Chapter IX

"Oh, the little more, and how much it is!
And the little less, and what worlds away!
How a sound can quicken content to bliss,
Or a word suspend the blood's best play--
And life be a proof of this."
BROWNING.

For all her decision of character, Audrey Hammond fell asleep that night in a painfully unsettled frame of mind. Obviously Lilamani's story had shocked and perturbed Nevil Sinclair in no small degree. But to what end, or with what probable result?

Heavy-laden with pain and perplexity, she had stood watching him as he strode away from her toward the Cap, secure in the bitter certainty that he would not dream of looking back; and upstairs, in their sitting-room, fresh perplexity had been her portion. In place of the passionate girl she had left, behold a smiling, faintly-repressed Lilamani, who, after dinner, read to Sir Lakshman from her favourite "Wisdom and Destiny"; discussing with him--in her quaintly poetic turns of phrase--the roots of happiness and the hidden springs of peace, as though the storm of two hours earlier had never been. In the circumstances, Audrey had thought well to bid her good night without their occasional after-talk over the day's events.

Whatever conclusions the girl had arrived at were best slept upon before being submitted to the test of speech.

Not till she began setting out her books next morning did Audrey broach the subject.

"Does this mean you have thought better of yesterday, child?" she asked smilingly; and Lilamani bowed her head.

"I was too much mistaken," said she, still looking down and twirling a pencil between fingers and thumb. "My father's heart cannot be hurt just for the wandering of my brain. So please not say any more, Audrey. I will try to keep my thoughts in chains. But if I am still stupid--perhaps--some small punishment----"

"My dear girl! I may have been impatient with you, but I draw the line at battering medicine into your head! We can try again, and see how things go."

They did not go brilliantly that morning. Though Lilamani zealously held her "thoughts in chains," and Audrey was patience incarnate, each was aware of an invisible "Something" between them that made for division. Lunch ended, Audrey excused herself on the plea of a promised outing with Madame de Lisle: and Nevil, arriving well ahead of his time, was relieved to find father and daughter alone.

They also were to have their first sight of his picture to-day; an event made ten times more significant by his newly-awakened passion. For the moment, artist and artistry were eclipsed by the natural man's eagerness to gauge her share in the divine discovery.

At the first meeting of hands and eyes he knew himself predestined victor: knew that the shy, virgin heart of her was astir, if not yet awake; and gloried in the privilege, that would be his, of revealing to her, by tender and delicious degrees, the golden secret that gleams at the core of life.

In the meantime he must curb imagination, and sun himself in the twofold triumph of the moment. For it was no less than a triumph to lift the embroidered curtain from his canvas, to watch the dawn of wonder and delight in the faces of those two, who had, in so short a space, become the nucleus of his world.

To Lilamani it seemed that she beheld her very self leaning there upon the balcony's edge, looking away out of the picture with uplifted eyes, wherein--oh, miracle of miracles!--she caught reflected glimpses of her own most hidden thoughts and dreams. Tint of skin, sheen of _sari_, all her tender curves of budding womanhood, were rendered with an astonishing delicacy and truth. For if Sinclair's pencil had wrought excellently, his brush had verily been inspired; so that he himself stood amazed; marvelling helplessly--as every true artist marvels more than once in his life--how the thing had come about, and whether he could ever hope to touch so high a point of excellence again.

Before Sir Lakshman could find voice, Nevil had found Lilamani's eyes, that gazed on him with a young, unveiled adoration; and even as her whole face lit up in response to his smile, Sir Lakshman spoke.

"My dear Mr. Sinclair--it is many times more wonderful than I was imagining. Almost, to me--she lives and breathes." Then, drawing Lilamani nearer, he looked steadfastly from counterfeit to reality, till the colour flooded her face.

Nevil took a deep breath to steady himself, and heard his everyday voice make answer: "Honestly, I believe it's good; and I'm delighted that it pleases you. If only Martino, the hypercritical, thinks half so well of it----"

"That he will, beyond doubting: and then----?"

"Oh then, there shall be no more havering. All along I have looked on this picture as the touchstone of my talent. So you see"--his glance dwelt a moment on the girl, rejoicing in the swift warmth of her cheek--"it has been yours to decide the question of my career!"

