"A man's whole victory over Fate begins with a question." PERCIVAL GIBBONS.

Except as regards the menu, dinner that night, in Sir Lakshman's former sitting-room, could not be reckoned a notable success. To Audrey it recalled an earlier dinner, after the storm, when she had counted the moments till she could escape. But to-night she was less concerned for herself than for "the child," whose eyes suggested tincture of belladonna; the more so that two dusky patches of carmine burned in her cheeks.

How much did she know of her father's intent? A few words from him before dinner had apprised Audrey of his wish to secure half an hour with Nevil alone. Lilamani would no doubt retire early, and he would regard it as a favour if she left at the same time. The man was clearly too intent upon his purpose to leave anything to chance; and Audrey, as was natural, fell to wondering what he meant to say, and how Nevil would receive it, when she ought to have been coining talk.

Of the four, Nevil only was not obsessed by the sense of something impending. Yet even he gleaned a hint of it from his wife's face, and the fact that she wore her mother-o'-pearl _sari_. He had not seen it for more than a week; and his eyes were not so "deaf for the language of colour" as they had been a year ago. He knew now that she never wore that _sari_ in deeply-troubled or despondent moods, and took its reappearance for a sign that the mercury was rising within. No doubt she had dismissed the hidden worry that hung between them like a veil; and he was glad.

But, Lilamani apart, his natural serenity was clouded by much talk with Carlo Martino of the dead Andrea, who, in spite of mortal frailty, had seemed always too vividly, too passionately alive to go down into the Great Silence, even for a space.

Though caring little for money, and rarely speaking of it, he had, it seemed, left more behind him than a distinguished name. But no form of will had transpired, beyond a half-sheet of foolscap, folded and sealed, bequeathing two incomparable sea-pieces "to Sir Nevil and Lady Sinclair (Lilamani) for grateful remembrance of one summer, not-to-be-forgotten, on Lake Como." Nevil Sinclair had felt no shame of the tears that ached behind his eyeballs when he looked upon that half-sheet of paper, henceforth to be counted among his most priceless possessions.

To-night the voices of the living were lost in the clarion call of that dead friend who had bidden him cease from making glowworms with his eternal cigarette, and from choking with earth that "spark from the fire of God," which had since leapt up triumphantly in flame. To-night his art, and all it stood for, shone full in his eyes as when one looks toward the rising sun; while against the radiance of it men and women moved as silhouetted shadows. But for this, he had surely lifted before now the veil, woven of worshipful, fanciful tremors, that had shut him out of late from the inmost sanctuary of his wife's heart.

Thus it befell that the thoughts of all were more active than their tongues; and soon after coffee had been served, Lilamani rose to go. She was tired, not having recaptured that lost sleep, she explained vaguely to whom it might concern. Then she kissed her father with a heart so full of her husband that she missed the meaning pressure of his hand. In passing Nevil, her eyes said: "Come. I have something to say"; and he nodded a smiling assurance. He himself had much to say of Martino; and decided to join her when he had finished his cigar. A stroll in the moonlight, if she were not too tired, would suit his mood.

Audrey went out with her, smiling to think how little Nevil guessed at collusion; and at Lilamani's door they stopped.

"Am I to come in?" Audrey asked. Her voice had a gentler note than of old.

"Not to-night, please, dear Audrey. I have reason."

She lifted her face to be kissed with so childlike a gesture, that Audrey, guessing the "reason," felt a queer contraction of heart.

"You will never get back lost sleep or lost health, my dear," she said, kissing the flushed cheek, "if you bury your troubles and brood over them. There's been one in your eyes all this week."

"Not trouble."

"Well, then--something else. Can't you tell Audrey? You said once I stood in place of Mataji----"

For a second or two Lilamani confronted those quiet questioning eyes. Then a hot blush submerged her even to the temples.

"I believe you know quite well, without any telling," said she, studying the tip of her gold-embroidered shoe.

"I believe I do," Audrey answered gravely. "And--is that all?"

"That is all--for now." And Audrey kissed her again.

"He doesn't know. She is afraid to tell him," was the older woman's thought as she went slowly down to the central hall. "And he----? I wonder----!"

