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Title: The Shadow of the East

Author: E. M. Hull


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THE SHADOW OF THE EAST


By E. M. Hull

1921



    “_The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children's
    teeth are set on edge_.”

                              _Ezekiel xviii 2_.




CHAPTER I


The American yacht lying off the harbour at Yokohama was brilliantly lit
from stem to stern. Between it and the shore the reflection of the
full moon glittered on the water up to the steps of the big black
landing-stage. The glamour of the eastern night and the moonlight
combined to lend enchantment to a scene that by day is blatant and
tawdry, and the countless coloured lamps twinkling along the sea wall
and dotted over the Bluff transformed the Japanese town into fairyland.

The night was warm and still, and there was barely a ripple on the
water. The Bay was full of craft--liners, tramps, and yachts swinging
slowly with the tide, and hurrying to and fro sampans and electric
launches jostled indiscriminately.

On board the yacht three men were lying in long chairs on the deck.
Jermyn Atherton, the millionaire owner, a tall thin American whose keen,
clever face looked singularly youthful under a thick crop of iron-grey
hair, sat forward in his chair to light a fresh cigar, and then turned
to the man on his right. “I guess I've had every official in Japan
hunting for you these last two days, Barry. If I hadn't had your wire
from Tokio this morning I should have gone to our Consul and churned up
the whole Japanese Secret Service and made an international affair of
it,” he laughed. “Where in all creation were you? I should hardly have
thought it possible to get out of touch in this little old island. The
authorities, too, knew all about you, and reckoned they could lay their
hands on you in twelve hours. I rattled them up some,” he added, with
evident satisfaction.

The Englishman smiled.

“You seem to have done,” he said dryly. “When I got into Tokio this
morning I was fallen on by a hysterical inspector of police who implored
me with tears to communicate immediately with an infuriated American who
was raising Cain in Yokohama over my disappearance. As a matter of fact
I was in a little village twenty miles inland from Tokio--quite off
the beaten track. There's an old Shinto temple there that I have been
wanting to sketch for a long time.”

“Atherton's luck!” commented the American complacently. “It generally
holds good. I couldn't leave Japan without seeing you, and I must sail
tonight.”

“What's your hurry--Wall Street going to the dogs without you?”

“No. I've cut out from Wall Street. I've made all the money I want, and
I'm only concerned with spending it now. No, the fact is I--er--I left
home rather suddenly.”

A soft chuckle came from the recumbent occupant of the third chair, but
Atherton ignored it and hurried on, twirling rapidly, as he spoke, a
single eyeglass attached to a thin black cord.

“Ever since Nina and I were married last year we've been going the devil
of a pace. We had to entertain every one who had entertained us--and a
few more folk besides. There was something doing all day and every day
until at last it seemed to me that I never saw my wife except at the
other end of a dining table with a crowd of silly fools in between us.
I reckoned I'd just about had enough of it. Came on me just like a flash
sitting in my office down town one morning, so I buzzed home right away
in the auto and told her I was sick of the whole thing and that I wanted
her to come away with me and see what real life was like--out West or
anywhere else on earth away from that durned society crowd. I'll admit I
lost my temper and did some shouting. Nina couldn't see it from my point
of view.

“My God, Jermyn! I should think not,” drawled a sleepy voice from
the third chair, and a short, immensely stout man struggled up into a
sitting position, mopping his forehead vigorously. “You've the instincts
of a Turk rather than of an enlightened American citizen. You've not
seen my sister-in-law yet, Mr. Craven,” he turned to the Englishman.
“She's a peach! Smartest little girl in N'York. Leader of
society--dollars no object--small wonder she didn't fall in with
Jermyn's prehistoric notions. You're a cave man, elder brother--I put my
money on Nina every time. Hell! isn't it hot?” He sank down again full
length, flapping his handkerchief feebly at a persistent mosquito.

“We argued for a week,” resumed Jermyn Atherton when his brother's
sleepy drawl subsided, “and didn't seem to get any further on. At last
I lost my temper completely and decided to clear out alone if Nina
wouldn't come with me. Leslie was not doing anything at the time, so I
persuaded him to come along too.”

Leslie Atherton sat up again with a jerk.

“_Persuaded_!” he exploded, “A dam' queer notion of persuasion.
Shanghaied, I call it. Ran me to earth at the club at five o'clock, and
we sailed at eight. If my man hadn't been fond of the sea and keen on
the trip himself, I should have left America for a cruise round the
world in the clothes I stood up in--and Jermyn's duds would be about
as useful to me as a suit of reach-me-downs off the line. Persuasion?
Shucks! Jermyn thought it was kind of funny to start right off on an
ocean trip at a moment's notice and show Nina he didn't care a durn.
Crazy notion of humour.” He lay back languidly and covered his face with
a large silk handkerchief.

Barry Craven turned toward his host with amused curiosity in his grey
eyes.

“Well?” He asked at length.

Atherton returned his look with a slightly embarrassed smile.

“It hasn't been so blamed funny after all,” he said quietly. “A Chinese
coffin-ship from 'Frisco would be hilarious compared with this trip,”
 rapped a sarcastic voice from behind the silk handkerchief.

“I've felt a brute ever since we lost sight of Sandy Hook,” continued
Atherton, looking away toward the twinkling lights on shore, “and as
soon as we put in here I couldn't stand it any longer, so I cabled to
Nina that I was returning at once. I'm quite prepared to eat humble pie
and all the rest of it--in fact I shall relish it,” with a sudden shy
laugh.

His brother heaved his vast bulk clear of the deck chair with a mighty
effort.

“Humble pie! Huh!” he snorted contemptuously. “She'll kill the fatted
calf and put a halo of glory round your head and invite in all the
neighbours 'for this my prodigal husband has returned to me!'” He ducked
with surprising swiftness to avoid a book that Atherton hurled at his
head and shook a chubby forefinger at him reprovingly.

“Don't assault the only guide, philosopher and friend you've got who has
the courage to tell you a few home truths. Say, Jermyn, d'y'know why I
finally consented to come on this crazy cruise, anyway? Because Nina
got me on the phone while you were hammering away at me at the club
and ordered me to go right along with you and see you didn't do any dam
foolishness. Oh, she's got me to heel right enough. Well! I guess I'll
turn in and get to sleep before those fool engines start chump-chumping
under my pillow. You boys will want a pow-wow to your two selves; there
are times when three is a crowd. Good-bye, Mr. Craven, pleased to have
met you. Hope to see you in the Adirondacks next summer--a bit more
crowded than the Rockies, which are Jermyn's Mecca, but more home
comforts--appeal to a man of my build.” He slipped away with the
noiseless tread that is habitual to heavy men.

Jermyn Atherton looked after his retreating figure and laughed
uproariously.

“Isn't he the darndest? A clam is communicative compared with Leslie.
Fancy him having that card up his sleeve all the while. Nina's had the
bulge on me right straight along.”

He pushed a cigar-box across the wicker table between them.

“No, thanks,” said Craven, taking a case from his pocket. “I'll have a
cigarette, if you don't mind.”

The American settled himself in his chair, his hands clasped behind his
head, staring at the harbour lights, his thoughts very obviously some
thousands of miles away. Craven watched him speculatively. Atherton
the big game-hunter, Atherton the mine-owner, he knew perfectly--but
Atherton the New York broker, Atherton married, he was unacquainted with
and he was trying to adjust and consolidate the two personalities.

It was the same Atherton--but more human, more humble, if such a word
could be applied to an American millionaire. He felt a sudden curiosity
to see the woman who had brought that new look into his old friend's
keen blue eyes. He was conscious of an odd feeling of envy. Atherton
became aware at last of his attentive gaze and grinned sheepishly.

“Must seem a bit of a fool to you, old man, but I feel like a boy going
home for the holidays and that's the truth. But I've been yapping about
my own affair all evening. What about you--staying on in Japan? Been
here quite a while now, haven't you?”

“Just over a year.”

“Like it?”

“Yes, Japan has got into my bones.”

“Lazy kind of life, isn't it?”

There was no apparent change in Atherton's drawl, but Craven turned his
head quickly and looked at him before answering.

“I'm a lazy kind of fellow,” he replied quietly.

“You weren't lazy in the Rockies,” said Atherton sharply.

“Oh, yes I was. There are grades of laziness.”

Atherton flung the stub of his cigar overboard and selecting a fresh
one, cut the end off carefully.

“Still got that Jap boy who was with you in America?”

“Yoshio? Yes. I picked him up in San Francisco ten years ago. He'll
never leave me now.”

“Saved his life, didn't you? He spun me a great yarn one day in camp.”

Craven laughed and shrugged. “Yoshio has an Oriental imagination and
quite a flair for romance. I did pull him out of a hole in 'Frisco but
he was putting up a very tidy little show on his own account. He's
the toughest little beggar I've ever come across and doesn't know the
meaning of fear. If I'm ever in a big scrap I hope I shall have Yoshio
behind me.”

“You seem to be pretty well known over yonder,” said Atherton with a
vague movement of his head toward the shore.

“It is not a big town and the foreign population is not vast.
Besides, there are traditions. I am the second Barry Craven to live in
Yokohama--my father lived several years and finally died here. He was
obsessed with Japan.”

“And with the Japanese?”

“And with the Japanese.”

Atherton frowned at the glowing end of his cigar.

“Nina and I ran down to see Craven Towers when we were on our wedding
trip in England last year,” he said at length with seeming irrelevance.
“Your agent, Mr. Peters, ran us round.”

“Good old Peters,” murmured Craven lazily. “The place would have gone to
the bow-wows long ago if it hadn't been for him. He adored my mother
and has the worst possible opinion of me. But he's a loyal old bird, he
probably endowed me with all the virtues for your benefit.”

But Atherton ignored the comment. He polished his eyeglass vigorously
and screwed it firmly into position.

“If I was an Englishman with a place like Craven Towers that had been in
my family for generations,” he said soberly, “I should go home and marry
a nice girl and settle down on my estate.”

“That's precisely Peters' opinion,” replied Craven promptly with a
good-tempered laugh. “I get reams from him to that effect nearly every
mail--with detailed descriptions of all the eligible debutantes whom he
thinks suitable. I often wonder whether he runs the estate on the same
lines and keeps a matrimonial agency for the tenants.”

Atherton laughed with him but persisted.

“If your own countrywomen don't appeal to you, take a run out to the
States and see what we can do for you.”

The laugh died out of Craven's eyes and he moved restlessly in his
chair.

“It's no good, Jermyn. I'm not a marrying man,” he said shortly.

Atherton smiled grimly at the recollection of a similar remark
emphatically uttered by himself at their last meeting.

For a time neither spoke. Each was conscious of a vague difference in
the other, developed during the years that had elapsed since their last
meeting--an intangible barrier checking the open confidence of earlier
days.

It was growing late. The sampans had nearly all disappeared and only an
occasional launch skimmed across the harbour.

A neighbouring yacht's band that had been silent for the last hour
began to play again--appropriately to the vicinity--Puccini's well-known
opera. The strains came subdued but clear across the water on the
scent-laden air. Craven sat forward in his chair, his heels on the
ground, his hands loosely clasped between his knees, whistling softly
the Consul's solo in the first act. From behind a cloud of cigar smoke
Atherton watched him keenly, and as he watched he was thinking rapidly.
He was used to making decisions quickly--he was accustomed to accepting
risks at which others shied, but the risk he was now contemplating meant
the taking of an unwarranted liberty that might be resented and might
result in the loss of a friendship that he valued. But he was going to
take the risk--as he had taken many another--he had known that from the
first. He screwed his eyeglass firmer into his eye, a characteristic
gesture well-known on the New York stock market.

“Ever see _Madame Butterfly_? he asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

Atherton blew another big cloud of smoke.

“Damn fool, Pinkerton,” he said gruffly, “Never could see the attraction
myself--dancing girls--almond eyes--and all that sort of thing.”

Craven made no answer but his whistling stopped suddenly and the
knuckles of his clasped hands whitened. Atherton looked away quickly and
his eyeglass fell with a little tinkle against a waistcoat button. There
was another long pause. Finally the music died away and the stillness
was broken only by the soft slap-slap of the water against the ship's
side.

Atherton scowled at his immaculate deck shoes and then seized his
eyeglass again decisively.

“Say, Barry, you saved my life in the Rockies that trip and I guess a
fellow whose life you've saved has a pull on you no one else has. Anyhow
I'll chance it, and if I'm a damned interfering meddler it's up to you
to say so and I'll apologise--handsomely. Are you in a hole?”

Craven got up, walked away to the side of the yacht and leaning on the
rail stared down into the water. A solitary sampan was passing the
broad streak of moonlight and he watched it intently until it passed and
merged into the shadows beyond.