"If that means I am deciding you to paint more pictures, and always more," she answered, plucking at the border of her _sari_, "then I am--glad."

"It does mean that; if Martino approves," said he: and, Sir Lakshman, glancing from one to the other, felt a sudden twinge of apprehension that impelled him to draw his child away from this magnetic young Englishman, and set her down in her usual seat.

Then he turned to Sinclair. "You are wishing, perhaps, to do some work before they come?"

"I think not, to-day." He covered his canvas with a smiling glance at the original. "I feel too restless. Besides--it would be a pity to risk superfluous tinkering, till I've heard what Broome and Martino have to say. They'll be here early, I know. And that reminds me--a very old friend of mine, a Mrs. Despard, who arrived yesterday, begged to come too. She's always been keen for me to take up painting in earnest. So you can imagine my news pleased her. Hope it wasn't very cool of me to invite her?"

"My dear sir, any friend of yours must be welcome to us. Despard--you say? I must have known some relation of hers in India."

"Probably her husband. A civilian somewhere down your way. Had to retire not long ago on account of heart-trouble, poor chap. But Mrs. Despard was out there a good many years, and is naturally interested to meet you and your daughter."

Sir Lakshman's smile had a hint of scepticism. "That does not always follow. Anglo-Indians are of many kinds, and many minds. Not all are so wide-hearted as to break through the official shell that checks intimacy with the native of the country; less than ever, strange to say, if he shall show any taste for ideals or education of the West. But, as I said, there are many exceptions----"

"And Mrs. Despard is one," Sinclair broke in warmly. "They live quite close to us at home. She and I have had endless talks about India and its peoples; her favourite subject. There's no question about how she will feel towards you and your daughter; or I assure you I would not have asked her up."

"That I should have known. I think it is they who are coming now."

It was so: and three minutes later Lilamani looked upon the one daughter of England destined to love and understand her, from the moment of meeting; while her own soul--young, ardent, steeped in poetic fancy--was bowed down in worshipful admiration before this lissome slip of an Englishwoman, whose delicate-featured face, with its softly shining eyes, was crowned with a mass of dull gold hair, through which ran threads of fire. A clinging gown of tussore silk, finely embroidered, such as Audrey never wore; and old lace at her throat--where an aquamarine pendant hung from a silver chain--completed a picture distinctive enough to impress brains and hearts less susceptible than those of a Hindu girl of seventeen.

And she, scarce waiting for Sinclair's introduction, swept toward the shyly smiling creature in the mother-o'-pearl _sari_, and took the slender hand in both her own.

"Welcome to Europe," said she in a voice of singular sweetness. "How brave and wise of you to cross 'the black water!' And how lucky for my friend, Mr. Sinclair, that he happened to be here at the time!"

"Greatly I hope it is," Lilamani murmured with a fervour that even shyness could not quite subdue.

"And I am sure it is!" the other declared, as she turned to greet Sir Lakshman, who was shaking hands with Broome.

Then, while the four fell into friendly talk, Martino plucked Sinclair by the sleeve, and, with an impatient jerk of his head, signified his wish to have done with superfluities and come at the real thing.

Lilamani, watching them covertly through the curtain of her lashes; saw them move towards the easel; saw Nevil Sinclair fling back the covering as before. Then--her heart leaped at the light that flashed in Martino's eyes. With an inarticulate grunt he stepped back a space, and stood so, looking, looking, and still looking, while the other two hurried forward, eager to see that which had smitten the volcanic Martino dumb.

Greater triumph Nevil Sinclair could not have desired: yet was there pleasure almost as keen in Broome's curt tribute: "Good Heavens--what a likeness!"

The words seemed to rouse Martino. His eyes flashed again.

"Likeness?--Sapristi! It is interpretation." Then he swung round on Nevil. "Your handshake, _amico mio_. No further doubts now--is it? I--Martino--salute the inspired artist!" the which he did with a grip of steel. "Pity it cannot be shown. But after this--you are pledged. There must be others."

"I hope to Heaven there may be," Nevil answered, overwhelmed. "But the thing's not done yet. There must be faults; room for improvement. It's criticism I want, man. You know that."