His wife was wondering also, as she stood alone on the threshold of her open French window, watching a tawny-golden moon disentangle herself leisurely from the last of the tree-tops, and dissolve as leisurely from orange-golden to the amber glow that puts the stars to shame. She had been wondering now for a week and more without arriving at any definite conclusion, save that, for her father's sake, she could put off speaking no longer. Absorbed in her own anguish of uncertainty--her unreasoning self-torment over the unavoidable, intensified by ill-health--she had not realized, till to-night, how wrong it was to keep silence when half a dozen words might set her father's mind at rest.

And he--her lord--himself the giver----?

That there could be any shadow of doubt on such a matter, was to her Eastern heart a calamity almost beyond endurance: her crowning punishment at the hands of her outraged Gods. Joy in the knowledge that at last the great consummation was hers, had been strangled at birth by the old serpent suspicion--scotched, not killed--that, in the deep of his heart, her husband might be hoping to evade the full price of possession; the stigma of passing on the Sinclair title and estates to a son who had not pure English blood in his veins. Not unnatural; that she must needs admit. Pride of race was an instinct she could very well understand. Yet, in such a case her heart cried out that he had no right--no right----

A dry sob shook her; and covering her face she sank into a low chair, set always near the threshold.

Before they left Bramleigh she had known how it was with her. But at that moment the fulfilling of her first gift had absorbed him to the exclusion of all else. Better wait, her heart had whispered, and tell him after--at Antibes, where all things would speak to him of those early days when father, family, country had weighed as feathers in the scale against his great love and desire of her.

But, alas, waiting gave time for thought; and thought bred a host of fears that grew and whispered and distorted themselves with a fiendish versatility; speaking always in the voice of That Terrible, whose unforgetable sentence was the germ whence they had sprung. Had this great hope of motherhood come sooner, no doubt she had accepted it more simply and sanely. But now, ill-health and strain and long brooding on the one idea inclined her to see all things a little out of their true proportion, till at moments she wondered if she would ever find courage to speak at all. Well she knew that, if her fears were grounded, not all his chivalrous tenderness and reticence could blind her to truth. From such knowledge he could not shield her--he could not! One look into his eyes would suffice. And if--if----!

Sooner death for herself and her gift, than that he should not deem it the crown of all, was her desperate thought. With a shuddering sigh she let fall her hands. Oh, when--when would he come? His eyes had said he understood; and with each moment of waiting courage waned.

Her room adjoined their dining-room, and the steady murmur of voices through the wall recalled that earlier day, when her fate had hung in the balance. Suddenly the voices grew louder. Was her father, in sheer love for her, making fresh trouble on her account, just when she had that to tell which might be deemed the greater trouble than all?

A torment of restlessness took hold of her. She rose and paced the room, every sensitive nerve of doubt and suspense strained almost to breaking-point. Then she stood still again upon the threshold, and saw how the moonlight seemed magically to be drinking up the shadows along the wide path to the sea. The brooding calm of it all drew her with the potency of a command. Again, as on that still morning of frost, sudden longing seized her to be out there alone in the heart of silence. Surely there, if anywhere, peace and courage would revisit her soul. At least she would escape from those distracting voices that might go on for another hour.

When nerves and imagination are overwrought, impulse seems the voice of inspiration. The garden called her. She would go. Already she was fastening her cloak with unsteady fingers, thankful for the mere relief of movement after the nervous tension of waiting.

Outside in the passage she started and stood still. Through the sitting-room door the voices sounded clearer; Nevil's raised this time in manifest remonstrance. Again, as on that night at Cadenabbia, all thought of right or wrong was blotted out by the imperative need to know; and again came punishment, sharp as the stroke of a sword.

"My dear sir, I'd infinitely rather not," she heard Nevil say, with a touch of impatience. "I don't think you quite realize what a big sacrifice you ask of me. Last year, as I've explained, my position was utterly different. But now--with so many new interests opening up, to lease Bramleigh Beeches and practically live abroad----!"

Lilamani heard no more. She had no business to hear. His anger at Como came suddenly back to her. And clapping both hands over her ears, she sped like a thing pursued, down the shallow staircase, through the empty public dining-room, out into the night----

And the two in the sitting-room, guessing nothing of danger to her they loved, from tension of waiting and nerves at strain, continued to weigh her fate in the balance, even as they had done a year ago, in that very room, on a moonlit night of March.