“I've been the usual fool,” he said at last quietly.

“Oh, hell!” came softly from behind him. “Chuck it, Barry. Clear out
right now--with us. I'll put off sailing until tomorrow.”

“I--can't.”

Atherton rose and joined him, and for a moment his hand rested on the
younger man's shoulder.

“I'm sorry--dashed sorry,” he murmured. “Gee!” he added with a half shy,
half humorous glance, wiping his forehead frankly, “I'd rather face a
grizzly than do that again. Leslie keeps telling me that my habit of
butting in will land me in the family vault before my time.”

Craven smiled wryly.

“It's all right. I'm grateful--really. But I must hoe my own row.”

The American swung irresolutely on his heels.

“That's so, that's so,” he agreed reluctantly. “Oh damn it all,” he
burst out, “have a drink!” and going back to the table he pounded in the
stopper of a soda-water-bottle savagely.

Craven laughed constrainedly as he tilted the whisky into a glass.

“Universal panacea,” he said a little bitterly, “but it's not my method
of oblivion.”

He put the peg tumbler down with a smothered sigh.

“I must be off, Jermyn. It's time you were getting under way. It's been
like the old days to have had a yarn with you again. Good luck and a
quick run home--you lucky devil.”

Atherton walked with him to the head of the gangway and watched him into
the launch.

“We shall count on you for the Adirondacks in the summer,” he called out
cheerily, leaning far over the rail.

Craven looked up with a smile and waved his hand, but did not answer and
the motor boat shot away toward the shore.

He landed on the big pier and lingered for a moment to watch the launch
speeding back to the yacht. Then he walked slowly down the length of the
stage and at the entrance found his rickshaw waiting. The two men who
were squatting on the ground leaped up at his approach and one hurriedly
lit a great dragon-painted paper lantern while the other held out a
light dustcoat. Craven tossed it into the rickshaw and silently pointing
toward the north, climbed in. He leaned back and lit a cigarette. The
men sprang away in a quick dog-trot along the Bund, and then started
to climb the hillside at the back of the town. They wound slowly up the
narrow tortuous roads, past numberless villas, hung with lights, from
which voices floated out into the quiet air.

The moon was brilliant and the night wonderfully light, but Craven paid
no attention to the beauty of the scene or to the gaily lit villas.
Atherton's invitation had been curiously hard to decline and even now
an almost overpowering desire came over him to bid his men retrace
their steps to the harbour. Then hard on the heels of that desire came
thoughts that softened the hard lines that had gathered about his mouth.
He pitched his cigarette away as if with it he threw from him an
actual temptation, and resolutely put out of his mind Atherton and the
suggestion of flight.

Still climbing upward the rickshaw passed the last of the outlying
European villas and turned down a side road where there were no houses.
For a couple of miles the men raced along a level track cut on the side
of a hill that rose steeply on the one hand and on the other fell away
precipitously down to the sea until they halted with a sudden jerk
beside a wooden gateway with a creeper-covered roof on either side of
which two matsu trees stood like tall sentinels.

Waiting by the open gate was a short, powerful looking Japanese dressed
in European clothes. He came forward as Craven alighted and gathering up
the coat and hat from the floor of the rickshaw, dismissed the Japanese
who vanished further along the road into the shadows. Then he turned
and waited for his master to precede him through the gateway, but Craven
signed to him to go on, and as the man disappeared up the garden path
he crossed the road and standing on the edge of the cliff looked down
across the harbour. The American yacht was the biggest craft of her kind
in the roads and easily discernible in the moonlight. The brilliant deck
illumination had been shut off and only a few lights showed. He gave a
quick sigh. Atherton's coming had been like a bar drawn suddenly across
the stream down which he was drifting. If Jermyn had only come last
year! The envy he had felt earlier in the evening increased. He thought
of the look he had seen in Atherton's eyes and the intonation of his
voice when the American spoke of the wife to whom he was returning. What
did love like that mean to a man? What factor in Atherton's strenuous
and adventurous life had affected him as this had done? What
were the ethics of a love that rose purely above physical
attraction--environment--temperament; a love that grew and strengthened
and absorbed until it ceased to be a part of life and became life
itself--the main issue, the fundamental essence?

And as Craven watched he saw the yacht steam slowly down the bay. He
drew a deep breath.

“You lucky, lucky devil,” he whispered again and swung on his heel. He
paused for a moment just within the gateway where on the only level part
of the garden lay a miniature lake, hedged round with bamboo, clumps
of oleander, fed by a little twisting stream that came tumbling and
splashing down the hillside in a series of tiny waterfalls, its banks
fringed with azalea bushes and slender cherry trees. Then he walked
slowly along the path that led upward, winding to and fro through
clusters of pines and cedars and over mossy slopes to the little house
which stood in a clearing at the top of the garden surrounded by fir
trees and backed by a high creeper-clad palisade.

From the wide verandah, built out on piles over the terrace, there was
an uninterrupted view of the harbour. He climbed the four wooden stairs
and on the top step turned and looked again down on to the bay. The
yacht was now invisible, but in his mind he followed her slipping down
toward the open sea. And Atherton--what were his thoughts while pacing
the broad deck or lying in his cabin listening to the screw whose every
revolution was taking him nearer the centre of his earthly happiness?
Were they anything like his own, he wondered, as he stood there
bareheaded in the moonlight, looking strangely big and incongruous on
the balcony of the little fairylike doll's house?

He shrugged impatiently. The comparison was an insult, he thought
bitterly. Again he stared out to sea, straining his eyes; trying vainly
to pick up the yacht's lights far down the bay. It was very still, a
tiny breeze whispered in the pines and drifted across his face the sweet
perfume of a flowering shrub. A cicada chirped in the grass at his feet.

Then behind him came a faint rustle of silk. He heard the soft sibilant
sound of a breath drawn quickly in.

“Will my lord honourably be pleased to enter?” the voice was very low
and sweet and the English very slow and careful.

Craven did not move.

“Try again, O Hara San.”

A low bubble of girlish laughter rippled out.

“Please to come in, Bar-ree.”

He turned slowly, looking bigger than ever by contrast with the slender
little Japanese girl who faced him. She was barely seventeen, dainty
and fragile as a porcelain figure, wholly in keeping with her exquisite
setting and yet the flush on her cheeks--free from the thick disfiguring
white paste used by the women of her country--and the vivid animation
of her face were oddly occidental, and the eyes raised so eagerly to
Craven's were as grey as his own.

He held out his arms and she fluttered into them with a little
breathless murmur, clinging to him passionately.

“Little O Hara San,” he said gently as she pressed closer to him. He
tilted her head, stooping to kiss the tiny mouth that trembled at the
touch of his lips. She closed her eyes and he felt an almost convulsive
shudder shake her.

“Have you missed me, O Hara San?”

“It is a thousand moons since you are gone,” she whispered unsteadily.

“Are you glad to see me?”

Her grey eyes opened suddenly with a look of utter content and
happiness.

“You know, Bar-ree. Oh, Bar-ree!”

His face clouded, the teasing word that rose to his lips died away
unspoken and he pressed her head against him almost roughly to hide the
look of trusting devotion that suddenly hurt him. For a few moments she
lay still, then slipped free of his arms and stood before him, swaying
slightly from side to side, her hands busily patting her hair into order
and smiling up at him happily.

“Being very rude. Forgetting honourable hospitality. You please
forgive?”

She backed a few steps toward the doorway and her pliant figure bent for
an instant in the prescribed form of Japanese courtesy and salutation.
Then she clasped both hands together with a little cry of dismay.
“Oh, so sorree,” she murmured in contrition, “forgot honourable lord
forbidding that.”

“Your honourable lord will beat you with a very big stick if you forget
again,” said Craven laughing as he followed her into the little room.
O Hara San pouted her scarlet lips at him and laughed softly as she
subsided on to a mat on the floor and clapped her hands. Craven sat down
opposite her more slowly. In spite of the months he had spent in Japan
he still found it difficult to adapt his long legs to the national
attitude.

In answer to the summons an old armah brought tea and little rice cakes
which O Hara San dispensed with great dignity and seriousness. She drank
innumerable cupfuls while Craven took three or four to please her and
then lit a cigarette. He smoked in silence watching the dainty little
kneeling figure, following the quick movements of her hands as she
manipulated the fragile china on the low stool before her, the restraint
she imposed upon herself as she struggled with the excited happiness
that manifested itself in the rapid heaving of her bosom, and the
transient smile on her lips, and a heavy frown gathered on his face. She
looked up suddenly, the tiny cup poised in her hand midway to her mouth.

“You happy in Tokio?”

“Yes.”

It was not the answer for which she had hoped and her eyes dropped at
the curt monosyllable. She put the cup back on the tray and folded her
hands in her lap with a faint little sigh of disappointment, her head
drooping pensively. Craven knew instinctively that he had hurt her and
hated himself. It was like striking a child. But presently she looked
up again and gazed at him soberly, wrinkling her forehead in unconscious
imitation of his.

“O Hara San very bad selfish girl. Hoping you very _un_happy in Tokio,”
 she said contritely.

He laughed at the naive confession and the gloom vanished from his face
as he stood up, his long limbs cramped with the uncongenial attitude.

“What have you been doing while I was away?” he asked, crossing the room
to look at a new kakemono on the wall.

She flitted away silently and returned in a few moments carrying a small
panel. She put it into his hands, drawing near to him within the arm
he slipped round her and slanted her head against him, waiting for his
criticism with the innate patience of her race.

Craven looked long at the painting. It was a study of a solitary fir
tree, growing at the edge of a cliff--wind-swept, rugged. The high
precipice on which it stood was only suggested and far below there was a
hint of boundless ocean--foam-crested.

It was the tree that gripped attention--a lonely outpost, clinging
doggedly to its jutting headland, rearing its head proudly in its
isolation; the wind seemed to rustle through its branches, its gnarled
trunk showed rough and weather-beaten. It was a poem of loneliness and
strength.

At last Craven laid it down carefully, and gathering up the slender
clasped hands, kissed them silently. The mute homage was more to her
than words. The colour rushed to her cheeks and her eyes devoured his
face almost hungrily.

“You like it?” she whispered wistfully.

“Like it?” he echoed, “Gad! little girl, it's wonderful. It's more than
a fir tree--it's power, tenacity, independence. I know that all your
work is symbolical to you. What does the tree mean--Japan?”

She turned her head away, the flush deepening in her cheeks, her fingers
gripping his.

“It means--more to me than Japan,” she murmured. “More to me than
life--it means--you,” she added almost inaudibly.

He swept her up into his arms and carrying her out on to the verandah,
dropped into a big cane chair that was a concession to his western
limbs.

“You make a god of me, O Hara San,” he said huskily.

“You are my god,” she answered simply, and as he expostulated she laid
her soft palm over his mouth and nestled closer into his arms.

“I talk now,” she said quaintly. “I have much to tell.”

But the promised news did not seem forthcoming for she grew silent
again, lying quietly content, rubbing her head caressingly from time
to time against his arm and twisting his watch-chain round her tiny
fingers.

The night was very quiet. No sound came from within the house, and
without only the soft wind murmuring in the trees, cicadas chirping
unceasingly and the little river dashing down the hillside, splashing
noisily, broke the stillness. Nature, the sleepless, was awake making
her influence felt with the kindly natural sounds that mitigate the awe
of absolute silence--sounds that harmonized with the peacefulness of the
little garden. Tonight the contrast between Yokohama, with its pitiful
western vulgarity obtruding at every turn, and the quiet beauty of
his surroundings struck Craven even more sharply than usual. It seemed
impossible that only two miles away was Theatre Street blazing and
rioting with all its tinsel tawdriness, flaring lights and whining
gramophones. Here was another world--and here he had found more
continuous contentment than he had known in the last ten years. The
garden was an old one, planned by a master hand. By day it was lovely,
but by night it took on a weird beauty that was almost unreal. The
light of the moon cast strong black shadows, deep and impenetrable, that
hovered among the trees like sinister spirits lurking in the darkness.

The trees themselves, contorted in the moonlight, assumed strange
forms--vague shapes played in and out among them--the sombre bushes
seemed alive with peeping faces. It was the Garden of Enchantment,
peopled with a thousand djinns and demons of Old Japan. The atmosphere
was mysterious, the air was saturated with sweet heavy scents.