Martino's vigorous nod signified fullness of understanding. "The last infirmity of the true artist--no? _Ebbene_, you shall have it--without sparing. For by all the saints in the calendar your work is worth it."

So they two, regardless of the rest, plunged into their private jargon of tones and values and the critical nature of those last touches that may spoil the whole: while the rest, being human, gravitated to the tea-tray, that wooed them with gleam of polished plate and delicate tints of _petits fours_, ordered daily by an indulgent father for his daughter's special delectation.

Mrs. Despard, increasingly drawn towards this child of the _purdah_--who seemed, yet, so fully a woman--laid a friendly hand on her as they sat down.

"When I talked of Mr. Sinclair's luck just now, I had no idea that you had actually done for him what he has failed to do for himself in the last seven years. I am one of the few who have always urged him to follow his natural bent in earnest; undutiful though it might seem! Between money and position, one feared he would never achieve anything. But now--through you--he has found himself. And I can't tell you how delighted I am!"

Neither could the girl--with eyes demurely intent on three carnations at her breast--tell this angel of the golden halo how delight unspeakable sang within her like a hidden bird. She could only answer in the same low tone: "You are mistaking. It is not I. It is Mr. Sinclair who has done all."

Then, because the room was large, and the two behind the easel and the two on the hearthrug much engrossed in their own talk, she drew from her new friend, by a shy question or two, more of Nevil Sinclair's home and history than she had yet heard; till he himself joined them and the rest followed suit.

Seldom had there been so festal and frivolous a tea-drinking in the quiet sitting-room, mainly dedicated to study and art. Martino's triumph brimmed over in a fireworks display of his quaintly characteristic English, whenever he could command the field; and Mrs. Despard glowed openly when the East was her theme.

Sir Lakshman, stirred alike by her beauty and enthusiasm, cast aside, for once, his mask of polite reserve. He spoke frankly, warmly, on the subject that lies nearest the heart of all thoughtful Indians in this our day of agitation and transition. His zealous championship of British rule, and fervent belief in ultimate concord between "mother and eldest daughter," woke an answering echo in the hearts of two, whose fate hung upon his readiness to give personal proof of the faith that was in him.

But it was Mrs. Despard alone who voiced her approval. "If only there were more men of your mind on both sides," said she, and her smile was in itself a reward, "how much disastrous friction we might have been spared all round. But though you are in a minority, it is you, and men like you, who may end in saving the situation, unless we ourselves--or those who misgovern us--bring the whole Empire crashing about our ears!"

"May the Great God forbid such calamity!" Sir Lakshman spoke with unusual warmth. "Yet, my dear lady, because I have shown you all the good feeling that is in my heart for that England who made India what she is, you must please not to misjudge me in respect of my own country. You must believe that I am as zealous for her welfare as any Bengal agitators or inflammatory news-writers, who, in blind perversity, are trying to break up the only influence which can make possible that national unity they cry for, among the Indian peoples. It is only that I see one manner of welfare: they another. In my belief--and I am sharing it with scores of men better than myself--no worse harm could befall to India than that Great Britain should cease to be paramount power. But only this--in order for being paramount she must be, in best sense, a power; not mere figure-head or rash experimentalist, shifting now to this foot, now to that. Even in your own Book is it not written, if the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare themselves for battle?"

"Who, indeed?" the daughter of England assented ruefully. "And of late years the sound has been less imperious, less inspiring than it should be if we are to hold our own."

"Unhappily--yes. I cannot help but agree. It is not that I am disloyal, as you know. It is that we are troubled--we Indians, who believe in England's power--to see how such a great land is seeming to lose grasp on those noble ideals of straightforward strength and courage that we learnt in early days to couple with the name of the British Raj. Trouble it is also to see how blessings of enlightenment and patriotic feeling are now made weapons against her supremacy, that she won by those ideals, and cannot keep except through the same. Let us hope it is only by appearance that she is losing hold on them; that the true England, yes, and the true India, may wake up and grasp hands together before it is too late."

"Hear, hear!" was echoed by all: then Martino thrust in his oar again, and the talk became general.

