Chapter IV

"Oh, I would be to thee
As gentle as the grass above the dead,
And have I been but darkness and a sword?"
STEPHEN PHILLIPS.

It was the last of June; the last lingering hour of a radiant evening. Not often does the queen of months fulfil herself so royally as she had done for these two, with whom the very gods seemed to have fallen in love. In the heavens a lazy light-filled cloud or two, by way of reminder that tears must fall again some day. On earth increasing fervour of heat and fragrance of a million roses. And over all brooded that spirit of peace, of a sanctuary enclosed, peculiar to hill-girt lakes in the zenith of summer.

Even the passing flutter of holiday life on steamers and on hotel terraces had ceased--for a time. Lilamani basked and blossomed in the heat like some exotic plant of her own land. Nevil, less inured, had suggested a move up to the Dolomites. But she clung to her nest, fearing to "break the enchantment" and waken the forgetful Gods. They were growing a little superstitious about "the enchantment"; so pathetically certain is human nature that the perfect moment is of all things most fragile, most impossible to regain when lost.

In high hope, tempered with awe at their own daring, the Ramayāna pictures had been begun. Nevil had chosen for his first venture, Sita in the forest hut; the scene being one of the simplest, yet imbued with the thrill of approaching drama. By now the groundwork had been roughly blocked in; the forest hut, with massed trees darkly looming; their black trunks and branches barring the red glow of sunset fire. Sita, in amber draperies and lotus-crown, was as yet merely indicated; as also was the stealthily nearing form of That Terrible, with staff and begging-bowl and matted locks. Rapello, Broome's stalwart young boatman, pressed into service as model, had accepted with alacrity and repented at leisure; consoling himself, for hours snatched from a promising courtship of Giulietta, with reflections on the _Inglese's_ proverbial liberality, and the honour of having his portrait painted by a genuine artist. At moments when he looked particularly handsome and complacent, Nevil had been tempted to let him see his "portrait"; and only the risk of losing a good model had held the impulse in check.

Colour-books on India had been sent for, and Sir Lakshman, greatly interested, had promised to do his share. He was back in Paris now, appreciably nearer. Yet another week and he would be with them. Father and husband under one roof! Lilamani hugged the blessed thought. Could the most exigeant bride ask for more?

And while the last evening of June burned its heart out, the most exigeant bride was curled up in Broome's big chair frowning at a slip of paper, and chewing the point of her pencil in quest of inspiration. She was alone in the little chalet for the first time in her brief married life. Two hours ago an urgent message had come from Cadenabbia. Martino, prostrated by one of his worst attacks, had begged his sister to send for Nevil Sinclair; and Sinclair had gone, promising to return as soon as might be to the lone bird in her nest.

The first hour she had spent in her shrine, praying Vishnu the Preserver to save Martino's life. Then for a space she had worshipped the image of the Baby-God Krishna, that lived in her sandalwood casket; dreaming shyly, yet with passionate hope, of the day when the Shining Ones should vouchsafe her a Baby-God of flesh and blood, to worship in its stead. Then, because time lagged sadly without her Light of Life, she had gone back into the studio, where all things spoke feelingly of him: picture and easel; brushes and palette, flung hastily aside; slippers and the holland coat in which he worked.

Here the happy idea had come to her of completing a June love-song, written in secret. Then, if Signor Martino lived, she would surprise Nevil with it on his return. Grateful for the distraction, she settled to her task in the hope of charming away a little restless ache that tugged at the back of her mind like a spoilt child at its mother's skirts.

Ten days since Nevil had written to Jane; leaving her to judge whether Sir George's state of health made it advisable to tell him--yet. Ten days; and no answer, to Lilamani's knowledge. But, yesterday, she had seen a shadow in her lord's eyes, not there before; and had longed to ask--yet dared not. Now, in her hour of loneliness, they tugged at her afresh--the longing and the fear. With the delicate passion of her own love-music she strove to banish them; reading her small achievement through for the twentieth time, in hopes of capturing two spontaneous last lines:

SONG: IN LOVE-TIME

"As the new-blown rose at noon-day
To the passion of the Sun,
Yields the fragrance of her spirit
To that All-compelling One--
So, in ecstasy of giving,--mine to thee, O my King.

"As the nightingale new-nested,
In a rapture of delight,
Coins heart-love into music,
Through the star-enchanted night:--
So the music of thy silence is to me, O my King.

"As the full-blown moon at midnight,--
(Lotus plucked from Sita's crown,)--"

How to make an ending? How to put in best words that image of moon in the lake was like image of him in her heart? It was at this pause that she had sought inspiration from her pencil-tip--and found the missing couplet. Yes. That would please him. With a half-smile she set it down:

"As the full-blown moon at midnight,
(Lotus plucked from Sita's crown,)
Sees, in darkly dreaming waters,
His radiant image thrown:
So thine image deeply dwells in heart of me, O my King."