Craven was a passionate lover of the night. The darkness, the silence,
the mystery of it appealed to him. He was familiar with its every phase
in many climates. It enticed him for long solitary rambles in all the
countries he had visited during the ten years of his wanderings. Nature,
always fascinating, was then to him doubly attractive, doubly alluring.
To the night he went for sympathy. To the night he went for inspiration.
It was during his midnight wanderings that he seemed to get nearer
the fundamental root of things. It was to the night he turned for
consolation in times of need. It was then that he exorcised the demon of
unrest that entered into him periodically. All his life the charm of the
night had called to him and all his life he had responded obediently. As
a tiny boy one of his earliest recollections was of slipping out of bed
and, evading nurses and servants, stealing out into the park at Craven
Towers to seek the healing of the night for some childish heartache. He
had crept down the long avenue and climbing the iron fence had perched
on the rail and watched the deer feeding by the light of the moon until
all the sorrow had been chased away and his baby heart was singing with
a kind of delirious happiness that he did not understand and that gave
way in its turn to a natural childish enjoyment of an adventure that
was palpably forbidden. He had slid down from the fence and retraced
his steps up the avenue until he came to the path that led to the rose
garden and eventually to the terrace near the house. He had trotted
along on his little bare feet, shivering now and then, but more from
excitement than from cold, until he had come to the long flight of stone
steps that led to the terrace. He had laboriously climbed them one foot
at a time, his toes curling at the contact with the chill stone, and at
the top he had halted suddenly, holding his breath. Close to him was
a tall indistinct figure wrapped in dark draperies. For a moment fear
gripped him and then an immense curiosity swamped every other feeling
and he moved forward cautiously. The tall figure had turned suddenly and
it was his mother's sad girlish face that looked down at him. She had
lifted him up into her arms, wrapping her warm cloak round his slightly
clad little body--she had asked no questions and she had not scolded.
She had seemed to understand, even though he gave no explanation, and
it was the beginning of a sympathy between them that had developed to an
unusual degree and lasted until her death, ten years ago. She had hugged
him tightly and he had always remembered, without fully understanding in
his childhood, the half incredulous, half regretful whisper in his ear,
“Has it come to you so soon, little son?”

The hereditary instinct, born thus, had grown with his own growth from
boyhood to manhood until it was an integral part of himself.

And the lure of the eastern nights--more marvellous and compelling even
than in colder climates--had become almost an obsession.

Little O Hara San, firm believer in all devils, djinns and midnight
workers of mischief, had grown accustomed to the eccentricities of the
man who was her whole world. If it pleased him to spend long hours of
the night sitting on the verandah when ordinary folk were sensibly shut
up in their houses she did not care so long as she might be with him. No
demon in Japan could harm her while she lay securely in his strong arms.
And if unpleasant shadows crept uncomfortably near the little house she
resolutely turned her head and hiding her face against him shut out all
disagreeable sights and slept peacefully, confident in his ability
to keep far from her all danger. Her love was boundless and her trust
absolute. But tonight there was no thought of sleep. For three long
weeks she had not seen him and during that time for her the sun had
ceased to shine. She had counted each hour until his return and she
could not waste the precious moments now that he had really come. The
djinns and devils in the garden might present themselves in all their
hideousness if it so pleased them but tonight she was heedless of them.
She had eyes for nothing but the man she worshipped. Even in his silent
moods she was content. It was enough to feel his arms about her, to hear
his heart beating rhythmically beneath her head and, lying so, to look
up and see the firm curve of his chin and the slight moustache golden
brown against his tanned cheek.

She stirred slightly in his arms with a little sigh of happiness, and
the faint movement woke him from his abstraction.

“Sleepy?” he asked gently.

She laughed gaily at the suggestion and sat up to show how wide awake
she was. The light from a lantern fell full on her face and Craven
studied it with an intensity of which he was hardly aware. She bore his
scrutiny in silence for a few moments and then looked away with a little
grimace.

“Thinking me very ugly?” she hazarded tentatively.

“No. Very pretty,” he replied truthfully. She leaned forward and laid
her cheek for a second against his, then cuddled down into his arms
again with a happy laugh. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match over
the verandah rail.

“What is your news, O Hara San?”

She did not speak for a moment, and when she did it was no answer to his
question. She reached up her hands and drawing his head down toward her,
looked earnestly into his eyes.

“You loving me?” she asked a little tremulously.

“You know I love you,” he answered quietly.

“Very much?”

“Very much.”

Her eyes flickered and her hands released their hold.

“Men not loving like women,” she murmured at length wistfully. And
then suddenly, with her face hidden against him, she told him--of the
fulfilling of all her hope, the supreme desire of eastern women, pouring
out her happiness in quick passionate sentences, her body shaking with
emotion, her fingers gripping his convulsively.

Craven sat aghast. It was a possibility of which he had always been
aware but which with other unpleasant contingencies he had relegated
to the background of his mind. He had put it from him and had drifted,
careless and indifferent. And now the shadowy possibility had become a
definite reality and he was faced with a problem that horrified him.
His cigarette, neglected, burnt down until it reached his fingers and
he flung it away with a sharp exclamation. He did not speak and the girl
lay motionless, chilled with his silence, her happiness slowly dying
within her, vaguely conscious of a dim fear that terrified her. Was
the link that she had craved to bind them closer together to be useless
after all? Was this happiness that he had given her, the culminating
joy of all the goodness and kindness that he had lavished on her, no
happiness to him? The thought stabbed poignantly. She choked back a sob
and raised her head, but at the sight of his face the question she would
have asked froze on her lips.

“Bar-ree! you are not angry with me?” she whispered desperately.

“How could I be angry with you?” he replied evasively. She shivered and
clenched her teeth, but the question she feared must be asked.

“Are you not glad?” it was a cry of entreaty. He did not speak and with
a low moan she tried to free herself from him but she was powerless
in his hold, and soon she ceased to struggle and lay still, sobbing
bitterly. He drew her closer into his arms and laid his cheek on her
dark hair, seeking for words of comfort, and finding none. She had read
the dismay in his face, had in vain waited for him to speak and no tardy
lie would convince her now. He had wounded her cruelly and he could make
no amends. He had failed her at the one moment when she had most need
of him. He cursed himself bitterly. Gradually her sobs subsided and her
hand slipped into his clutching it tightly. She sat up at last with
a little sigh, pushing the heavy hair off her forehead wearily, and
forcing herself to meet his eyes--looked at him sorrowfully, with
quivering lips.

“Please forgive, Bar-ree,” she whispered humbly and her humility hurt
him more even than her distress.

“There is nothing to forgive, O Hara San,” he said awkwardly, and as she
sought to go this time he did not keep her. She walked to the edge of
the verandah and stared down into the garden. Problematical ghosts and
demons paled to insignificance before this real trouble. She fought
with herself gallantly, crushing down her sorrow and disappointment and
striving to regain the control she had let slip. Her feminine code Was
simple--complete abnegation and self-restraint. And she had broken down
under the first trial! He would despise her, the daughter of a race
trained from childhood to conceal suffering and to suppress all signs of
emotion. He would never understand that it was the alien blood that ran
in her veins and the contact with himself that had caused her to abandon
the stoicism of her people, that had made her reveal her sorrow. He had
laughed at her undemonstrativeness, demanding expressions and proofs
of her affection that were wholly foreign to her upbringing until her
Oriental reserve had slipped from her whose only wish was to please him.
She had adopted his manners, she had made his ways her ways, forgetting
the bar that separated them. But tonight the racial difference of
temperament had risen up vividly between them. Her joy was not his
joy. If he had been a Japanese he would have understood. But he did not
understand and she must hide both joy and sorrow. It was his contentment
not hers that mattered. All through these last months of wonderful
happiness there had lurked deep down in her heart a fear that it would
not last, and she had dreaded lest any unwitting act of hers might
hasten the catastrophe.

She glanced back furtively over her shoulder. Craven was leaning
forward in the cane chair with his head in his hands and she looked away
hastily, blinded with tears. She had troubled him--distressed him.
She had “made a scene”--the phrase, read in some English book,
flashed through her mind. Englishmen hated scenes. She gripped herself
resolutely and when he left his chair and joined her she smiled at him
bravely.

“See, all the djinns are gone, Bar-ree,” she said with a little nervous
laugh.

He guessed the struggle she was making and chimed in with her mood.

“Sensible fellows,” he said lightly, tapping a cigarette on the verandah
rail. “Gone home to bed I expect. Time you went to bed too. I'll just
smoke this cigarette.” But as she turned away obediently, he caught her
back, with a sudden exclamation:

“By Jove! I nearly forgot.”

He took a tiny package from his pocket and gave it to her. Girlishly
eager her fingers shook with excitement as she ripped the covering from
a small gold case attached to a slender chain. She pressed the spring
and uttered a little cry of delight. The miniature of Craven had
been painted by a French artist visiting Yokohama and was a faithful
portrait.

“Oh, Bar-ree,” she gasped with shining eyes, lifting her face like
a child for his kiss. She leaned against him studying the painting
earnestly, appreciating the mastery of a fellow craftsman, ecstatically
happy--then she slipped the chain over her head and closing the case
tucked it away inside her kimono.

“Now I have two,” she murmured softly.

“Two?” said Craven pausing as he lighted his cigarette. “What do you
mean?”

“Wait, I show,” she replied and vanished into the house. She was back
in a moment holding in her hand another locket. He took it from her
and moved closer under the lantern to look at it. It hung from a thick
twisted cable of gold, and set round with pearls it was bigger and
heavier than the dainty case O Hara San had hidden against her heart.
For a moment he hesitated, overcoming an inexplicable reluctance to open
it--then he snapped the spring sharply.

“Good God!” he whispered slowly through dry lips. And yet he had known,
known intuitively before the lid flew back, for it was the second time
that he had handled such a locket--the first he had seen and left lying
on his dead mother's breast.

He stood as if turned to stone, staring with horror at the replica of
his own face lying in the hollow of his hand. The thick dark hair, the
golden brown moustache, the deep grey eyes--all were the same. Only the
chin in the picture was different for it was hidden by a short pointed
beard; so was it in the miniature that was buried with his mother,
so was it in the big portrait that hung in the dining-room at Craven
Towers.

“Who gave you this?” he asked thickly, and O Hara San stared at him in
bewilderment, frightened at the strangeness of his voice.

“My mother,” she said wonderingly. “He was Bar-ree, too. See,” she added
pointing with a slender forefinger to the name engraved inside the case.

A nightbird shrieked weirdly close to the house and a sudden gust of
wind moaned through the pine trees. The sweat stood out on Craven's
forehead in great drops and the cigarette, fallen from his hand, lay
smouldering on the matting at his feet.

He pulled the girl to him and turning her face up stared down into
the great grey eyes, piteous now with unknown fear, and cursed his
blindness. Often the unrecognised likeness had puzzled him. He dropped
the miniature and ground it savagely to powder with his heel, heedless
of O Hara San's sharp cry of distress, and turned to the railing
gripping it with shaking hands.

“Damn him, damn him!”

Why had instinct never warned him? Why had he, knowing the girl's mixed
parentage and knowing his own family history, made no inquiries? A wave
of sick loathing swept over him. His head reeled. He turned to O Hara
San crouched sobbing on the matting over the little heap of crushed gold
and pearls. Was there still a loop-hole?

“What was he to you?” he said hoarsely, and he did not recognise his own
voice.

She looked up fearfully, then shrank back with a cry--hiding her eyes to
shut out the distorted face that bent over her.

“He was my father,” she whispered almost inaudibly. But it sounded to
Craven as if she had shouted it from the housetop. Without a word he
turned from her and stumbled toward the verandah steps. He must get
away, he must be alone--alone with the night to wrestle with this
ghastly tangle.

O Hara San sprang to her feet in terror. She did not understand what had
happened. Her mother had rarely spoken of the man who had first betrayed
and then deserted her--she had loved him too faithfully; with the girl's
limited experience all western faces seemed curiously alike and the
similarity of an uncommon name conveyed nothing to her for she did not
realize that it was uncommon. She could not comprehend this terrible
change in the man who had never been anything but gentle with her. She
only knew that he was going, that something inexplicable was taking him
from her. A wild scream burst from her lips and she sprang across the
verandah, clinging to him frantically, her upturned face beseeching,
striving to hold him.

“Bar-ree, Bar-ree! you must not go. I die without you. Bar-ree! my
love--” Her voice broke in a frightened whisper as he caught her head in
his hands and stared down at her with eyes that terrified her.