Only Nevil, the ready of tongue, had singularly little to say. For if Lilamani found her private ecstasy hard to conceal, her lover was in much the same case. The hearts of both were too full for speech of any kind. But though the door of the lips be locked, there are windows through which the hidden self looks forth. The girl--a little startled by her own emotions--kept her windows veiled. Not so the man. Transported beyond pedestrian counsels of prudence, he could not withhold his eyes from her face and form. Neither could he compel hers to meet his own. Primitive instinct whispered that that way danger lay. But Nevil was in no mood to be baulked; and now that general conversation was in full swing again, he boldly drew a chair up close to her, and spoke under his breath.

"I know you are almost as glad as I am. But I want above everything to hear you say so."

The flagrant lover's folly of it, and the dawning sense of her woman's power to give and to withhold brought her heart thrilling into her throat.

"If you know it, that is enough. The rest is only nonsense!"

"It's not. It's truth, serious truth. I----" he checked himself, realizing that this was no moment to unveil the shining secret. "Well, to-day I've a right to be foolish!" he added more lightly. "And you might do what I ask. Just to please me."

"Of course, if you make it like that, I could not be so discourteous. And ... I am glad that your success has come ... through my picture: much more than I could say. So it is no use trying."

Her shifting colour, and refusal to meet his gaze, pricked him to further boldness. He knew, and gloried in the knowledge, that--by every means of mute confession given to woman--this girl was showing the very truth she strove to hide. Never before had he been quite so close to her; and the fresh, faint scent of sandalwood that pervaded her went to his head like wine. Once get the whole party down into the garden, and he could trust himself to contrive some flying chance of speech.

He set his hand on the tea-tray's rim within an inch of her own, and noted how her glance travelled from one to the other while he spoke.

"It is just because this has come ... through you, that it means so much to me. I never dreamed how it would be when I had the audacity to begin. But I want one thing more to complete my great day. Can you guess?"

"No." The full lower lip was indrawn demurely, and an uplift of her lashes revealed laughter in her eyes.

"Perhaps you don't want to hear!" he challenged her with increasing boldness.

"That is quite possible! All the same ... you will tell it!"

"Of course I shall. And you will grant it."

"That is not at all so sure."

"Oh, but it is. I want to end with a walk down by the sea ... all of us. I've not bothered you much about coming down these few days. But I want this immensely. Will you come?"

She drew in a quick, startled breath as if he had touched her. "No--no, please. Not to-day."

"And why not to-day?"

His voice took a deeper note that filled her with nameless fear both of herself and him.

"I cannot tell," she whispered, glancing instinctively towards her father, who was too absorbed in his subject to be aware of the magnetic young Englishman's latest move. "Only ... it has been very wonderful ... for me also; and I am wanting to be alone with it all, in my House of Gods, for sunset time. Please understand."

"I'm doing my best," he said ruefully. "But still--it's unkind to disappoint me, and spoil everything."

"Oh, _don't_ say that! It hurts----"

Her hand went to the carnations at her breast, as if indicating the point of pain; and that small gesture took the sting out of refusal and disappointment alike.

"Not enough to make you say 'Yes'?"

She shook her head.

"Well, then ... to-morrow? You shall ride on the sea in my boat. Your father shall come, and Mrs. Despard, and Broome. There now! In common decency you can't say 'No' again."

"Then I can only say 'Yes'! If father will come."

"Promise!"

"How unbelieving you are! I promise."

Before he could answer, Sir Lakshman had become aware of them; and the hand he laid on his daughter's arm had a movement, as though he would draw her away.

"Mrs. Despard is suggesting a walk now it is cooler; and I have agreed. Do you feel inclined?"

"Mr. Sinclair was just asking that same!" the girl answered with admirable composure. "But I said ... not to-day."

"She has promised to come out in my boat to-morrow, instead," Nevil hastened to add--unaware, as yet, of hidden antagonism.

"Only if you would like it, father," from Lilamani, in a note of irresistible eagerness.

"Decidedly, I should like it; and there is good chance of my being free, unless a heavy mail comes in. But then, no doubt, Miss Hammond could go. I would not like you to lose a ride on the sea."

