Chapter III

"Yet we are one;--
One is the perfect sense of Eastern meaning:--
Gold and the bracelet, water and the wave."
LAURENCE HOPE.

Dinner that night was something less of an ordeal; though it would be long before this puzzling fashion of entertainment could be anything but distasteful to Lilamani Sinclair. Lord Roscoe seemed a shade less formidable; and in the drawing-room Jane made an honest effort at friendly talk with Nevil's wife. But not all that wife's devotion could impel her to genuine response. Wax in the hands of those she loved, Lilamani had yet her share of the fighting spirit and fierce pride of her race, that leaped in flame at every word or look from this condescendingly dutiful sister of her husband, in whose heart were poisoned arrows and a sharp sword. So the effort proved barren of result; and Jane, having done her duty, reverted to the faithful Phil.

Again there was music for the younger ones; Bridge for the elders; and clumsy attentions from George, whom she smiled upon sweetly as "a brother." But through it all she was acutely aware of Leslie de Winton's tall figure in its elaborately simple grey-green sheath; seldom far from Nevil's elbow. Some lightning instinct whispered that here was only the mask of friendship; and every time the deliberate gaze rested on her lord's face, or the deliberate voice "took his name," Lilamani's heart burned with a murderous resentment, for which no one present would have given her credit; least of all her husband, who believed he knew her by now. And there was trouble with Norris' eyes. Not such barefaced persecution as that of M. Leseppes; but sufficient to make this child of seclusion feel strangely unsheltered and defenceless, even under her husband's roof, shrine of all the sanctities to an Indian wife.

Altogether it was a time of puzzling complexities and strange discoveries, that interminable week-end; the forerunner of many such. That was the worst of it. Nevil had explained that, at least while shooting lasted, "the clan" regarded the week-end at Bramleigh Beeches as its due; and little Lady Sinclair, with never a germ of social or sporting instinct in her composition, must needs adapt herself to a sacred form of ritual that seemed to take the place of religion in the West. There were moments of pure enjoyment with Christina and Morna, or Broome; moments of half-fearful pleasure with the over-appreciative George; and one blessed escape to tea with Helen Despard, she and Christina alone. Yet it was with unfeigned relief that she received the last handshake; the last kiss on her cheek.

They were gone--all gone! It was as if a ton-weight fell from her shoulders. Christina would return in a few days to say good-bye. In the meantime, tea in the studio, and Nevil all to herself for hours and hours! He too was relieved. She felt it in the air; though she did not divine that at least a part of his relief was due to the fact that she had not produced quite the effect he had hoped for. He made every allowance for difficulties no Englishman could fully understand. But he had sincerely hoped "things would go better next time."

As for her, she wanted to forget that next time would ever come. She also wanted to talk of Clara, whose story, in outline, she had drawn from Aunt Julia: a sordid, commonplace story of one of the world's poor things, foredoomed to go under in the struggle for life. Richard Sinclair, it seemed, had been an idle good-for-nothing. Truth compelled Aunt Julia to admit the damning fact; while loyalty prompted her to regret, in the same breath, that everyone noticed his unfortunate likeness to his mother! He had died--two years ago--leaving his second wife in genteel poverty, with a young stepson and four children of her own. A feckless creature, it seemed, always ailing; but devoted to the children; and the new niece's evident sympathy had gone far to win Aunt Julia's heart.

Now--tea being over, and she, crouched on her low stool, arms resting on his knees, while he smoked, the cherished plan found utterance. Had he heard? Had he realized? Those others that he had invited were well-provided as themselves. But this poor woman, widow of blood-relation, mother of sons, sick, in trouble ... and they, with so many empty rooms----

She broke off uncertainly, for Nevil had opened his eyes.

"My dear little wife--what are you driving at? D'you want 'em all _here_?"

Her smile, tremulously pitiful, was a lovely thing to see.

"I thought ... only natural, like in India--when you knew there was trouble----"

"But there always is trouble in Clara's direction. I'm awfully sorry for her, poor soul; and I'd be glad to give her a helping hand, though hardly to the extent of turning Bramleigh Beeches into a _crêche_, overrun with unruly children----!"

Something in his tone brought her heart into her throat.

"Are you not caring very much--for children?" she asked, moving one hand nervously up and down his knee.

He covered it with his own. "Of course I'm fond of children. Most decent men are. But Clara's are a harum-scarum lot. She has as little control over them as over anything else. And what would the great Mrs. Lunn say to such an invasion?"

The soft mouth took a line of decision: but Lilamani had to swallow before she could speak. The dimmest sense of disappointment in him--her idol, was hard to bear.