Not so beautiful as she wished. But if she put away the verse at the back of her head for a while, new lines would come singing to her, from the Beyond, and that at the most incongruous moments, even as they had come while Audrey discoursed of carbons, and _pro-tems_, and other invisible bogies whose names she had joyfully dismissed from her mind. Poor kind Audrey--so full of knowledge, so empty of true heart's riches--had written more than once from England and seemed content with her barren "way of the brain." Well--to each the good they craved; and to herself that good had been given in fullest measure.

Then, springing from her chair, she went over to the writing-table, with intent to slip her love-song inside his blotter---"for a surprise."

Opening it, her eyes fell upon a letter just begun. Half a dozen lines only; and her quick brain seized them at a glance:

"DEAR JANE,

"I am quite at a loss how to answer your confoundedly sisterly letter of congratulation! You brandish your zeal for the honour of our house like a two-edged sword. As for the unspeakable brother you have hacked into little pieces, I can only say----"

What--what could he only say, this priceless husband who, on her account, had been "hacked into little pieces"? Would hard words from his people make him angry or sorry? Would they ever ... make him regret...?

There sprang the question she had refrained from asking on that evening whose watchword was Peace. Now the blow had fallen: and he had said no word. Yet she had seen the shadow of it in his eyes. Rigid, almost without breathing, she stood scanning those few lines, in the dear familiar hand, while the blood stole slowly from cheeks and lips, back to her stunned heart and froze there...

But the moment's merciful numbness could not last. A new and poignant question stabbed her back to an agony of sensation. What had she said, this "Jane," who must be called "sister"? What manner of blows had she dealt with her two-edged sword?

It was plain that Nevil did not mean her to know. And yet--she must know. The rebel strain in her--overlaid by happiness and wifely devotion--uprose again with power; the fighting spirit of her race that bids even its women-folk set honour and self-respect above the duty of self-subjection and makes the _purdahnashin_ of Rajputana more of an entity than her of Bengal. For his sake, to keep stainless the honour of his name, she could and would defy all things--even himself.

But the letter----! It came yesterday. His eyes told her that. If it were not utterly destroyed, she intended to find and read it; not staying to consider was it right or wrong. Once or twice she had chidden him gently for his casual, untidy ways. Now they alone gave her hope of success.

With fingers that trembled and pale lips compressed, she felt in the pockets of his holland coat, caressing it with her cheek the while, as if to ask pardon for intruding upon its privacies. Not there. She drew a breath of relief. And yet--it must be found.

Drawers, the blotter, other pockets were shrinkingly invaded. Then her glance fell upon the waste-paper basket--and she knew. Its plethoric state proved that it had not been lately emptied. The letter was there. Yet she hesitated. Something seemed to turn over inside her. Must she ... dared she ... push her quest so far?

The next instant she was on her knees among fragments of transient words that yet have power to wreck the happiness of a life. She had not seen Lady Roscoe's writing. Broken sentences must be her guide. Straightening a severely crumpled morsel of paper, the words "Bramleigh Beeches" caught her attention. Ah--this was it----!

Then--with a sharp cry, she dropped the paper as if it had stung her, and kneeling upright pressed both hands tightly over her eyes.

But the words she had seen danced in letters of flame upon the blackness. "A native mistress at Bramleigh Beeches! Half-caste sons to carry on the name of which we are so rightly proud----"

Tremulous no longer, but with a tragically steadfast deliberation, she straightened out four other fragments of the same paper, the same writing; badly crumpled all. He had been angry, then. A gleam of comfort in that. The four fragments pieced themselves into a half-sheet. Evidently not the whole letter. But she could find no more; and this would suffice.

It did more than suffice. For it was a large half-sheet; and, in spite of crumpling, easy to be read.

"DEAR NEVIL (it ran),

"You have _surpassed_ your own record! I could not bring myself to write sooner, and now--what on earth can one say? Your last bomb-shell was bad enough, though I always had a lurking belief things would end so. _But this_! Had you no thought for the future? A native mistress at Bramleigh Beeches! Half-caste sons to carry on the name of which we are so rightly proud! In my opinion father would be justified in cutting off your inheritance; even in cutting you off with a shilling!"