“Your--love?” he repeated with a strange ring in his voice, and then he
laughed--a terrible laugh that echoed horribly in the silent night and
seemed to snap some tension in his brain. He tore away her hands and
fled down the steps into the garden. He ran blindly, instinctively
turning to the hillside track that led further into the country,
climbing steadily upward, seeking the solitary woods. He did not hear
the girl's shriek of despair, did not see her fall unconscious on the
matting, he did not see a lithe figure that bounded from the back of the
house nor hear the feet that tracked him. He heard and saw nothing. His
brain was dulled. His only impulse was that of the wounded animal--to
hide himself alone with nature and the night. He plunged on up the
hillside climbing fiercely, tirelessly, wading mountain streams and
forcing his way through thick brushwood. He had taken, off his coat
earlier in the evening and his silk shirt was ripped to ribbons. His
hair lay wet against his forehead and his cheek dripped blood where a
splintered bamboo had torn it, but he did not feel it. He came at last
to a tiny clearing in the forest where the moon shone through a break in
the trees. There he halted, rocking unsteadily on his feet, passing his
hand across his face to clear the blood and perspiration from his eyes,
and then dropped like a log. The next moment the bushes parted and his
Japanese servant crept noiselessly to his side. He bent down over him
for an instant. Craven lay motionless with his face hidden in his arms,
but as the Jap watched a shudder shook him from head to foot and the man
backed cautiously, disappearing among the bushes as silently as he had
come.

The breeze died away and it was quite still within the moonlit clearing.
A broad shaft of cold white light fell directly on the prone figure.
He was morally stunned and for a long time the agony of his mind was
blunted. But gradually the first shock passed and full realization
rushed over him. His hands dug convulsively into the soft earth and he
writhed at his helplessness. What he had done was irremediable. It was
a sudden thunderbolt that had flashed across his clear sky. This morning
the sun had shone as usual and everything had seemed serene to him whose
life had always been easy--tonight he was wrestling in a hell of his
own making. Why had it come to him? He knew that his life had been
comparatively blameless. Why should this one sin, so common throughout
the world, recoil on him so terribly? Why should he, among all the
thousands of men who had sinned similarly, be reserved for such a
nemesis? Why of him alone should such a reckoning be demanded? Surely
the fault was not his. Surely it lay with the man who had wrecked his
mother's life and broken her heart, the man who had neglected his duties
and repudiated his responsibilities and who had been faithful to neither
wife nor mistress. He was to blame. At the thought of his father an
access of rage passed over Craven and he cursed him in a kind of dull
fury. His fingers gripped the ground as if they were about the throat of
the man whom he hated with all the strength of his being. The mystery
of his father had always lain like a shadow across his life. It was a
subject that his mother had refused to discuss. He shivered now when he
realized the agony his perpetual boyish questions must have caused her.
His petulance because “other fellows' fathers” could be produced when
necessary and were not shrouded away in unexplained obscurity. He
remembered her unfailing patience with him, the consistent loyalty she
had shown toward the husband who had failed her so utterly, the courage
with which she had taken the absent father's place with the son whom
she idolized. He understood now her intolerant hatred of Japan and
the Japanese, an intolerance for which--in his ignorance--he had often
teased her. One memory came to him with striking vividness--a winter
evening, in the dawn of his early manhood, when they had been sitting
after dinner in the library at Craven Towers--his mother lying on the
sofa that had been rolled up before the fire, and himself sprawled on
the hearthrug at her feet. Already tall and strong beyond his years and
confident in the full flush of his adolescence he had launched into a
glowing anticipation of the life that lay before him. He had noticed
that his mother's answers were monosyllabic and vague, and then when he
had broken off, hurt at her seeming lack of interest, she had suddenly
spoken--telling him what she had all the evening nerved herself to say.
Her voice had faltered once or twice but she had steadied it bravely
and gone on to the end, shirking nothing, evading nothing, dealing
faithfully with the whole sex problem as far as she was able--outraging
her own reserve that her son might learn the pitfalls and temptations
that would assuredly lie in wait for him, sacrificing her own modesty
that he might remain chaste. He remembered the vivid flush that had
risen to his face and the growing sense of hot discomfort with which he
had listened to her low voice; his half grateful, half shocked feeling.
But it was not until he had glanced furtively at her through his thick
lashes and seen her shamed scarlet cheeks and quivering downcast eyes
that he had realized what it cost her and the courage that had made it
possible for her to speak. He had mumbled incoherently, his face hidden
against her knee, and with innate chivalry had kissed the little white
hand he held between his own great brown ones--“Keep clean, Barry,”
 she had whispered tremulously, her hand on his ruffled hair--“only keep
clean.”

And later on in the same evening she had spoken to him of the woman who
would one day inevitably enter his life. “Be gentle to her, Barry-boy,
you are such a great strong fellow, and women, even the strongest women,
are weak compared with men. We are poor creatures, the best of us, we
_bruise_ so easily,” she had said with a laugh that was more than half
a sob. And for his mother's sake he had vowed to be gentle to all women
who might cross his path. And how had he kept his vow? Tonight his
egoism had swallowed his oath and he had fled like a coward to be alone
with his misery. A great sob rose in his throat. Craven by name and
craven by nature he thought bitterly and he cursed again the father
who had bequeathed him such an inheritance, but as he did so he stopped
suddenly for a soft clear voice sounded close to his ear. “No man need
be fettered for life by an inherited weakness. Every man who is worthy
of the name can rise above hereditary deficiencies.” He lay tense and
his heart gave a great throb and then he remembered. The voice was
inward--it was only another memory, an echo of the young mother who had
died, ten years before. Overwhelming shame filled him. “Mother, Mother!”
 he whispered chokingly, and deep tearing sobs shook his broad shoulders.
The moon had passed beyond the break in the trees and it was dark now in
the little clearing and to the man who lay stripped of all his illusions
the blackness was merciful. He saw himself as he was clearly--his
selfishness, his arrogance, his pride, and a nausea of self-hatred
filled him. The eagerness with which he had sought to lay on his father
the blame of his own sin now seemed to him despicable. He would always
hate the memory of the man whose neglect had killed his mother, but the
responsibility for this horror rested on himself. He had made his own
hell and the burden of it lay with him only. That he had never known
the manner of his father's life in Japan and that during the time he had
himself been living in Yokohama he had cared to make no inquiries was no
excuse. He alone was to blame.

The air seemed suddenly stifling, his head throbbed and he panted
breathlessly. Then as suddenly the sensation passed and he rolled over
on his back with a deep sigh, his limbs relaxed, too weary to move. For
a long time he lay until the first pale streaks of early dawn showed
above the tree tops, then he sat up with a shiver and looked around
curiously at the silent trees and bamboo clumps that had witnessed his
agony. His head ached intolerably, his mouth was parched and the cut
in his cheek was stiff and sore. He staggered to his feet and stood
a moment holding his head in his hands and the thought of O Hara
San persisted urgently. He shivered again as the image of the girl's
distraught face and pleading eyes rose before him--in a few hours he
would have to go to her and the thought of the interview sickened him.
But he could not go now, his appearance would terrify her, she might be
asleep and he could not wake her if nature had mercifully obliterated
her sorrow for a few hours. In his mad flight he had lost all sense of
distance and locality, but as the dawn grew stronger he recognised his
surroundings and started to tramp to his own bungalow at the top of the
Bluff. He stumbled through the woods, hurrying wearily to reach home
before the full light. It was still dusk when he arrived and crossing
the verandah went into his bedroom and flung himself, dressed as he was,
on to the bed. And the stealthy footsteps that had tracked him through
the night followed softly and stopped outside the open doorway. The Jap
stood for a few moments listening intently.




CHAPTER II


Craven woke abruptly a few hours later with a spasmodic muscular
contraction that jerked him into a sitting position. Half dazed as yet
with sleep he swung his heels to the floor and sat on the edge of the
bed looking stupidly at his dusty boots and earth-stained fingers. Then
remembrance came and he clenched his hands with a stifled groan. He
drank thirstily the tea that was on a table beside him and went to the
open window. As he crossed the room the reflection of his blood-stained
haggard face, seen in a mirror, startled him. A bath and clean clothes
were indispensable before he went back to the lonely little house on the
hillside. He lingered for a few minutes by the window, glad of the
cool morning breeze blowing against his face, trying to pull himself
together, trying to brace himself to meet the consequences of his
folly, trying to drag his disordered thoughts into something approaching
coherence. He stared down over the bay and the sunlit waters mocked him
with their dancing ripples sliding lightheartedly one after the other
toward the shore. The view that he looked upon had been until this
morning a never-failing source of pleasure, now it moved him to nothing
but the recollection of the hackneyed line in the old hymn--“where only
man is vile,” and he was vile--with all power of compensation taken from
him. To some was given the chance of making reparation. For him there
was no chance. He could do nothing to mitigate the injury he had done.
She whom he had wronged must suffer for him and he was powerless to
avert that suffering. His helplessness overwhelmed him. O Hara San,
little O Hara San, who had given unstintingly, with eager generous
hands. His face was set as he turned from the window and, starting
to pull off his torn shirt, called for Yoshio. But no Yoshio was
forthcoming and at his second impatient shout another Japanese servant
bowed himself in, and, kowtowing, intimated that Yoshio had already gone
on the honourable lord's errand and would there await him, and that
in the meantime his honourable bath was prepared and his honourable
breakfast would be ready in ten minutes.

Craven paused with his shirt half off.

“What errand?” he said, perplexed, unaware that he was asking the
question audibly.

The man bowed again, with hands outspread, and gravely shook his head
conveying his total ignorance of a matter that was beyond his province,
but the pantomime was lost on Craven who was wrestling with his shirt
and not even aware that he had spoken aloud. It was the first time in
ten years' service that Yoshio had failed to answer a call and Craven
wondered irritably what could have taken him away at that time in the
morning, and concluded that it was some order given by himself the day
before, now forgotten, so dismissing Yoshio and his affairs from his
mind he signed to the still gently explaining servant to go.

His brain felt dull and tired, his thoughts were chaotic. He saw before
him no clear course. Whichever way he looked at it the horrible
tangle grew more horrible. There was a recurring sense of unreality, a
visionary feeling of detachment which enabled him to view the situation
from an impersonal standpoint, as one criticises a nightmare, confident
in the knowledge that it is only a dream. But in this case the
confidence was based on nothing tangible and the illusion faded as
quickly as it rose and left him confronted with the brutal truth from
which there was no escape.

In the dressing room everything that he needed had been laid out in
readiness for him, and he dressed mechanically with a feverish haste
that struggled ineffectually with a refractory collar stud, and caused
him to execrate heartily the absent valet and his enigmatical errand.
Another ten minutes was lost while he hunted for his watch and cigarette
case which he suddenly remembered were in the coat that he had left
at the little house. Or had he searched genuinely? Had he not rather
been--perhaps unconsciously--procrastinating, shrinking from the task he
had in hand, putting off the evil moment? He swung on his heel violently
and passed out on to the verandah. But at the head of the steps a
vigilant figure rose up, bowing obsequiously, announcing blandly that
breakfast was waiting.

Craven frowned at him a moment until the meaning of the words filtered
through to his tired brain, then he pushed him aside roughly.

“Oh, damn breakfast!” he cried savagely, and cramming his sun helmet
on his head ran down the garden path to the waiting rickshaw. It never
occurred to him to wonder how it came to be there at an unusual hour.
He huddled in the back of the rickshaw, his helmet over his eyes. His
nerves were raw, his mind running in uncontrollable riot. The way
had never seemed so long. He looked up impatiently. The rickshaw was
crawling. The slow progress and the forced inaction galled him and
a dozen times he was on the point of calling to the men to stop and
jumping out, but he forced himself to sit quietly, watching the play
of their abnormally developed muscles showing plainly through the thin
cotton garments that clung to their sweat-drenched bodies, while they
toiled up the steep roads. And today the sight of the men's straining
limbs and heaving chests moved him more than usual. He used a rickshaw
of necessity, and had never overcome his distaste for them.

Emerging from a grove of pines they neared the little gateway and as the
men flung themselves backward with a deep grunt at the physical exertion
of stopping, Craven leaped out and dashed up the path, panic-driven. He
took the verandah steps in two strides and then stopped abruptly, his
face whitening under the deep tan.

Yoshio stood in the doorway of the outer room, his arms outstretched,
barring the entrance. His face had gone the grey leaden hue of the
frightened Oriental and his eyes held a curious look of pity. His
attitude put the crowning touch to Craven's anxiety. He went a step
forward.

“Stand aside,” he said hoarsely.

But Yoshio did not move.

“Master not going in,” he said softly.

Craven jerked his head.

“Stand aside,” he repeated monotonously.

For a moment longer the Jap stood obstinately, then his eyes fell under
Craven's stare and he moved reluctantly, with a gesture of mingled
acquiescence and regret. Craven passed through into the room. It was
empty. He stood a moment hesitating--indefinite anxiety giving place to
definite fear.

“O Hara San,” he whispered, and the whisper seemed to echo mockingly
from the empty room. He listened with straining ears for her answer,
for her footstep--and he heard nothing but the heavy beating of his own
heart. Then a moan came from the inner room and he followed the sound
swiftly. The room was darkened and for a moment he halted in the
doorway, seeing nothing in the half light. The moaning grew louder and
as he became accustomed to the darkness he saw the old armah crouching
beside a pile of cushions.