Nevil's wish to join her, after a brief concession to politeness, had been increased by a vague sense of disturbance, almost of antagonism, in the air. Too well he knew that Sir Lakshman had cause for anxiety; nor did he look to part from him without rendering some account of his stewardship. But to-night, between thoughts of Martino, desire of his wife, and an inspiriting review of his exhibition in _Le Temps_, by Leseppes, he was not in the mood. Moreover, he had all the Englishman's distaste for interposition, however legitimate, between man and wife.

But as he rose Sir Lakshman put out a detaining hand.

"You will spare me another fifteen minutes, Nevil. There is a matter, not yet freely spoken of between us, that has been on my mind all day."

Politely repressing a sigh, Nevil sat down again and prepared to light a cigarette. "Very well, sir; if it won't take too long. Lilamani's waiting up for me, and she's tired."

"That I know too well. And it is because of that--because every day she is seeming a little more tired--that I must ask you plainly, before leaving--is your heart satisfied about her? Mine is not."

Nevil frowned thoughtfully at his empty coffee-cup, recalling his talk with Broome. This man had twice the right to speak; and yet... Nevil felt perversely restive under the Indian's look and tone.

"She is in a very poor state of health," he answered with studied quietness, "or we should not be here. Are you implying anything else?"

"No need to waste time in implying. My child's welfare and happiness are more than my own. I am troubled--uncertain about many things; and only straight talk will serve."

Nevil inclined his head. "You shall have straight answers, I promise you. About her health I am as worried as yourself. It's the one grave drawback----"

"And you think to make it right by a few months on the Mediterranean?" the other put in quickly. "That is where you mistake. I know that specialist of London said no lung trouble yet. But unless there is great care, great improvement of health--I tell you, Nevil, it will come. It is your country's backhanded fashion of encouragement to pioneers of our race, especially when very young and over-early developed. Being myself responsible for permitting this marriage, how shall my conscience not feel disturbed in seeing her thus? No criticism of you is in my thought, you understand. And yet--you cannot know as I do----"

"I know quite enough to make me confoundedly anxious," Nevil declared with a touch of heat. "You did permit the marriage, thank God; and for her sake I've left England and my Place at a moment when I particularly wanted to be on the spot. What more would you have me do? You must consider that I am an Englishman, with peculiarly strong ties binding me to the country----"

"That I do consider. I also consider that you are husband of a woman outside the ordinary. Though her father, I think I have right in saying there are not too many of her quality in India or otherwheres. For love of you, she is facing many difficulties. Is it good to make them greater than must be? When we spoke of such things in this same room one year ago, you said, from your own impulse, that difficulty of climate need not count, because you would be willing to live chiefly abroad. But now----"

He turned out his hands, Eastern fashion; and Nevil Sinclair leaned suddenly forward, a spark of fire in his eyes.

"You infer that I have gone back on my word, sir?"

"My dear Nevil, I infer no such thing. But in justification of myself I repeat only what you said."

"Yes. I did say it. And I meant it. But how on earth could I foresee such big changes in so short time? Then I was an amateur artist; a cosmopolitan Bohemian, with no taste for loafing at home, and no very urgent duties to keep me there. Now my duties are obvious and imperative: my father's place to fill as best I can, and a big, heavily-mortgaged estate to keep going, as far as possible on the old lines. What's more, I have grown to love the Place in a way I never thought possible. As for my work, I'm an amateur no longer, but an acknowledged artist--of promise--if no more----"

Sir Lakshman raised his hand. "Consider one moment, Nevil, in speaking of that last. It has been my pleasure and pride to see that no one is more ready to acknowledge how much of your so rapid success is owing to Lilamani herself. Ask your own heart then--does it square with your British sense of fair play, that you reap all benefit of these changes you speak of, while she must pay all the price?"

"Of course not. Surely you know me better than that."