Lilamani puckered her brows over the cryptic utterance. Was that what Nevil meant by hacking him into little bits? None was by to enlighten her; and, still with her tragical steadfastness, she read on:

"When estates are free, it seems only common-sense that they should go to the fittest. In our case, George, without question. Compare his sound satisfactory engagement and your own crazy marriage! Even if the girl had been English, the whole affair is fatally precipitate for an inflammable man like you." Inflammable? Precipitate? More dread-sounding words without sense. Yet those that followed were cruelly clear; and in reading she bit her lip till it bled. "But a _native_! Who in their senses could dream of your picking one up on the Riviera, where you might so easily have picked up a presentable American heiress, who would have been of some use to the estate. Certainly I shall say nothing to father yet. In his present state of health I believe the shock might kill him. When he is stronger you can tell him yourself. As for you, _your_ real punishment will come later, when you wake up from your infatuation--it _can_ be nothing else--to find yourself tied hand and foot for life----"

Here the sheet ended; and the girl-wife was thankful that the rest could not be found. In that last broken sentence she saw her own death-warrant: no less.

Pushing the pieces from her, she rose and paced the room; the dear room, almost alive with the presence of him who must be freed from the impending dilemma, when he should wake up from infatuation.... Another strange word. What ... exactly ... did it mean?

Mechanically she sought her dictionary and turned the pages with hurried nervous fingers. Ah, there it was. No mist of tears blurred the small print. "A foolish passion, beyond the control of reason and judgment." She formed the words with her lips, frowning a little, as if to bring back her mind from a long way off. Her hands were steady when she laid down the book.

Fresh confirmation--that was all--of the resolve that had brought the tragical steadfastness into her eyes. Child though she was, and passionately in love with life, there could be no struggle; no hesitation. To her clear, uncomplicated mind, it was all so heartrendingly simple. Sooner than shadow of stain upon his family, his name, obliteration of herself beyond recall. The detached stoicism of centuries dominated her; blinding her to side issues; impelling her toward the inevitable end.

She stepped out on to the balcony that the peace of evening might lay its balm upon her anguished heart. But to-night there was no peace even here. To her overstrung fancy, Nature's self seemed imbued with the spirit of Jane Roscoe. Black against the sky's clear amber, the great kindly hills loomed stern and forbidding. The placid lake cared not one iota whether it should bear on its bosom a radiant Lilamani or hurry a desperate one into the next-door House of Life.

Twilight was fading into dusk. Earth stars glowed here and there. Shadowy boats moved upon the darkening water. One of them might be his. Why, oh why was he so long in coming? For the first time in her short, sheltered life a great horror of loneliness overwhelmed her; and she fled back into the study like a hunted thing.

Her few words of farewell came with a strange spontaneity, simple as speech: "Beloved--By chance I saw your letter in blotter. By purpose I found that of your sister, and read--because I _must_ know truth. Now I go, that the way may be clear for honour of your house. At first you will grieve. But that will pass. There are many women of your own land better for wife than your Lilamani. Good-bye."

Without tear or tremor she folded that pitiful scrap of paper; and set it on his blotter, together with her love-song and Jane's mangled half-sheet. Then--with wide eyes and slim hands clenched, she stood as if smitten to stone.

He was coming! One of those boats had been his. Reprieve? Alas, no. Merely the added anguish of enduring his touch, his glance, before...

The door was flung open, and he hurried towards her. Still she did not move. His hands were on her shoulders. His voice seemed to come from far away.

"Dear little wife. A shame to leave her alone so long! But poor Martino was in a bad way when I got there. He's better now; and I believe he'll pull through this time. I knew you wouldn't grudge him an hour or two of my valuable company!"

"Oh, no ... I am glad----"

Her tone betrayed her, and he brought his face nearer, searching hers in the dim light.

"Lilamani--you don't sound glad. And why were you standing there like a little statue in the dusk? Tell me."

"It is hard to tell."

"Why? Has anything gone wrong?"

"Yes. I have seen ... I have read ... that letter of your sister----"

"Good God!" he cried in a fury of dismay. Then he remembered. "But, my dear, you must be dreaming. I tore it up on the spot."

"Yes. Only--it is still there. I found it--one half-sheet. Oh, how shall I ever call name of sister, woman who wrote such cruel thing!"

"You poor darling!" He drew her closer. "But what possessed you to go ferretting it out like that? How on earth did you know it was there?"

She hesitated. The anger in his tone was more against the circumstance than against her. But she was in no mood to make distinctions.

"I--I saw first your own few lines in the blotter. Then--then I was looking everywhere, because--I had to know full truth----"

"Not if _I_ didn't wish you to. If I'd meant you to see that letter I should have shown it to you myself. But I'd have died sooner! And can't you see that it was wrong and dishonourable to go hunting among my private papers when my back was turned----"

"Oh no--not say that!" She shrank from his touch that was robbing her of courage. "Only ... when I had seen yours----"

"What devil's luck led you to see mine? Of course, I ought to have been more careful. But you don't meddle with my writing-table as a rule. What on earth took you there to-day?"