"The house is belonging for you, not for Mrs. Lunn," she said, looking intently at the long fine hand on his knee. "And--he is ill--that littlest one called by your name. Aunt Julia was sending money for a place called St. Leonard's. But one cannot go without all. Oh, Nevil!" she looked up eagerly confident--"How easy to send money for all! You have so much----"

He looked deep into her eyes before replying. Her appealing beauty of soul and flesh moved him more, it is to be feared, than Clara's need.

"I haven't 'so much.' That's the difficulty. This great house with all its staff and hundreds of acres doesn't mean untold wealth rolling in to keep it going. It may sound queer to you, but I'm almost as hard put to it as Clara to make ends meet."

"Oh, Nevil--dear lord! But why then--have all these ... wealthy ones ... not in trouble?"

"That's a riddle not to be answered off-hand, little wife! It would take a deal of explaining; and I wanted if possible to shield you from all contact with the sordid struggle between ways and means. To you money is nothing more than a name; and I should prefer to keep it so as long as may be. But you're such a stern moralist, you creature of sweetness and light! So imbued with the logic of your race that it might save friction and misunderstanding if I make my position clear once for all. Only you must have patience with dull talk and ugly words!"

At that, she drew herself up radiantly elate. Here was privilege indeed! So rarely is an Indian wife admitted to a share in the masculine side of her lord's existence; at least until she be mother as well.

"No need for patience. I am proud with all my soul that you are wishing me to share. I know I am stupid for such things. But I will try to understand."

It was not so easy, strive as she might. For a quarter of an hour and more his quiet voice flowed on, leaving a very mixed train of impressions in its wake. The mortgage bewildered her beyond measure. She saw it as an actual bogey, to be propitiated by means of money doled out at intervals; a bogey that he might be rid of in time if his pictures "caught on." She understood his wish to try to keep things going in the old way, for the sake of family honour, and that sentence in his father's last letter. She began to understand also that there is no family system in England, as in India; no great nexus of responsibility, which obviates the need for workhouse and orphanage, since none of the blood can look for support in vain.

But one discrepancy puzzled her; and when all was said, she drew his attention to it, not without hesitancy.

"Lord of me--you are seeming to forget ... there is my dowry also. Not small. Though how much, you know better than I----"

"Your dowry? But my dear, it's your own, always and altogether. Do you suppose I would use it to keep up the estate or help my poor relations out of the ditch they have dug for themselves? I hope I'm man enough to win through my own muddles, without coming down on you."

It took her a second or so to grasp his masculine and very British point of view; then she challenged it straightway with her Asiatic logic.

"Oh Nevil--dearest, what a foolishness! Forgive me for saying that. But think only--can there be any of me altogether my own when every part is belonging to my lord, for this life and all lives to come?" Lightly touching head and feet, she indicated the completeness of his dominion. "All great things, real things--life and body and heart--you let me give without making this trouble of mine and thine. How then talk of holding back so small a thing, like money. That your Lilamani will never understand if you explain up to night-time."

"Then my Lilamani must accept it without understanding!" said he, drawing her close against him, till head touched head.

Still she shook her own with gentle obstinacy. "It is foolishness between wife and husband, this pretending of thine and mine; especially when there is trouble." Then her logic triumphed afresh. "But Nevil--if mine, I can give where I please; even to relation of yours. For that you cannot refuse permission!"

He could not; and he gave it straightway, in the fashion she loved best.

"But look here, darling," said he, when their lips were free for speech. "Unless I keep some sort of check on you, you'll be flinging away the lot. So listen to me and be sensible. We'll send her a cheque between us--say twenty pounds. That will give them all a month at the sea and help square the doctor. Will that suit you, Lady Sinclair?"

She nodded, beaming, and clapping her hands without sound.

"That is beautiful! And after----? Can they not come here ... ever?"

"Why, yes. For a visit. If you're so keen."

"I want ... oh, I want to hold that man-child ... called of your name ... in my arms," she whispered, a thrill in her low voice. "You said there must be family party for Christmas; and that is your feast for worship of children. Could it not be then?"

"M--yes. A bit of a crowd. But still--anything to please you. By the way, Ronald, the stepson--he's a good-looking boy of twenty--wouldn't make half a bad model for Rāma. I believe my father had some scheme about training him up as agent to take Thornbrook's place. We'll have him down one week-end and see."

So the matter was settled, and the letter written; Lilamani leaning over her husband's shoulder while he filled in the magic paper that stood for twenty golden pounds, ten of them her own. Not until next morning was Nevil tripped up by the question--what would happen when these unconstitutional doings should reach the ears of Jane?