In a second he was beside her and at his coming she scrambled to her
feet with a sharp cry, staring at him wildly, then fled from the room.

He stood alone looking down on the cushions. His heart seemed to stop
beating and for a moment he reeled, then he gripped himself and knelt
down slowly.

“O Hara San--” he whispered again, with shaking lips, “little O Hara
San--little--” the whisper died away in a terrible gasping sob.

She lay as if asleep--one arm stretched out along her side, the other
lying across her breast with her small hand clenched and tucked under
her chin, her head bent slightly and nestled naturally into the
cushion. The attitude was habitual. A hundred times Craven had seen her
so--asleep. It was impossible that she could be dead.

He spoke to her again--crying aloud in agony--but the heavily fringed
eyelids did not open, no glad cry of welcome broke from the parted lips,
the little rounded bosom that had always heaved tumultuously at his
coming was still under the silken kimono. He bent over her with ashen
face and laid his hand gently on her breast, but the icy coldness struck
into his own heart and his touch seemed a profanation. He drew back with
a terrible shudder.

How dared he touch her? Murderer! For it was murder. His work as surely
as if he had himself driven a knife into that girlish breast or squeezed
the breath from that slender throat. He was under no delusion. He
understood the Japanese character too well and he knew O Hara San too
thoroughly to deceive himself. He knew the passionate love that she had
given him, a love that had often troubled him with its intensity. He had
been her god, her everything. She had worshipped him blindly. And he
had left her--left her alone with the memory of his strangeness and his
harshness, alone with her heart breaking, alone with her fear. And she
had been so curiously alone. She had had nobody but him. She had trusted
him--and he had left her. She had trusted him. Oh, God, she had trusted
him!

His quick imagination visualised what must have happened. Frantic with
despair and desperate at the seeming fulfilment of her fears she had not
stopped to reason nor waited for calmer reflection but with the curious
Oriental blending of impetuosity and stolid deliberation she had killed
herself, seeking release from her misery with the aid of the subtle
poison known to every Japanese woman. He flung his arm across the little
still body and his head fell on the cushion beside hers as his soul went
down into the depths.

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour of unspeakable bitterness passed before he regained his lost
control.

Then he forced himself to look at her again. The poison had been swift
and merciful. There was no distortion of the little oval face, no
discoloration on the fair skin. She was as beautiful as she had always
been. And with death the likeness had become intensified until it seemed
to him that he must have been blind beyond belief to have failed to
detect it earlier.

He looked for the last time through a blur of tears. It seemed horrible
to leave her to the ministrations of others, he longed to gather up the
slender body in his arms and with his own hands lay her in the loveliest
corner of the garden she had loved so much. He tried to stammer a
prayer but the words stuck in his throat. No intercession from him was
possible, nor did she need it. She had passed into the realm of Infinite
Understanding.

He rose to his feet slowly and lingered for a moment looking his last
round the little room that was so familiar. Here were a few of her most
treasured possessions, some that had come to her from her mother, some
that he had given her. He knew them all so well, had handled them so
often. A spasm crossed his face. It had been the home of the enchanted
princess, shut off from all the world--until he had come. And his coming
had brought desolation. Near him a valuable vase, that she had prized,
lay smashed on the floor, overturned by the old armah in the first
frenzy of her grief. It was symbolical and Craven turned from it with
quivering lips and went out heavily.

He winced at the strong light and shaded his eyes for a moment with his
hand.

Yoshio was waiting where he had left him. Craven walked to the edge of
the verandah and stood for a few moments in silence, steadying himself.

“Where were you last night, Yoshio?” he asked at length, in a flat and
tired voice.

The Jap shrugged.

“In town,” he said, with American brevity learned in California.

“Why did you come here this morning?”

Yoshio raised eyes of childlike surprise.

“Master's watch. Came here to find it,” he said nonchalantly, with an
air that expressed pride at his own astuteness. But it did not impress
Craven. He looked at him keenly, knowing that he was lying but not
understanding the motive and too tired to try and understand. He felt
giddy and his head was aching violently--for a moment everything seemed
to swim before his eyes and he caught blindly at the verandah rail. But
the sensation passed quickly and he pulled himself together, to find
Yoshio beside him thrusting his helmet into his hands.

“Better Master going back to bungalow. I make all arrangements,
understanding Japanese ways,” he said calmly.

His words, matter-of-fact, almost brutal, brought Craven abruptly to
actualities. There was necessity for immediate action. This was the
East, where the grim finalities must unavoidably be hastened. But he
resented the man's suggestion. To go back to the bungalow seemed a
shirking of the responsibility that was his, the last insult he could
offer her. But Yoshio argued vehemently, blunt to a degree, and Craven
winced once or twice at the irrefutable reasons he put forward. It was
true that he could do no real good by staying. It was true that he was
of no use in the present emergency, that his absence would make things
easier. But that it was the truth made it no less hard to hear. He gave
in at last and agreed to all Yoshio's proposals--a curious compound of
devotion to his master, shrewd commonsense and knowledge of the laws
of the country. He went quickly down the winding path to the gate. The
garden hurt him. The careless splashing of the tiny waterfall jarred
poignantly--laughing water caring nothing that the hand that had planted
much of the beauty of its banks was stilled for ever. It had always
seemed a living being tumbling joyously down the hillside, it seemed
alive now--callous, self-absorbed.

Craven had no clear impression of the run back into Yokohama and he
looked up with surprise when the men stopped. He stood outside the gate
for a moment looking over the harbour. He stared at the place in the
roadstead where the American yacht had been anchored. Only last night
had he laughed and chatted with the Athertons? It was a lifetime ago!
In one night his youth had gone from him. In one night he had piled up a
debt that was beyond payment. He gave a quick glance up at the brilliant
sky and then went into the house. In the sitting-room he started slowly
to pace the floor, his hands clasped behind him, an unlit cigarette
clenched between his teeth. The mechanical action steadied him and
enabled him to concentrate his thoughts. Monotonously he tramped up and
down the long narrow room, unconscious of time, until at last he dropped
on to a chair beside the writing table and laid his head down on his
arms with a weary sigh. The little still body seemed present with him. O
Hara San's face continually before him--piteous as he had seen it last,
joyous as she had greeted him and thoughtful as when he had first seen
it.

That first time--the memory of it rose vividly before him. He had been
in Yokohama about a month and was settled in his bungalow. He had gone
to the woods to sketch and had found her huddled at the foot of a steep
rock from which she had slipped. Her ankle was twisted and she could not
move. He had offered his assistance and she had gazed at him, without
speaking, for a few moments, with serious grey eyes that looked oddly
out of place in her little oval face. Then she had answered him in slow
carefully pronounced English. He had laughingly insisted on carrying
her home and had just gathered her up into his arms when the old armah
arrived, voluble with excitement and alarm for her charge. But the girl
had explained to her in rapid Japanese and the woman had hurried on to
the house to prepare for them, leaving Craven to follow more slowly
with his light burden. He had stayed only a few minutes, drinking the
ceremonial tea that was offered so shyly.

The next day he had convinced himself that it was only polite for him
to enquire about the injured foot. Then he had gone again, hoping to
relieve the tedium of her forced inactivity, until the going had become
a habit. The acquaintance had ripened quickly. From the first she had
trusted him, quickly losing her awe of him and accepting his coming with
the simplicity of a child. She had early confided to him the story of
her short life--of her solitude and friendlessness; of the mother who
had died five years before, bequeathing to her the little house which
had been the last gift of the Englishman who had been O Hara San's
father and who had tired of her mother and left her two years after
her own birth; of the poverty against which they had struggled--for the
Englishman had left no provision for them; of the faithful old servant,
who had been her mother's nurse; of O Hara San's discovery of her own
artistic talent which had enabled her to provide for the simple wants
of the little household. She had grown up alone--apart from the world,
watched over by the old woman, her mind a tangle of fairy-tales and
romance--living for her art, content with her solitude. And into her
secluded life had come Barry Craven and swept her off her feet. Child of
nature that she was she had been unable to hide from him the love that
quickly overwhelmed her. And to Craven the incident of O Hara San had
come merely as a relief to the monotony of lotus-eating, he had drifted
into the connection from sheer ennui. And then had come interest. No
woman had ever before interested him. He had never been able to define
the attraction she had had for him, the odd tenderness he had felt for
her. He had treated her as a plaything, a fragile toy to be teased and
petted. And in his hands she had developed from an innocent child into a
woman--with a woman's capacity for devotion and self-sacrifice. She
had given everything, with trust and gladness. And he had taken all
she gave, with colossal egoism, as his right--accepting lightly all
she surrendered with no thought for the innocence he contaminated, the
purity he soiled. He had stained her soul before he had killed her
body. His hands clenched and unclenched convulsively with the agony of
remorse. Recollection was torture. Repentance came too late. _Too late!
Too late!_ he words kept singing in his head as if a demon from hell was
howling them in his ear. Nothing on earth could undo what he had done.
No power could animate that little dead body. And if she had lived! He
shuddered. But she had not lived, she had died--because of him. Because
of him, Merciful God, because of him! And he could make no restitution.
What was there left for him to do? A life of expiation was not atonement
enough. There seemed only one solution--a life for a life. And that was
no reparation, only justice. He put no value on his own life--he wished
vaguely that the worth of it were greater--he had merely wasted it and
now he had forfeited it. Remained only to end it--now. There was no
reason for delay. He had no preparations to make. His affairs were all
in order. His heir was his aunt, his father's only sister, who would be
a better guardian of the Craven estates and interests than he had ever
been. Peters was independent and Yoshio provided for. There was nothing
to be done. He rose and opening a drawer in the table took out
a revolver and held it a moment in his hand, looking at it
dispassionately. It was not the ultimate purpose for which it had been
intended. He had never imagined a time when he might end his own life.
He had always vaguely connected suicide with cowardice. Was it the
coward's way? Perhaps! Who can say what cowardice or courage is required
to take the blind leap into the Great Unknown? That did not trouble him.
It was no question of courage or cowardice but he felt convinced that
his death was the only payment possible.

But as his finger pressed the trigger there was a slight sound beside
him, his wrist and arm were caught in a vice-like grip and the weapon
exploded harmlessly in the air as he staggered back, his arm almost
broken with the jiu-jitsu hold against which even his great strength
could do nothing. He struggled fruitlessly until he was released,
then reeled against the table, with teeth set, clasping his wrenched
wrist--the sudden frustration of his purpose leaving him, shaking. He
turned stiffly. Yoshio was standing by him, phlegmatic as usual, showing
no signs of exertion or emotion as he proffered a lacquer tray, with the
usual formula: “Master's mail.”

Craven's eyes changed slowly from dull suffering to blazing wrath.
Uncontrolled rage filled him. How dared Yoshio interfere? How dared
he drag him back into the hell from which he had so nearly escaped? He
caught the man's shoulder savagely.

“Damn you!” he cried chokingly. “What the devil do you mean--” But
the Jap's very impassiveness checked him and with an immense effort he
regained command of himself. And imperturbably Yoshio advanced the tray
again.

“Master's mail,” he repeated, in precisely the same voice as before, but
this time he raised his veiled glance to Craven's face. For a moment
the two men stared at each other, the grey eyes tortured and drawn, the
brown ones lit for an instant with deep devotion. Then Craven took the
letters mechanically and dropped heavily into a chair. The Jap picked up
the revolver and, quietly replacing it in the drawer from which it had
been taken, left the room, noiseless as he had entered it. He seemed to
know intuitively that it would be left where he put it.

Alone, Craven leaned forward with a groan, burying his face in his
hands.

At last he sat up wearily and his eyes fell on the letters lying
unopened on the table beside him. He fingered them listlessly and then
threw them down again while he searched his pockets absently for the
missing cigarette case. Remembering, he jerked himself to his feet with
an exclamation of pain. Was all life henceforward to be a series of
torturing recollections? He swore, and flung his head up angrily.
Coward! whining already like a kicked cur!

He got a cigarette from a near table and picking up the letters carried
them out on to the verandah to read. There were two, both registered.
The handwriting on one envelope was familiar and his eyes widened as he
looked at it. He opened it first. It was written from Florence and dated
three months earlier. With no formal beginning it straggled up and down
the sides of various sheets of cheap foreign paper, the inferior violet
ink almost indecipherable in places.