She covered her face, and for the first time her voice lost its steadiness.

"If you will speak more gently, and leave off from hurting me--with your eyes----"

"My darling! I wouldn't hurt you for the world. It's you who have hurt yourself so cruelly in spite of the pains I was at to spare you. That's what makes me angry; that and Jane's egregious effusion----. But tell me--what took you to that wretched blotter?"

"Only I wanted to put inside, for a surprise--some verses I had made----"

"Verses? Let me see them." He moved swiftly to the table, thankful for the welcome change of subject. "Where are they, little wife?"

But she sprang past him, and snatching at the paper, crumpled it in her hand. "No. Not now."

"Why not now?"

"Oh--it is all different----"

"It is not all different. You made those verses for me?"

"Yes."

"Then they are mine. I want them. Give them to me at once!"

The half-playful note of command hurt more than all.

"But not to read--yet," she pleaded, so earnestly, that he must needs humour her, puzzled and distressed though he was.

"Very well, if you really wish it, we'll read them together later to take the taste of all this out of our minds."

Together! The word was like a javelin flung at her. But he, all unwitting, proceeded to smooth his crumpled treasure on the table, and so caught sight of her note.

"Hullo! What's this?" he said.

And she, with a quick-drawn breath: "That--you may see now."

Then, with the soft rush of a winged thing, she sped past him--out, and down into the night.

For a moment, knowing her shy ways, he fancied she had merely slipped into her shrine, and drew nearer the window to decipher his note. One hurried glance enlightened him. With an oath he crushed the paper into his pocket; and, turning, beheld her, flitting like a pale moth, through the dark of the garden.

"Lilamani, stop! I command you!" he shouted. "I'm coming down."

Then he sped after her, clearing the short flight of stairs almost at a bound. He believed her capable, at such a crisis, of carrying out her fell purpose in defiance of his command; and those few moments of poignant fear lit up his whole consciousness as a searchlight illumines a night of stars. Deeply and honestly as he loved her, he had not known how terribly dear she was to him--till now. So much, at least, Jane's letter had achieved----

"Lilamani! Stop, for God's sake!" he shouted again, once he was clear of the house. But she fled on....

When he came up with her, she was clambering on to a rock, whence she could jump straight into deep water.

Swiftly his arms closed round her from behind, drawing her down to his level. Desperately, and in silence, she fought for freedom; submission of wifehood swept aside by the fierce resolve not to spoil his life. Her delicate body seemed animated with superhuman strength: and he, hoping to soften her tearless passion of resistance, tried to win possession of her lips. But she turned her head away sharply; speaking at last, between quick-coming breaths.

"Go, go--leave me! Hard now--but afterwards--"

A swift shudder convulsed her; and, lest he notice it, she began struggling afresh.

"Beloved--have you quite lost your senses?" he cried, a sharp ring of fear in his voice.

"It is possible. So much better--that I go. But not say--beloved."

By sheer force he held her to him.

"I shall say it. Because it's true. And you _shall not go_."

No fear in his tone now; but the deep strong note of command, that called to the primitive deeps in her: nor called in vain. He felt her tense limbs relax--ever so little; and pressed his advantage home.

"Lilamani, conquer your madness, and listen to me. Is it lip-service when you call me lord of your life?"

"Nevil! It is truth--from my heart."

"Then you have no right, no power to fling away that most precious gift against my wish; and to sacrifice my life as well----"

"But no. With men it is otherwise. Afterwards--because of others--you would be grateful for courage of that Lilamani----"

He closed her lips with his own, and felt the whole of her melt into yielding softness at their touch.

"I will not hear such things," he said, and drew her to a rough seat, still holding her cautiously, as one holds a prisoned bird, lest her madness return. "Besides," he urged in tender reproof, "don't you know that it is very wrong to take your own life--for any reason?"

"No, not so--with us; by right motive," she answered with rare steadiness, for all the turmoil in her breast. "Also, to us, death is not such great matter. Only passing on--to next-door House."

"But think--in that next-door House you would find no Nevil." He felt her tremble and was glad. "You would leave him here, alone, not able to finish his great pictures without Sita. Did you think of that?"

"N-no----" The word was disjointed by a sob.

"And would you make a sister of mine," he went on, drawing her closer still, "though she did write harsh, abominable things in her bitterness and vexation--would you make her virtually a murderer in my eyes--and in the eyes of God?"

That last thawed the frozen fountains of a grief too deep-seated for tears. With a broken cry she clung to him as one drowning to a spar.

"O King of me! Forgive ... forgive...!"