"So I was imagining," the other answered with his grave smile. "And in such a case you will listen fairly to what I shall say. A couple of months here will not make Lilamani fit for facing your English autumn and winter again so soon; and your friend Broome, if willing for a longer lease, can surely be trusted to look after your interests as if they were his own. Why not, then, leave your estates in his care--I do not say for always; but for a term of years, that you may be more free----"

"My dear sir," Nevil broke in sharply, "I'd infinitely rather not. I don't think you quite realize what a big sacrifice you ask of me. Last year, as I've explained, my position was utterly different. But, now--with so many new interests opening up--to lease Bramleigh Beeches and practically live abroad----!"

"Not even for the sake of bringing greater health and happiness to that wife who has made, for love of you, a sacrifice bigger than you--not being Eastern--can ever understand?"

Sir Lakshman drove home each word of his plea with a quiet, forcible distinctness, that did not fail of its effect. Nevil Sinclair extinguished his cigarette stump, and for several minutes considered the pattern of the carpet with profound attention. The Indian, determined to gain his point, found encouragement even in such negative acquiescence.

"No harm, but rather benefit to your art," he went on, exchanging the forcible note to one of persuasion, "from some years spent in other lands than England. And since you have done so well with Eastern subjects, you will be the more able to combine closer study for yourself with the light and warmth that are so needful for this child of the sun you have taken to wife. Better than all, give her a year in India, Nevil----"

Lilamani's husband looked up quickly. "No, not that, sir. Not India--yet."

From the moment Sir Lakshman began to speak he had known it was impending. Yet the actual word came as a shock. So also did his abrupt refusal to the man who had believed victory in sight.

"And why not India?" he asked, up in arms at once for his own country. "Surely----"

"Please don't think me unkind or unreasonable, sir, or take my refusal amiss. I can't explain myself. But you must accept my word for it that India's out of the question."

As if to clinch the matter he rose, braced his shoulders, and going over to the open door stood there in a long silence, while the opposing forces of passion and ambition, pride of possession and worshipful devotion to her through whom he had found himself, clashed within him mightily yet without sound. Gazing abstractedly down the pearl-grey path of radiance that ended in the ghostly glimmer of the Mediterranean, he noted, with vague interest, a dusky speck that moved from one pool of shadow to another, far away, down by the balustrade where the rocks fell sheer to the sea. That this moving speck concerned him, even remotely, he did not dream. Unthinkingly he saw it vanish into the last of the shadows; and straightway forgot it altogether.

Sir Lakshman, wondering and waiting in a pained suspense, never removed his gaze from the significant-looking figure in the doorway. If not India--what of the first proposition, unanswered so far?

The question was almost on his lips when Nevil Sinclair turned abruptly and spoke.

"You're right, sir. Absolutely right. For the present, at all events, Bramleigh Beeches must stand back. There are difficulties, of course. It's a matter that can't be fixed up in five minutes. But I shall not change my mind. So you can set yours at rest."

Sir Lakshman let out a breath of relief. "The Gods be praised! I have not believed in you without good reason, Nevil. And I am the more thankful for your decision because--not through any word from her--I have a thought that more than her health is concerned."

Nevil nodded. "Yes--yes. I admit things have been difficult--for us both, in many ways. Surface things--that time will set right; but still---- With me, as you are aware, her nationality simply doesn't count. She's herself; and God knows a man need ask no more of her. But I can't make others see with my eyes all in a moment----"

He broke off with a start. For the door opened suddenly; and Audrey stood before them; a little pale, a little out of breath.

"Lilamani's not here?" she asked.

"No," from both men at once, and Sir Lakshman sprang to his feet.

"I looked in on her to say good night," Audrey went on. "But her room was empty. D'you think--would she go out into the garden alone, at this time of night?"

"Why d'you ask that?" It was Nevil who spoke.

"Only because I saw someone in a cloak pass along the verandah about ten minutes ago. I thought no more of it till I found her gone. But I know she has something very much on her mind; and she has such fanciful notions about things--the moonlight and the sea----" Poor Audrey floundered sadly out of her depth. "At any rate--we might ask the waiters. It's possible----"

"Yes, indeed, it _is_ possible. And other things--worse things, are possible as she is to-night."

Sir Lakshman, knowing the women of his race, spoke with a strange vehemence quite unlike himself.

