"So'm I. Fearfully glad." He stood upright now, his head erect:—proud of his father's approval, and being treated as "man to man." "But, Daddy—what are we going to do … about Mummy? I do want her to know … it was for her. But I couldn't tell—what Joe said. Could you?"
Nevil shook his head.
"Then—what?"
"You leave it to me, Roy. I'll make things clear without repeating Joe's rude remarks. She'd have been up before this; but I had to see you first—because of the whacking!" His eye twinkled. "She's longing to get at your bruises——"
"Oh nev' mind my bruises. They're all right now."
"And beautiful to behold!" He lightly touched the lump on Roy's cheek. "I'd let her dab them, though. Women love fussing over us when we're hurt—especially if we've been fighting for them!"
"Yes—they do," Roy agreed gravely; and to his surprise, his father drew him close and kissed his forehead.
His mother did not keep him waiting long. First the quick flutter of her footsteps; then the door gently opened—and she flew to him, her sari blowing out in beautiful curves. Then he was in her arms, gathered into her silken softness and the faint scent of sandalwood; while her lips, light as butterfly wings, caressed the bruise on his cheek.
"Oh, what a bad, wicked Sonling!" she murmured, gathering him close.
He loved her upside-down fashion of praise and endearment; never guessing its Eastern significance—to avert the watchfulness of jealous gods swift to spy out our dearest treasures, that hinder detachment, and snatch them from us. "Such a big rude boy—and you tried to kill him only because he did not understand your queer kind of mother! That you will find often, Roy; because it is not custom. Everywhere it is the same. For some kind of people not to be like custom is much worse than not to be good. And that boy has a mother too much like custom. Not surprising if he didn't understand."
"I made him though—I did," Roy exulted shamelessly, marvelling at his father's cleverness, wondering how much he had told. "I hammered hard. And I'm not sorry a bit. Nor Daddy isn't either."
For answer she gave him a convulsive little squeeze—and felt the crackle of paper under his shirt. "Something hidden there! What is it, Sonling?" she asked with laughing eyes: and suddenly shyness overwhelmed him. For the moment he had forgotten his treasure; and now he was wondering if he could show it—even to her.
"It is Tara—I think it's rather a secret——" he began.
"But I may see?" Then as he still hesitated, she added with grave tenderness: "Only if you are wishing it, son of my heart. To-day—you are a man."
From his father that recognition had been sufficiently uplifting. And now—from her … ! The subtle flattery of it and the deeper prompting of his own heart demolished his budding attempt at reserve.
"I am—truly," he said: and she, sitting where his father had sat, unfolded Tara's letter—and the bangle lay revealed.
Roy had not guessed how surprised she would be—and how pleased! She gave a little quick gasp and murmured something he could not catch. Then she looked at him with shining eyes, and her voice had its low serious note that stirred him like music.
"Now—you are Bracelet-Bound, my son. So young!"
Roy felt a throb of pride. It was clearly a fine thing to be.
"Must I give a 'broidered bodice'?"
"I will broider a bodice—the most beautiful; and you shall give it. Remember, Roy, it is not a little matter. It is for always."
"Even when I'm a grown-up man?"
"Yes, even then. If she shall ask from you any service, you must not refuse—ever."
Roy wrinkled his forehead. He had forgotten that part of it. Tara might ask anything. You couldn't tell with girls. He had a moment of apprehension.
"But, Mummy, I don't think—Tara didn't mean all that. It's only—our sort of game of play——"
Unerringly she read his thoughts, and shook her head at him with smiling eyes, as when he made naughty faces about Aunt Jane.
"Too sacred thing for only game of play, Roy. By keeping the bracelet, you are bound." Her smile deepened. "You were not afraid of the big rude boy. Yet you are just so much afraid—for Tara." She indicated the amount with the rose-pink tip of her smallest finger. "Tara—almost like sister—would never ask anything that could be wrong to do."
At this gentle rebuke he flushed and held his head a shade higher.
"I'm not afraid, Mummy. And I will keep the bracelet—and I am bound."
"That is my brave son."
"She said—I am Prithvi Raj."
"She said true." Her hand caressed his hair. "Now you can run down and tell you are forgiven."
"You too, Mummy?"
"In a little time. Not just now. But see——" Her brows flew up. "I was coming to mend your poor bruises!"
"I haven't got any bruises."
The engaging touch of swagger delighted her. A man to-day—in very deed. Her gaze dwelt upon him. It was as if she looked through the eyes of her husband into the heart of her son.
Gravely she entered into his mood.
"That is good. Then we will just make you tidy—and one littlest dab for this not-bruise on your cheek."
So much he graciously permitted: then he ran off to receive the ovation awaiting him from Tara and Chris.
CHAPTER V.
| "Thy bosom is endearéd with all hearts, |
| For there reigns love, and all love's loving parts." |
| —Shakspere. |
"Women are not only deities of the household fire, but the flame of the soul itself."—Rabindranath Tagore.
Left to herself, Lilámani moved back to the window with her innate, deliberate grace. There she sat down again, very still, resting her cheek on her hand; drinking in the serenity, the translucent stillness of clear green spaces robed in early evening light, like a bride arrayed for the coming of her lord. The higher tree-tops were haloed with glory. Young leaves of beeches and poplars gleamed like minted gold; and on the lawn, the great twin beeches cast a stealthily encroaching continent of shadow. Among the shrubs, under her window, birds were trilling out their ecstasy of welcome to the sun, in his Hour of Union with Earth—the Divine Mother, of whom every human mother is, in Eastern eyes, a part, a symbol, however imperfect.
Yet, beneath her carven tranquillity, heart and spirit were deeply stirred. For all Nevil's skill in editing the tale of Roy's championship, she had read his hidden thoughts as unerringly as she had divined Mrs. Bradley's curiosity and faint hostility beneath the veneer of good manners, not yet imparted to her son.
Helen Despard—wife of a retired Lieut.-Governor—had scores of Anglo-Indian friends; but not all of them shared her enthusiasm for India—her sympathetic understanding of its peoples. Lilámani had too soon discovered that the ardent declaration, "I love India," was apt to mean merely that the speaker loved riding and dancing and sunshine and vast spaces, with 'the real India' for a dim effective background. And by now, she could almost tell at a glance which were the right and which the wrong kind of Anglo-Indian, so far as she