Broome and Mrs. Despard accepted readily: but Martino, who worshipped the sea as a Titanic force, rather than a means of locomotion, refused point-blank.

In the leave-taking that followed, Nevil--with a lover's ingenuity--contrived to secure the last touch, the last word; and that small cool hand, once captured, was singularly hard to relinquish.

"To-morrow ... whatever happens," was all he dared to say. For answer he had the rose-flush on her half-averted face; and he went forth as one who goes to victory; secure in his belief that the morrow could not pass till her lips had confirmed the avowal of her cheeks and eyes. Almost, in that moment, he felt capable of bidding the sun stand still and expecting it to obey him.

And she?

So soon as the door had closed behind them all, she went swiftly to the threshold of her shrine, and stood there, cooling her face against the glass of the open door, one hand upon her heart that throbbed and sang as though it would burst the bounds of flesh.

What it all meant, whither it would lead them, she dared not ask herself in set terms. As yet it sufficed that she shared his triumph; and he, in turn, shared with her the nameless thrill of touch, and speech, and glance. Nor was that all. Something within whispered that he craved more than this sublimated essence of emotion, so satisfying to her. Was it conceivable that he craved all--might even dare to ask all?--he, the inspired English artist, of her, the Indian girl-student, divided from him by immovable barriers of country and creed?

Then the door was flung open briskly; and she turned to meet Audrey's inquiring eyes.

"It's all over, then?" was her greeting, and her very voice brought Lilamani to earth with a thud. "Was it a success? What's come to you, child? You look transfigured!"

"Do I?" Lilamani tried to smile, but tears sprang unbidden from the deeps. "It has all been so wonderful! Signor Martino spoke such praises. And--I am so happy----"

Her voice broke.

"What is there to cry about, then?" asked practical Audrey: and the girl swept a hand across her lashes.

"Oh, how can I tell? You would never understand."

She made as if to go, but Audrey's hand closed upon her arm.

"Don't run away, dear, the minute I come back," she said a little wistfully. "I'm not so stupid as that amounts to; and I want to hear about this afternoon. Signor Martino is pleased? And your father?"

"Yes. He says--it lives and breathes."

Audrey's hand was on the silken covering. "I suppose I may look since everyone else has seen it?" said she; and proceeded to look, long and silently, defying the ache within; while Lilamani, in broken, half-coherent phrases, told her of Martino's enthusiasm, of Mrs. Despard's conviction that through this--her picture--Mr. Sinclair had "found himself" at last.

Audrey listened without interruption. Then she nodded, compressing her lips.

"Yes. It's a very remarkable bit of work. But still----"

"But still--_what_?" Lilamani spoke almost sharply. The cool tone maddened her so. Yet now she must endure the worse ordeal of the cool glance that discerned something, at least, of the agitation within.

"What I mean is this----" Audrey handled her words steadily, as the surgeon his knife. "It is a cruel kindness for them all to inflame Nevil with their enthusiasm on the strength of one exceptional success. They only make it harder for him to remember his _real_ duty----"

"What is that?" The low voice was toneless now, the sweet submissive face a mask.

"The duty he owes to his father and his family at home; as you, a daughter of Hindu tradition, very well understand. Nevil is the eldest son of a distinguished house----"

"Mrs. Despard told me that; and all his father's wishes. Only--she thinks----"

"In my opinion she thinks too much of Nevil, and of his art; which makes it a pity she turned up just now. No right-minded person can doubt that it is high time for him to drop philandering with paint and canvas, and knocking aimlessly about the Continent, achieving nothing. He ought to go home, and stand for Parliament, and then marry the right sort of girl--in his own position. The marriage of an eldest son is an important matter in England. He is less free to choose haphazard than other men."

Then, kindly but inexorably, she enlarged upon the subject; doing her own duty by friend and pupil without stint: and while Lilamani listened meekly, expressing a mild interest from time to time, all her vague rose-coloured possibilities shrivelled and died.

No sunset peace was to be hers. Better had she accepted the walk by the sea. The afternoon had quickened all her deepest sensibilities into passionate life; and Audrey's dutiful dissertation was like a chill hand upon her quivering heart.