Sir Lakshman's "Yes" or "No": and in truth more hung upon it than either guessed.

"Thank you," he said quietly; and rising, went over to the electric light near the bed. Here he stood, with his back half turned, considering the handiwork of this bold young man, who could dare to reproduce his Lilamani--daughter of his heart.

Followed a tense silence, that would have been broken by Martino but for an imperious gesture from his friend. Then Sir Lakshman faced them again, his features schooled to a composure that was far from him. "It is herself," he said, as quietly as he had said "Thank you." "Signor Martino is right about your gift. You must use it--use it. But--there are other beautiful subjects; and that you should make a living picture of--of her, for all the world to look on..."

"No--no, not that," Nevil interposed, and the sympathetic understanding in his voice brought him nearer his heart's desire than all that had gone before. "I am not a professional. If you allow me to paint a figure study of your daughter, I would only ask leave to show it to Signor Martino and his friend, a noted painter in Paris; also perhaps, to my father; because their opinions might just prove the turning-point in my life. For the rest, the picture remains my private property; or--if it proves worth accepting--yours, to do with as you please."

"Mine!" Sir Lakshman echoed in amaze. "But, my dear sir, I, a stranger, have no right to accept your work--that may be of value----"

"Only in so far as it may justify my choice of a career. If it does that, I can do no less than offer it to you as a token of gratitude for your permission, and as a reminder of your daughter, while she is away from you at college."

It was a few seconds before the Indian could command his voice; then--"You know too well how to tempt a father, Mr. Sinclair," he said feelingly. "And I can do no less than accept, gratefully, your offer and your gift; unless my daughter should shrink altogether from the idea. I would not for the world subject her to such an ordeal against her will. But I will speak to her."

"When?" The eager question leapt from Sinclair's lips and eyes, and the older man smiled.

"You are young--therefore impatient." He drew out his watch. "If I go now, I can talk with her to-night; then you shall have your answer the first thing in the morning."

"And if all's well--I could start in the afternoon?"

"Yes; in the afternoon."

"I shan't sleep for thinking of it!" Nevil declared as they shook hands.

But, being young, he did sleep--soundly; though impatience waked him long before his usual hour; and, once awake, the turmoil within gave him no rest. He breakfasted alone with the waiters and one English girl--pretty, and fresh-looking, clearly a lover of the morning. Then, while the tables were filling, he paced the empty pathway to the sea, making glowworms with his cigarette--to no purpose. For the first time in his life the fire of genuine enthusiasm burned in him; and he knew that until now he had not truly lived; that now, if the chance were given him, he could not fail of success. Like most men of the age he had early lost the habit of prayer: but intensity of hope and desire brought him nearer to it than he had been for years.

On turning for the second time in his caged-lion walk, he sighted Audrey's grey figure at the foot of the steps, and hurried forward. Not so she; and her smile, as she drew near, had a touch of constraint as yet unknown to him.

But he could not stay to consider that.

"You have brought Sir Lakshman's consent?" he cried in one breath.

"Yes," she answered coolly. He had never dreamed her eyes could look so hard.

"And you don't approve?"

Her straight brows went up ever so little.

"I? Do I count at all?"

"Of course you do. But still----"

"But still--not enough to matter; which amounts to not at all. Yet it is I who brought her here, Nevil. It is I who am devoting my hardly-earned leave to her. Surely you might have consulted me before making a proposal that is bound to distract her from studies, on which I have trouble enough to hold her attention as it is----"

"I thought so!" Nevil cried, triumphant and quite unrepentant. "She's not the type. And if they are uncongenial, why press them on her?"

"For very good reasons--that are no concern of yours," she answered, looking him straight in the eyes. But he wore his elation like a shirt of chain mail, and merely asked with interest:

"Does she mind much--about sitting to me?"

"Yes. She rather dreads it; I can see that. But her father could not conceal his pleasure at the idea, and for his sake she made light of her natural recoil from it. We talked of it afterwards, she and I; but she begged me not to let him know. I confess I did my best to make her retract her consent; you may think what you please of me. But I didn't see why my carefully thought out plans should be put out for the mere whim of an idler----"

He winced. "I say, Audrey, don't hit so hard. It's more than a whim. You know that. And I do think you're a bit selfish----"

"Selfish? Of course I am!" she flashed out with her formidable directness. "We're all selfish, whether we admit it or not. It's the main motive power of human achievement. You've as much right to yours, after all--as I have to mine. But still--it does seem hard that the child's studies, which are important for her and may mean a great deal to me, should be interrupted--perhaps upset----"

Genuine emotion checked her, and roused at once the natural kindliness of the man. "Aren't you making more of it than you need, Audrey?" he asked gently, and she drew in her lips, hiding their tendency to soften at his tone. "A sitting every other day will do for me, and in between you can cram as much into her as you please. The whole thing won't take much more than a fortnight. I'm no portrait painter; it can only be a study. Then you can wipe me out of your sacred programme altogether, if you choose!"

"That remains to be seen!" she answered, forcing a smile as she turned away. He made as if to go along with her, but she waved him back. "You're very nice about it, Nevil, or you wouldn't be you. But just at present I shouldn't be good company. We'll be ready for you this afternoon."

"And will you ask Miss Lakshman Singh to wear that mother-o'-pearl _sari_?"

"Oh, yes."

"Much ado about nothing," he mused, looking after her. "Queer creatures women--even the soundest."

Then he sauntered back again toward the grey rocks and the myrtle bushes and the many-twinkling smile of ocean, seeing visions and dreaming dreams.