“I wonder in what part of the globe this letter will find you? I have
been trying to write to you for a long time--and always putting it
off--but they tell me now that if I am to write at all there must be no
more _mañana_. They have cried 'wolf' so often in the last few months
that I had grown sceptical, but even I realise now that there must be
no delay. I have delayed because I have procrastinated all my life and
because I am ashamed--ashamed for the first time in all my shameless
career. But there is no need to tell you what I am--you told me candidly
enough yourself in the old days--it is sufficient to say that it is the
same John Locke as then--drunkard and gambler, spendthrift and waster!
And I don't think that my worst enemy would have much to add to this
record, but then my worst enemy has always been myself. Looking back now
over my life--queer what a stimulating effect the certainty of death has
to the desire to find even one good action wherewith to appease one's
conscience--it is a marvel to me that Providence has allowed me to
cumber the earth so long. However, it's all over now--they give me a
few days at the outside--so I must write at once or never. Barry, I'm in
trouble, the bitterest trouble I have ever experienced--not for myself,
God knows I wouldn't ask even your help, but for another who is dearer
to me than all the world and for whose future I can do nothing. You
never knew that I married. I committed that indiscretion in Rome with
a little Spanish dancer who ought to have known better than to be
attracted by my _beaux yeux_--for I had nothing else to offer her. We
existed in misery for a couple of years and then she left me, for a more
gilded position. But I had the child, which was all I cared about. Thank
God, for her sake, that I was legally married to poor little Lola,
she has at least no stain on her birth with which to reproach me. The
officious individual who is personally conducting me to the Valley of
the Shadow warns me that I must be brief--I kept the child with me as
long as I could, people were wonderfully kind, but it was no life for
her. I've come down in the social scale even since you knew me, Barry,
and at last I sent her away, though it broke my heart. Still even
that was better than seeing her day by day lose all respect for me. My
miserable pittance dies with me and she is absolutely unprovided for. My
family cast off me and all my works many years ago, but I put my pride
in my pocket and appealed for help for Gillian and they suggested--a
damned charitable institution! I was pretty nearly desperate until I
thought of you. I know no one else. For God's sake, Barry, don't fail
me. I can and I do trust Gillian to you. I have made you her guardian,
it is all legally arranged and my lawyer in London has the papers. He is
a well-known man and emanates respectability--my last claim to decency!
Gillian is at the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Paris. My only
consolation is that you are so rich that financially she will be no
embarrassment to you. I realize what I am asking and the enormity of it,
but I am a dying man and my excuse is--Gillian. Oh, man, be good to my
little girl. I always hoped that something would turn up, but it didn't!
Perhaps I never went to look for it, _quien sabe?_ I shall never have
the chance again....”

The signature was barely recognisable, the final letter terminating in a
wandering line as if the pen had dropped from nerveless fingers.

Craven stared at the loose sheets in his hands for some time in
horrified dismay, at first hardly comprehending, then as the full
significance of John Locke's dying bequest dawned on him he flung them
down and, walking to the edge of the verandah, looked over the harbour,
tugging his moustache and scowling in utter perplexity. A child--a girl
child! How could he with his soiled hands assume the guardianship of
a child? He smiled bitterly at the irony of it. Providence was dealing
hard with the child in the Paris convent, from dissolute father
to criminal guardian. And yet Providence had already that morning
intervened on her behalf--two minutes later and there would have been
no guardian to take the trust. Providence clearly held the same views as
John Locke on charitable institutions.

He thought of Locke as he had known him years ago, in Paris, a
man twenty years his senior--penniless and intemperate but with an
irresistible charm, rolling stone and waster but proud as a Spaniard;
a man of the world with the heart of a boy, the enemy of nobody but
himself, weak but lovable; a ragged coat and the manners of a prince;
idealist and failure.

Craven read the letter through again. Locke had forced his hand--he had
no option but to take up the charge entrusted to him. What a legacy!
Surely if John Locke had known he would have rather committed his
daughter to the tender mercies even of the “institution.” But he had not
known and he had trusted him. The thought was a sudden spur, urging
him as nothing else could have done, bringing out all that was best and
strongest in his nature. In a few hours he had crashed from the pinnacle
on which he had soared in the blindness of egoism down into depths of
self-realisation that seemed bottomless, and at the darkest moment when
his world was lying in pieces under his feet--this had come. Another
chance had been given to him. Craven's jaw set squarely as he thrust
Locke's dying appeal into his pocket.

He ripped open the second letter. It was, as he guessed, from the lawyer
and merely confirmed Locke's letter, with the additional information
that his client had died a few hours after writing the said letter and
that he had forwarded the news to the Mother Superior of the Convent
School in Paris.

Craven went back into the sitting-room to write cables.




CHAPTER III


Owing to a breakdown on the line the boat-train from Marseilles crawled
into the Gare du Lyon a couple of hours late. Craven had not slept. He
had given his berth in the waggon-lit to an invalid fellow passenger and
had sat up all night in an overcrowded, overheated carriage, choked with
the stifling atmosphere, his long legs cramped for lack of space.

It was early March, and the difference between the temperature of the
train and the raw air of the station struck him unpleasantly as he
climbed down on to the platform.

Leaving Yoshio, equally at home in Paris as in Yokohama, to collect
luggage, he signalled to a waiting taxi. He had the hood opened and,
pushing back his hat, let the keen wind blow about his face. The
cab jerked over the rough streets, at this early hour crowded with
people--working Paris going to its daily toil--and he watched them
hurrying by with the indifference of familiarity. Gradually he ceased
even to look at the varied types, the jostling traffic, the bizarre
posters and the busy newspaper kiosks. His thoughts were back
in Yokohama. It had been six weeks before he could get away, six
interminable weeks of misery and self-loathing. He had shirked nothing
and evaded nothing. Much had been saved him by the discreet courtesy
of the Japanese officials, but the ordeal had left him with jangling
nerves. Fortunately the ship was nearly empty and the solitude he
sought obtainable. He felt an outcast. To have joined as he had always
previously done in the light-hearted routine of a crowded ship bent on
amusements and gaiety would have been impossible.

He sought mental relief in action and hours spent tramping the lonely
decks brought, if not relief, endurance.

And, always in the background, Yoshio, capable and devoted, stood
between him and the petty annoyances that inevitably occur in
travelling--annoyances that in his overwrought state would have been
doubly annoying--with a thoughtfulness that was silently expressed in a
dozen different devices for his comfort. That the Jap knew a great deal
more than he himself did of the tragedy that had happened in the
little house on the hill Craven felt sure, but no information had been
volunteered and he had asked for none. He could not speak of it. And
Yoshio, the inscrutable, would continue to be silent. The perpetual
reminder of all that he could wish to forget Yoshio became, illogically,
more than ever indispensable to him. At first, in his stunned condition,
he had scarcely been sensible of the man's tact and care, but gradually
he had come to realize how much he owed to his Japanese servant. And yet
that was the least of his obligation. There was a greater--the matter of
a life; whatever it might mean to Craven, to Yoshio the simple payment
of a debt contracted years ago in California. That more than this had
underlain the Japanese mind when it made its quick decision Craven could
not determine; the code of the Oriental is not that of the Occidental,
the demands of honour are interpreted and satisfied differently. Life
in itself is nothing to the Japanese, the disposal of it merely the
exigency of a moment and withal a personal prerogative. By all the
accepted canons of his own national ideals Yoshio should have stood on
one side--but he had chosen to interfere. Whatever the motive, Yoshio
had paid his debt in full.

The weeks at sea braced Craven as nothing else could have done. As the
ship neared France the perplexities of the charge he was preparing to
undertake increased. His utter unfitness filled him with dismay. On
receipt of John Locke's amazing letter he had both cabled and written to
his aunt in London explaining his dilemma, giving suitable extracts from
Locke's appeal, and imploring her help. And yet the thought of his aunt
in connection with the upbringing of a child brought a smile to his
lips. She was about as unsuited, in her own way, as he. Caro Craven was
a bachelor lady of fifty--spinster was a term wholly inapplicable to the
strong-minded little woman who had been an art student in Paris in the
days when insular hands were lifted in horror at the mere idea, and was
a designation, moreover, deprecated strongly by herself as an insult to
one who stood--at least in her own sphere--on an equality with the lords
of creation. She was a sculptor, whose work was known on both sides of
the channel. When at home she lived in a big house in London, but she
travelled much, accompanied by an elderly maid who had been with her
for thirty years. And it was of the maid as much as of the mistress that
Craven thought as the taxi bumped over the cobbled streets.

“If we can only interest Mary.” There was a gleam of hope in the
thought. “She will be the saving of the situation. She spoiled me
thoroughly when I was a nipper.” And buoyed with the recollection
of grim-visaged angular Mary, who hid a very tender heart beneath a
somewhat forbidding exterior, he overpaid the chauffeur cheerfully.

There was an accumulation of letters waiting for him at the hotel, but
he shuffled them all into his overcoat pocket, with the exception of one
from Peters which he tore open and read immediately, still standing in
the lounge.

An hour later he set out on foot for the quiet hotel which had been his
aunt's resort since her student days, and where she was waiting for
him now, according to a telegram that he had received on his arrival at
Marseilles. The hall door of her private suite was opened by the elderly
maid, whose face lit up as she greeted him.

“Miss Craven is waiting in the salon, sir. She has been tramping the
floor this hour or more, expecting you,” she confided as she preceded
him down the corridor.

Miss Craven was standing in a characteristic attitude before an open
fireplace, her feet planted firmly on the hearthrug, her short plump
figure clothed in a grey coat and skirt of severe masculine cut, her
hands plunged deep into her jacket pockets, her short curly grey hair
considerably ruffled. She bore down on her nephew with out-stretched
hands.

“My dear boy, there you are at last! I have been waiting _hours_ for
you. Your train must have been very late--abominable railway service!
Have you had any breakfast? Yes? Good. Then take a cigarette--they are
in that box at your elbow--and tell me about this amazing thunderbolt
that you have hurled at me. What a preposterous proposition for two
bachelors like you and me! To be sure your extraordinary friend did not
include me in his wild scheme--though no doubt he would have, had he
known of my existence. Was the man mad? Who was he, anyhow? John Locke
of where? There are dozens of Lockes. And why did he select you of all
people? What fools men are!” She subsided suddenly into an easy chair
and crossed one neat pump over the other. “All of 'em!” she added
emphatically, flicking cigarette ash into the fire with a vigorous
sidelong jerk. Her eyes were studying his face attentively, seeking for
themselves the answer to the more personal inquiries that would have
seemed necessary to a less original woman meeting a much-loved nephew
after a lapse of years. Craven smiled at the characteristically peculiar
greeting and the well remembered formula. He settled his long limbs
comfortably into an opposite chair.

“Even Peter?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

Miss Craven laughed good temperedly.

“Peter,” she rejoined succinctly, “is the one brilliant exception that
proves the rule. I have an immense respect for Peter.” He looked at her
curiously. “And--me, Aunt Caro?” he asked with an odd note in his voice.
Miss Craven glanced for a moment at the big figure sprawled in the chair
near her, then looked back at the fire with pursed lips and wrinkled
forehead, and rumpled her hair more thoroughly than before.

“My dear boy,” she said at last soberly, “you resemble my unhappy
brother altogether too much for my peace of mind.”

He winced. Her words probed the still raw wound. But unaware of the
appositeness of her remark Miss Craven continued thoughtfully, still
staring into the fire:

“The Supreme Sculptor, when He made me, denied me the good looks that
are proverbial in our family--but in compensation he endowed me with a
solid mind to match my solid body. The Family means a great deal to me,
Barry--more than anybody has ever realised--and there are times when I
wonder why the solidity of mind was given to the one member of the race
who could not perpetuate it in the direct line.” She sighed, and then as
if ashamed of unwonted emotion, jerked her dishevelled grey head with a
movement that was singularly reminiscent of her nephew. Craven flushed.

“You're the best man of the family, Aunt Caro.”

“So your mother used to say--poor child.” Her voice softened suddenly.
She got up restlessly and resumed her former position before the fire,
her hands back in the pockets of her mannish coat.

“What about your plans, Barry? What are you going to do?” she said
briskly, with an evident desire to avoid further moralising. He joined
her on the hearthrug, leaning against the mantelpiece.

“I propose to settle down--at any rate for a time, at the Towers,” he
replied. “I intend to interest myself in the estates. Peter insists
that I am wanted, and though that is nonsense and he is infinitely more
necessary than I am, still I am willing to make the trial. I owe him
more than I can even repay--we all do--and if my presence is really any
help to him--he's welcome to it. I shall be about as much real use as
the fifth wheel of a coach--a damned rotten wheel at that,” he added
bitterly. And for some minutes he seemed to forget that there was more
to say, staring silently into the fire and from time to time putting
together the blazing logs with his foot.

Miss Craven was possessed of the unfeminine attribute of holding her
tongue and reserving her comments. She refrained from comment now,
rocking gently backward and forward on her heels--a habit associated
with mental concentration.