"Go, Nevil, go!" He gripped his son-in-law by the arm. "Bring her safe back with you, or--by God----"

Nevil did not wait to hear the rest. He strode out, slamming the door. That speck moving from shadow to shadow came suddenly back to him; and remembrance of a certain night on Como laid an icy clutch upon his heart.

Audrey followed him out, leaving the distracted father alone. Hearing her footsteps, Nevil turned and confronted her.

"Something very much on her mind, you said?"

"I thought so."

"Did she tell you what it was?"

"Not exactly. There was no need. I understood." A pause: then, for Lilamani's sake, Audrey found courage to add with deliberate, unmistakable significance: "Nevil--can't you guess?"

Look and tone enlightened him.

"That? Good God!" he exclaimed under his breath--and was gone.

Audrey stood still for many minutes looking at the empty space where he had been, wondering what that fervent expletive might bode for Lilamani's "great gift."

CHAPTER THE LAST

"O very woman, god at once and child, What ails thee to desire of me once more The assurance that thou hadst in heart before? For all this wild, sweet waste of sweet, vain breath, Thou knowest, I know thou hast given me Life, not Death." SWINBURNE.

And out there in full moonlight, while the two men talked, the dusky speck, seen of Nevil, moved restlessly to and fro in the open sandy space, where no balustrade intervenes between sheer rocks and the sea.

Not even night and silence could baptize the soul of Lilamani Sinclair with the dew of peace. Fleeing from her overwrought self, imprisoned within four walls, she found only that self, and none other, here at the edge of all things. None other: that was the horror of it. But there came another; a ghostly presence, unseen, yet acutely felt, close to her shoulder, whispering insistently at her ear. And the voice was the voice of Jane. One half of her mind knew it for a product of nerves and imagination; the other half shivered, at the chill nearness of it, like a naked soul in the winds between the worlds.

And through all these importunate unrealities of sight and sound, Nevil's voice, with its note of remonstrance, sounded clearer than all. "You don't quite realize what a big sacrifice you ask of me." "Give up Bramleigh Beeches and practically live abroad----"

Oh, it was impossible, past thinking. How could that dear father--always so wise--make fresh trouble on her account, when already she had made too much in this great English family. Nevil had told her nothing about his own bearding of Jane, save that she need not distress herself over George, who could be trusted not to fling away five thousand a year plus a woman who loved him. His parting with her had been awkward and constrained; Jane's, frigidly polite; and her own secret wish had been that she might see neither of them again. They had rubbed the bloom off everything with their "muddy thoughts." For that last encounter with Lady Roscoe, striking sharp on her joy in Nevil's triumph--and she peculiarly unfit for emotional strain--had produced upon her an effect out of all proportion to the cause; dashing her rudely to earth, just when her wings had begun to flutter afresh; obscuring the worth of her first great gift in renewed sense of her own unfitness, not for wifehood, but for Lady Sinclairhood and all it involved. Better for him by far, whispered the malign voice at her ear, had he married his true English mate--Leslie de Winton, who would have fulfilled the needs of his art and of his great house no less; and--bitterest "and"--would have given him sons of his own blood to carry on his distinguished name.

Yet of his own heart and will he had chosen her--Lilamani; perhaps without thought of sons or of great names. And now--when she told him, would he be glad in his inmost heart? Or would he----?

Oh, what foolishness to torment herself thus for more than a week! And yet--better uncertainty than a certainty she could scarce endure, and live. Had she been capable of pouring out her heart to Audrey, much had been spared her. But she was not so made; and it is written that passionate love has a danger for natures over-sensitive and reserved, unknown to the more volatile and expansive. Yet had her sole lapse from self-imposed silence--one shower of tears unexplained, one cry from her heart--wrought this gravest complication of all.

Instinctively her Eastern womanhood rebelled against the idea that her lord should change his way of life in any degree on her account. And her father--himself a Hindu--what possessed him to suggest such madness? Too well her heart knew the answer--love, sheer love, hard pressed by secret fears. For a week or more, whenever his eyes rested upon her, she had seen that love in them suffering dumbly, and yet had not found courage for speech. Oh, coward, and self-thinking, to spoil that dear father's last week with her, through fear of her own pain.