“I shall take the child to the Towers,” he continued at length,
“and there I shall want your help, Aunt Caro.” He paused stammering
awkwardly--“It's an infernal impertinence asking you to--to--”

“To turn nursemaid at my time of life,” she interrupted. “It is
certainly a career I never anticipated. And, candidly, I have doubts
about its success,” she laughed and shrugged, with a comical grimace.
Then she patted his arm affectionately--“You had much better take
Peter's advice and marry a nice girl who would mother the child and give
her some brothers and sisters to play with.”

He stiffened perceptibly.

“I shall never marry,” he said shortly. Her eyebrows rose the fraction
of an inch but she bit back the answer that rose to her lips.

“Never--is a long day,” she said lightly. “The Cravens are an old
family, Barry. One has one's obligations.”

He did not reply and she changed the conversation hastily. She had a
horror of forcing a confidence.

“Remains--Mary,” she said, with the air of proposing a final expedient.
Craven's tense face relaxed.

“Mary had also occurred to me,” he admitted with an eagerness that was
almost pathetic.

Miss Craven grunted and clutched at her hair.

“Mary!” she repeated with a chuckle, “Mary, who has gone through life
with Wesley's sermons under her arm--and a child out of a Paris convent!
There are certainly elements of humour in the idea. But I must have some
details. Who was this Locke person?”

When Craven had told her all he knew she stood quite still for a long
while, rolling a cigarette tube between her firm hands.

“Dissolute English father--and Spanish mother of doubtful morals. My
poor Barry, your hands will be full.”

“Our hands,” he corrected.

“Our hands! Good heavens, the bare idea terrifies me!” She shrugged
tragically and was dumb until Mary came to announce lunch.

Across the table she studied her nephew with an attention that she was
careful to conceal. She was used to his frequent coming and going.
Since the death of his mother he had travelled continually and she was
accustomed to his appearing more or less unexpectedly, at longer or
shorter intervals. They had always been great friends, and it was to
her house in London that he invariably went first on returning to
England--sure of his welcome, sure of himself, gay, easy-going and
debonair. She was deeply attached to him. But, with something akin to
terror, she had watched the likeness to the older Barry Craven growing
from year to year, fearful lest the moral downfall of the father might
repeat itself in the son. The temptation to speak frankly, to warn,
had been great. Natural dislike of interference, and a promise given
reluctantly to her dying sister-in-law, had kept her silent. She had
loved the tall beautiful woman who had been her brother's wife and a
promise made to her was sacred--though she had often doubted the wisdom
of a silence that might prove an incalculable danger. She respected the
fine loyalty that demanded such a promise, but her own views were more
comprehensive. She was strong enough to hold opinions that were contrary
to accepted traditions. She admitted a loyalty due to the dead, she was
also acutely conscious of a loyalty due to the living. A few minutes
before when Miss Craven had, somewhat shamefacedly, owned to a love
of the family to which they belonged she had but faintly expressed her
passionate attachment thereto. Pride of race was hers to an unusual
degree. All that was best and noblest she craved for the clan. And Barry
was the last of the Cravens. Her brother had failed her and dragged her
high ideals in the dust. Her courage had restored them to endeavour
a second time. If Barry failed her too! Hitherto her fears had had
no definite basis. There had been no real ground for anxiety, only a
developing similarity of characteristics that was vaguely disquieting.
But now, as she looked at him, she realised that the man from whom she
had parted nearly two years before was not the man who now faced her
across the table. Something had happened--something that had changed him
utterly. This man was older by far more than the actual two years. This
was a man whom she hardly recognised; hard, stern, with a curiously
bitter ring at times in his voice, and the shadow of a tragedy lying
in the dark grey eyes that had changed so incredibly for lack of their
habitual ready smile. There were lines about his mouth and a glint
of grey in his hair that she was quick to observe. Whatever had
happened--he had suffered. That was written plainly on his face. And
unless he chose to speak she was powerless to help him. She refused
to intrude, unbidden, into another's private concerns. That he was
an adored nephew, that the intimacy between them was great made no
difference, the restriction remained the same. But she was woman enough
to be fiercely jealous for him. She resented the change she saw--it
was not the change she had desired but something far beyond her
understanding that left her with the feeling that she was confronting a
total stranger. But she was careful to hide her scrutiny, and though her
mind speculated widely she continued to chatter, supplementing the home
news her scanty letters had afforded and retailing art gossip of the
moment. One question only she allowed herself. There had come a silence.
She broke it abruptly, leaning forward in her chair, watching him
keen-eyed.

“Have you been ill--out there?”--her hand fluttered vaguely in an
easterly direction. Craven looked up in surprise.

“No,” he said shortly, “I never am ill.”

Miss Craven's nod as she rose from the table might have been taken for
assent. It was in reality satisfaction at her own perspicacity. She had
not supposed for one moment that he had been ill but in no other way
could she express what she wanted to know. It was in itself an innocuous
and natural remark, but the sudden gloom that fell on him warned her
that her ingenuity was, perhaps, not so great as she imagined.

“Triple idiot!” she reflected wrathfully, as she poured out coffee, “you
had better have held your tongue,” and she set herself to charm away the
shadow from his face and dispel any suspicion he might have formed of
her desire to probe into his affairs. She had an uncommon personality
and could talk cleverly and well when she chose. And today she did
choose, exerting all her wit to combat the taciturn fit that emphasized
so forcibly the change in him. But though he listened with apparent
attention his mind was very obviously elsewhere, and he sat staring into
the fire, mechanically flicking ash from his cigarette. Conversation
languished and at length Miss Craven gave it up, with a wry face, and
sat also silent, drumming with her fingers on the arm of the chair. Her
thoughts, in quest of his, wandered far away until the sudden ringing of
the telephone beside her made her jump violently.

She answered the call, then handed the receiver to Craven.

“Your heathen,” she remarked dryly.

Though the least insular of women she had never grown accustomed to
the Japanese valet. He turned from the telephone with a look of mingled
embarrassment and relief.

“I sent a message to the convent this morning. Yoshio has just given
me the answer. The Mother Superior will see me this afternoon.” He
endeavoured to make his voice indifferent, pulling down his waistcoat
and picking a minute thread from off his coat sleeve. Miss Craven's
mouth twitched at the evident signs of nervousness while she glanced at
him narrowly. Prompt action in the matter of an uncongenial duty had not
hitherto been a conspicuous trait in his character.

“You are certainly not letting the grass grow under your feet.”

He jerked his head impatiently.

“Waiting will not make the job more pleasant,” he shrugged. “I will see
the child at once and arrange for her removal as soon as possible.”

Miss Craven eyed him from head to foot with a grim smile that changed to
a whole-hearted laugh of amusement.

“It's a pity you have so much money, Barry, you would make your fortune
as a model. You are too criminally good looking to go fluttering into
convents.”

A ghost of the old smile flickered in his eyes.

“Come and chaperon me, Aunt Caro.”

She shook her head laughingly.

“Thank you--no. There are limits. I draw the line at convents. Go and
get it over, and if the child is presentable you can bring her back to
tea. I gather that Mary is anticipating a complete failure on our part
to sustain the situation and is prepared to deputise. She has already
ransacked _Au Paradis Des Enfants_ for suitable bribes wherewith to
beguile her infantile affection. I understand that there was a lively
scene over the purchase of a doll, the cost of which--clad only in its
birthday dress--was reported to me as 'a fair affront.' Even after all
these years Mary jibs at Continental prices. It is her way of keeping
up the prestige of the British Empire, bless her. An overcharge, in her
opinion, is a deliberate twist of the lion's tail.”

In the taxi he looked through the correspondence he had received that
morning for the lawyer's letter that would establish his claim to John
Locke's child. Then he leaned back and lit a cigarette. He had an absurd
feeling of nervousness and cursed Locke a dozen times before he reached
the convent. He was embarrassed with the awkward situation in which he
found himself--just how awkward he seemed only now fully to appreciate.
The more he thought of it, the less he liked it. The coming interview
with the Mother Superior was not the least of his troubles. The promise
of the morning had not been maintained, overhead the sky was leaden, and
a high wind drove rain in sharp splashes against the glass of the cab.
The pavements were running with water and the leafless trees in the
avenues swayed and creaked dismally. The appearance of the streets was
chill and depressing. Craven shivered. He thought of the warmth and
sunshine that he had left in Japan. The dreariness of the present
outlook contrasted sufficiently with the gay smiling landscape, the
riotous wealth of colour, and the scent-laden air of the land of his
recollections. A feeling almost of nostalgia came to him. But with
the thought came also a vision--a little still body lying on silken
cushions; a small pale face with fast shut eyes, the long lashes a dusky
fringe against the ice-cold cheek. The vision was terribly distinct,
horribly real--not a recollection only, as on the morning that he had
found her dead--and he waited, with the sweat pouring down his face, for
the closed eyes to open and reveal the agony he had read in them that
night, when he had torn her clinging hands away and left her. The faint
aroma of the perfume she had used was in his nostrils, choking him. The
slender limbs seemed to pulsate into life, the little breasts to stir
perceptibly, the parted lips to tremble. He could not define the actual
moment of the change but, as he bent forward, with hands close gripped,
all at once he found himself looking straight into the tortured grey
eyes--for a second only. Then the vision faded, and he was leaning back
in the cab wiping the moisture from his forehead. God, would it never
leave him! It haunted him. In the big bungalow on the Bluff; rising from
the sea as he leaned on the steamer rail; during the long nights on
the ship as he lay sleepless in the narrow brass cot; last night in the
crowded railway carriage--then it had been so vivid that he had held
his breath and glanced around stealthily with hunted eyes at his fellow
passengers looking for the horrified faces that would tell him that they
also saw what he could see. He never knew how long it lasted, minutes
or seconds, holding him rigid until it passed to leave him bathed in
perspiration. Environment seemed to make no difference. It came as
readily in a crowd as when he was alone. He lived in perpetual dread of
betraying his obsession. Once only it had happened--in the bungalow,
the night before he left Japan, and his involuntary cry had brought the
watchful valet. And as he crossed the room Craven had distinctly seen
him pass through the little recumbent figure and, with blazing eyes, had
dragged him roughly to one side, pointing and muttering incoherently.
And Yoshio had seemed to understand. Sceptical as he was about the
supernatural, at first Craven's doubt had been rudely shaken; but with
the steadying of his nerves had come the conviction that the vision
was inward, though at the moment so real that often his confidence
momentarily wavered, as last night in the train. It came with no kind of
regularity, no warning that might prepare him. And recurrence brought
no mitigation, no familiarising that could temper the acute horror it
inspired. To what pitch of actuality might it attain? To what lengths
might it drive him? He dragged his thoughts up sharply. To dwell on it
was fatal, that way lay insanity. He set his teeth and forced himself to
think of other things. There was ample material. There was primarily the
salvage of a wasted life. During the last few weeks he had been forced
to a self-examination that had been drastically thorough. The verdict
had been an adverse one. Personal criticism, once aroused, went far. The
purposeless life that he had led seemed now an insult to his manhood. It
had been in his power to do so much--he had actually done disastrously
little. He had loafed through life without a thought beyond the passing
interest of the moment. And even in the greater interests of his life,
travel and big game, he had failed to exert himself beyond a mediocre
level. He had travelled far and shot a rare beast or two, but so had
many another--and with greater difficulties to contend with than he
who had never wrestled with the disadvantages of inferior equipment and
inadequate attendance. Muscularly and constitutionally stronger than
the average, physically he could have done anything. And he had done
nothing--nothing that others had not done as well or even better. It was
sufficiently humiliating. And the outcome of his reflections had been
a keen desire for work, hard absorbing work, with the hope that bodily
fatigue might in some measure afford mental alleviation. It did not even
need finding. With a certain shame he admitted the fact. It had
waited for him any time these last ten years in his own home. The
responsibility of great possessions was his. And he had shirked. He had
evaded the duty he owed to a trust he had inherited. It was a new view
of his position that recent thought had awakened. It was still not too
late. He would go back like the prodigal--not to eat the fatted calf,
but to sit at the feet of Peters and learn from him the secret of
successful estate management.

For thirty years Peter Peters had ruled the Craven properties, and they
were all his life. For the last ten years he had never ceased urging
his employer to assume the reins of government himself. His entreaties,
protestations and threats of resignation had been unheeded. Craven felt
sure that he would never relinquish his post, he had grown into the soil
and was as firmly fixed as the Towers itself. He was an institution in
the county, a personality on the bench. He ruled his own domains with
a kindly but absolute autocracy which succeeded perfectly on the Craven
estates and was the envy of other agents, who had not his ability to do
likewise. Well born, original and fearless he was popular in castle and
in cottage, and his advice was respected by all. He neither sought nor
abused a confidence, and in consequence was the depository of most of
the secrets of the countryside. To his sympathetic ears came both
grave offences and minor indiscretions, as to a kindly safety-valve who
advised and helped--and was subsequently silent. His exoneration was
considered final. “I confessed to Peter” became a recognised formula,
instituted by a giddy young Marchioness at the north end of the county,
whose cousin he was. And there, invariably, the matter ended. And for
Craven it was the one bright spot in the darkness before him. Life was
going to be hell--but there would always be Peter.