And in two small days he would be gone. The great sea, that brooded and murmured below among the rocks, would turn traitor, even like the moon to-night, and take him from her. If only they two might go also--they three, her heart whispered shyly, as she turned her steps seaward and stood upon a grey slab of rock, gazing out across that mysterious other-world which casts so strange a spell over dwellers on land.

Softly still and dark, the wide waters slept beneath the stars, save where moon-butterflies, in their thousands, made a shimmering path of light. The eternal wonder and glory of it was new every morning every evening. Yet to-night, for the first time, she hated it, almost, that it divided her irrevocably from the dear, deserted Motherland; that India, where no doubt could ever be how husband would receive such news as she had to tell.

A verse from the English psalm-book she loved, spoke the cry of her heart: "Oh, that I had the wings--the wings of a dove----!" And with evil intent that voice at her ear whispered of strong unclouded sunlight, the still lakes and feathered palm-fronds of her own Hyderabad. The temple-bell, the familiar street cries and scents assailed her with poignant vividness. And through it all, as through a brilliant veil, she saw the chill grey skies of her husband's land; the great house, the ubiquitous servants, the "needless ones" for ever at her gates! By some fiendish freak of her distraught imagination, Nevil seemed purposely to obliterate himself from the picture----.

What did it mean? What madness had come upon her? Pressing her hands to her temples she stood so, striving for self-mastery. And lo, another voice--a voice of temptation, from the great sea itself, "Here is rest. Here forgetfulness," murmured the lazy breakers that lapped against her rock. Like Eve in the old, old legend, this daughter of lake and plain, seemed to have hid a wave of the sea in her blood. And now, wave called to wave, with alluring insistence.

A little foam upon the water; and the sea, that incomparable, insatiable lover, would take into his deep heart the dream that was her body, while the dream that was her soul passed on----

Startled, she stepped back a space; and the wonder grew and strengthened in her--was this no temptation, but inspiration rather, pointing the way, not so much to rest from her strange weariness, as to freedom for him--her god among men? No passionate impulse now--as on that night by the waters of Como: but the innate desire of her storm-tossed heart to win happiness for him at any cost to herself. Would not Sita, model of wifehood, have done no less? Sooner than shadow of stain on her lord's name, or shadow of trouble on his heart--an end of Lilamani----.

True, that night on Como he had been angered, desperate, hurt. Yet now--how different! Then--she had much still to give. Now, it seemed she had given all that he had need of--from her; all that she and none else could have given. Must she then pass on; leaving that other--(a red-hot shaft of jealousy here)--to give him those things which were beyond her power----?

How should she tell? How think clearly when thoughts and voices buzzed in her brain like angry bees----!

Stepping again to the rock's edge, she stood looking down into the waiting depths--stone still, as one who listens for a signal.

But there came no signal: only the alluring whisper of the sea.

With a despairing gesture she flung out her arms; swayed a little backward; then forward----

"Lilamani--Lilamani--where are you?"

The call reached her just in time. Almost miraculously she regained her balance, and stood rigid, scarcely able to believe her ears.

The desperate note in her husband's voice stilled every tremor, every doubt. It was the signal. The gods did not demand this twofold sacrifice at her hands.

"Lilamani!"

The call came again, appreciably nearer.

"Come to me. I am here," she called back; a ring of triumph in her clear tones.

Two minutes later he sprang, a flying shadow, out of the massed shadows behind--

For almost an eternity, it seemed to her, they stood, locked together; his pulses hammering, his breath coming in short gasps from the speed of his race. The terror of that night on Como had been his, increased fourfold by his lightning-flash of knowledge: and now that he held her warm and living in his arms, emotion struck too deep for any word of love, or of thanksgiving. He did not even kiss her. It was enough that he held her, almost crushed her against him, forgetful for once of her fragility. The pain of that mute passionate embrace was pure balm to her heart; and when at last he spoke, his voice had an under-note of sternness more thrilling than a caress.

"I believe--I was only just in time?"

"Yes." The word was a breath merely.

"You really would----?"

"Oh-h, not say it!" She shuddered; and he gripped her closer. But the note of sternness deepened.

"Lilamani, when I left Como last year, you swore to me, by--the most sacred of all things, that this madness should never come back. How--dare--you break your promise?"

"Oh, Nevil! I promised--for then. Not thinking beyond. But now--so different. I am no more needed for Sita; no more making sister of you seem like murderer. I am only making too much trouble in your family, your home. And to-night--passing the door, I stopped--I heard----"

"_What?_"

"You were saying--true enough, how can you give up Bramleigh Beeches and be living abroad, because of me. Much too big sacrifice----"

"Think a moment, little wife. Did I say 'too big'?"

"N-no. You said 'what a big----' But, dear lord, it was madness of my father to speak such a thing. It is not possible--not right--that for one small woman such great sacrifice shall be made."

"Not even when that small woman"--his lips were close to her ear--"is to be the mother of my son?"

At that word, heard for the first time, she drew a soft breath of rapture.

"How--how did you know?"

"From something Audrey said--I guessed."

"And--you are wishing--that son, truthfully, in your heart?"

"I am wishing him truthfully, with all my heart."

A long pause, filled with the whisper of the sea; tempter no longer, but prophet of peace. Then she--taking courage in both hands, determined to know all: "Nevil, have I been hurting my soul with pain and doubt for nothing? Did you wish him--just so much--from the first?"

Freeing a hand, he pressed her head against his shoulder.

"Lilamani--if there is to be an end of doubt and pain between us, you must have the truth," he said quietly. "I did not wish him--just so much--from the first. For some time I simply put away the thought. I had you. That was enough. Then--when we got home to the Beeches, I began to realize--well, how much I was my father's son, after all. It was a bad minute for me, little wife; and it came just when things were so discouragingly difficult. You remember?"

"How shall I forget?" she spoke quietly as he; all her quivering sensibilities held in leash. "And you were wishing--no children?"

"Not that. Never that. I thought--if we had daughters----"

"O-oh!" Her low sound of dismay was Eastern to the core. "And since when--were you feeling different?"

"Since Christmas Eve. When I saw you that night, worshipping that other Nevil, who was no son of mine, a rage of jealousy flamed up in me; and I knew--not quite then, but afterwards--that no narrow prejudice of race could come between me and the need to see you so, with a son who should be yours and mine."

"You are not wishing him daughter now?" she murmured in an ecstasy of content.

"No indeed. Shall I tell you just how I see him?"

"Please tell."

"You have given me a new spirit of understanding in so many things, my Sita Dévi; and in this one above all. Six months ago I confess I shrank from the idea of a son handicapped by the stigma of mixed blood. But now--you being his mother--I refuse to admit the stigma. I see him as one who will have the strength of his handicap, as one doubly endowed with the best that two great races can give--the spirituality of the East, the power and virility of the West; one whose destiny it may be to draw these mighty opposites nearer together by his own intimate love and understanding of both. Is it a good vision you have given me, beloved?"

She drew in a deep breath.

"Glorious past telling. But it is not I that gave. It is your own so big heart, and----"

"Hush--listen again. There is more---- You remember I told you once India was impossible for us?"

"Yes?"

He heard the thrill of eagerness in that whispered question; and had a fleeting instant of hesitation before committing himself irrevocably to the inspired impulse of a moment. Then he burnt his boats.

"Well--I had no right to say that. Nothing but my own selfishness stands in the way of our going out there--later on. Next time your father comes home we will go out with him--we three. For your sake, and for the sake of all your inspiring love has given me, I promise never again to grudge India her share in the heart of my son."

And she, laying both hands upon him, looked up at last--her face a beatific vision, in the full light of the moon.

"Husband of me--you are ready for doing all this, only because of--your Sita Dévi?"

"Only because of my Sita Dévi," he made answer gravely. "But I also ask a promise in return. Never--while you live--must you let to-night's madness conquer you again."

"No--no. I promise for always in the name--of him that shall come after."

And stooping, he sealed that promise with his lips. Suddenly, the wonder of it all, the incredible change in heart and hope and outlook, swept over her with the force of a breaking wave.

"Oh, I am not deserving!" she cried out, half pushing herself from him. "All these things you will do, only for your little wife; and I--I thought, I feared--oh, I have been a wicked, doubting Lilamani, this long time. But now--now----"

Swiftly she hid her face against him; and once more, as on the day of betrothal, the deeps of his manhood were stirred by her passionate murmur: "Live for ever, my lord and my king----!"

THE END