At the Convent gates the taxi skidded badly at the suddenly applied
brakes, and then backed jerkily into position. Craven felt an
overwhelming inclination to take to his heels. The portress who admitted
him had evidently received orders, for she silently conducted him to a
waiting room and left him alone. It was sparsely furnished but had on
the walls some fine old rosewood panelling. The narrow heavily leaded
windows overlooked a paved quadrangle, glistening with moisture. For a
few moments the rain had ceased but drops still pattered sharply on
to the flagstones from the branches of two large chestnut trees. The
outlook was melancholy and he turned from the window, shivering. But the
chill austere room was hardly more inspiring. The atmosphere was strange
to him. It was a world apart from anything that had ever touched him. He
marvelled suddenly at the countless lives living out their allotted span
in the confined area of these and similar walls. Surely all could not
submit willingly to such a crushing captivity? Some must agonize and
spend their strength unavailingly, like birds beating their wings
against the bars of a cage for freedom. To the man who had roamed
through all the continents of the world this forced inactivity seemed
appalling--stultifying. The hampering of personal freedom, the forcing
of independent minds into one narrow prescribed channel that admitted
of no individual expansion, the waste of material and the fettering of
intellects, that were heaven-sent gifts to be put out to usury and not
shrouded away in a napkin, revolted him. The conventual system was to
him a survival of medievalism, a relic of the dark ages; the last refuge
of the shirkers of the world. The communities themselves, if he had
thought of them at all, had been regarded as a whole. He had never
troubled to consider them as composed of single individuals. Today he
thought of them as separate human beings and his intolerance increased.
An indefinite distaste never seriously considered seemed, during the
few moments in the bare waiting room, to have grown suddenly into active
dislike. He was wholly out of sympathy with his surroundings, impatient
of the necessity that brought him into contact with what he would have
chosen to avoid. He looked about with eyes grown hard and contemptuous.
The very building seemed to be the embodiment of retrogression and blind
superstition. He was filled with antagonism. His face was grim and his
figure drawn up stiffly to its full height when the door opened to
admit the Mother Superior. For a moment she hesitated, a faint look of
surprise coming into her face. And no antagonism, however intolerant,
could have braved her gentle dignity. “It is--_Monsieur_ Craven?” she
asked, a perceptible interrogation in her soft voice.

She took the letters he gave her and read them carefully--pausing once
or twice as if searching for the correct translation of a word--then
handed them back to him in silence. She looked at him again, frankly,
with no attempt to disguise her scrutiny, and the perplexity in her eyes
grew greater. One small white hand slid to the crucifix hanging on her
breast, as if seeking aid from the familiar symbol, and Craven saw that
her fingers were trembling. A faint flush rose in her face.

“_Monsieur_ is perhaps married, or--happily--he has a mother?” she asked
at last, and the flush deepened as she looked up at the big man standing
before her. She made a little gesture of embarrassment but her eyes
did not waver. They would not, he thought with sudden intuition. For he
realised that it was one of his own order who confronted him. It was not
what he had anticipated. The Mother Superior's low voice continuing in
gentle explanation broke into his thoughts.

“_Monsieur_ will forgive that I catechise him thus but I had expected
one--much older.” Her distress was obvious. And Craven divined that as a
prospective guardian he fell short of expectation. And yet, his lack of
years was apparently to her the only drawback. His lack of years--Good
God, and he felt so old! His youth was a disadvantage that counted for
nothing in the present instance. If she could know the truth, if the
anxious gaze that was fixed so intently on him could look into his heart
with understanding, he knew that she would shrink from him as from a
vile contamination.

He conceived the horror dawning in her eyes, the loathing in her
attitude, and seemed to hear her passionate protest against his claim to
the child who had been sheltered in the safety of the community that he
had despised. The safety of the community--that had not before occurred
to him. For the first time he considered it a refuge to those who there
sought sanctuary and who were safeguarded from such as--he. He winced,
but did not spare himself. The sin had been only his. The child who had
died for love of him had been as innocent of sin as the birds who loved
and mated among the pine trees in her Garden of Enchantment. She had had
no will but his. Arrogantly he had taken her and she had submitted--was
he not her lord? Before his shadow fell across her path no blameless
soul within these old convent walls had been more pure and stainless
than the soul of O Hara San. It was the sins of such as he that drove
women to this shelter that offered refuge and consolation, to escape
from such as he they voluntarily immured themselves; surrendering the
purpose of their being, seeking in bodily denial the salvation of their
souls.

The room had grown very dark. A sudden glare of light made Craven
realise that a question asked was still unanswered. He had not, in his
abstraction, been aware of any movement. Now he saw the Mother Superior
walking leisurely back from the electric switch by the door, and guessed
from her placid face that the interval had been momentary and had passed
unnoticed. Some answer was required now. He pulled himself together.

“I am not married,” his voice was strained, “and I have no mother. But
my aunt--Miss Craven--the sculptor--” he paused enquiringly and she
smiled reassurance.

“Miss Craven's beautiful work is known to me,” she said with ready tact
that put him more at ease.

“My aunt has, most kindly, promised to--to co-operate,” he finished
lamely.

The anxiety faded from the Mother Superior's face and she sat down with
an air of relief, motioning Craven to a chair. But with a curt bow he
remained standing. He had no wish to prolong the interview beyond what
courtesy and business demanded. He listened with a variety of feelings
while the Nun spoke. Her earnestness he could not fail to perceive, but
it required a decided effort to concentrate, and follow her soft well
modulated voice.

She spoke slowly, with feeling that broke at times the tone she strove
to make dispassionate.

“I am glad for Gillian's sake that at last, after all these years, there
has come one who will be concerned with her future. She has no vocation
for the conventual life and--I was beginning to become anxious. For
ourselves, we shall miss her more than it is possible to say. She had
been with us so long, she has become very dear to us. I have dreaded
that her father would one day claim her. She has been spared that
contamination--God forgive me that I should speak so.” For a moment she
was silent, her eyes bent on her hands lying loosely clasped in her lap.

“Gillian is not altogether friendless,” she resumed, “she will go to
you with a little more knowledge of the world than can be gained within
these old walls.” She glanced round the panelled room with half-sad
affection. “She is popular and has spent vacations in the homes of some
of her fellow pupils. She has a very decided personality, and a facility
for attracting affection. She is sensitive and proud--passionate even at
times. She can be led but not driven. I tell you all this, _Monsieur_,
not censoriously but that it may help you in dealing with a character
that is extraordinarily complex, with a nature that both demands and
repels affection, that longs for and yet scorns sympathy.” She looked
at Craven anxiously. His complete attention was claimed at last. A new
conception of his unknown ward was forcing itself upon him, so that
any humour there might have been in the situation died suddenly and the
difficulties of the undertaking soared. The Mother Superior smothered
a sigh. His attitude was baffling, his expression inscrutable. Had her
words touched him, had she said what was best for the welfare of the
girl who was so dear to her, and whose departure she felt so keenly? How
would she fare at this man's hands? What lay behind his stern face and
sombre tragic eyes? Her lips moved in silent prayer, but when she spoke
her voice was serene as before.

“There is yet another thing that I must speak of. Gillian has an unusual
gift.” A sentence in Locke's letter flashed into Craven's mind.

“She doesn't _dance_?” he asked, in some dismay.

“Dance, _Monsieur_--in a convent?” Then she pitied his hot confusion and
smiled faintly.

“Is dancing so unusual--in the world? No, Gillian sketches--portraits.
Her talent is real. She does not merely draw a faithful likeness, her
studies are revelations of soul. I do not think she knows herself how
her effects are obtained, they grow almost unconsciously, but they
result always in the same strange delineation of character. It was so
impossible to ignore this exceptional gift that we procured for her
the best teacher in Paris, and continued her lessons even after--” She
stopped abruptly and Craven finished the broken sentence.

“Even after the fees ceased,” he said dryly. “For how many years has my
ward lived on your charity, Reverend Mother?”

She raised a protesting hand.

“Ah--charity. It is hardly the word--” she fenced.

He took out a cheque book.

“How much is owing, for everything?” he said bluntly.

She sought for a book in a bureau standing against the rosewood
panelling and, scanning it, gave a sum with evident reluctance.

“Gillian has never been told, but it is ten years since _Monsieur_ Locke
paid anything.” There was diffidence in her voice. “In an institution
of this kind we are compelled to be businesslike. It is rare that we can
afford to make an exception, though the temptation is often great.
The head and the heart--_voyez, vous, Monsieur_--they pull in contrary
directions.” And she slipped the book back into a pigeon-hole as if the
touch of it was distasteful. She glanced perfunctorily at the cheque he
handed to her, then closer, and the colour rose again to her sensitive
face.

“But _Monsieur_ has written treble the amount,” she murmured.

“Will you accept the balance,” he said hurriedly, “in the name of my
ward, for any purpose that you may think fit? There is one stipulation
only--I do not wish her to know that there has been any monetary
transaction between us.” His voice was almost curt, and the Nun
found herself unable to question a condition which, though manifestly
generous, she deemed quixotic. She could only bend to his decision with
mingled thankfulness and apprehension. Despite the problem of the girl's
future she had it in her heart to wish that this singular claimant had
never presented himself. His liberality was obvious but--. She locked
the slip of paper away in the bureau with a feeling of vague uneasiness.
But for good or ill the matter was out of her hands. She had said all
that she could say. The rest lay with God.

“I do accept it,” she said, “with all gratitude. It will enable us to
carry out a scheme that has long been our hope. Your generosity will
more than pave the way. I will send Gillian to you now.”

She left him, more embarrassed than he had been at first, more than ever
dreading the task before him. He waited with a nervous impatience that
irritated himself.

Turning to the window he looked out into the dusk. The old trees in
the courtyard were almost indistinguishable. The rain dripped again
steadily, splashing the creeper that framed the casement. A few lights
showing dimly in the windows on the opposite side of the quadrangle
served only to intensify the gloom. The time dragged. Fretfully he
drummed with his fingers on the leaded panes, his ears alert for any
sound beyond the closed door. The echo of a distant organ stole into the
room and the soft solemn notes harmonised with the melancholy pattering
of the raindrops and the gusts of wind that moaned fitfully around the
house.

In a sudden revulsion of feeling the life he had mapped out for himself
seemed horrible beyond thought. He could not bear it. It would be tying
his hands and burdening himself with a responsibility that would curtail
his freedom and hamper him beyond endurance. A great restlessness, a
longing to escape from the irksome tie, came to him. Solitude and open
spaces; unpeopled nature; wild desert wastes--he craved for them.
The want was like a physical ache. The desert--he drew his breath
in sharply--the hot shifting sand whispering under foot, the fierce
noontide sun blazing out of a brilliant sky, the charm of it! The
fascination of its false smiling surface, its treacherous beauty luring
to hidden perils called to him imperatively. The curse of Ishmael that
was his heritage was driving him as it had driven him many times
before. He was in the grip of one of the revolts against restraint and
civilisation that periodically attacked him. The wander-hunger was in
his blood--for generations it had sent numberless ancestors into the
lonely places of the world, and against it ties of home were powerless.
In early days to the romantic glamour of the newly discovered Americas,
later to the silence of the frozen seas and to the mysterious depth
of unexplored lands the Cravens had paid a heavy toll. A Craven had
penetrated into the tangled gloom of the Amazon forests, and had never
returned. In the previous century two Cravens had succumbed to the
fascination of the North West Passage, another had vanished in Central
Asia. Barry's grandfather had perished in a dust storm in the Sahara.
And it was to the North African desert that his own thoughts turned
most longingly. Japan had satisfied him for a time--but only for a
time. Western civilisation had there obtruded too glaringly, and he had
admitted frankly to himself that it was not Japan but O Hara San that
kept him in Yokohama. The dark courtyard and the faintly lighted windows
faded. He saw instead a tiny well-remembered oasis in Southern Algeria,
heard the ceaseless chatter of Arabs, the shrill squeal of a stallion,
the peevish grunt of a camel, and, rising above all other sounds, the
whine of the tackling above the well. And the smell--the cloying smell
that goes with camel caravans, it was pungent! He flung up his head
inhaling deeply, then realised that the scent that filled the room was
not the acrid smell of the desert but the penetrating odour of incense
filtering in through the opened door. It shut and he turned reluctantly.

He saw at first only a pair of great brown eyes, staring almost
defiantly, set in a small pale face, that looked paler by contrast with
the frame of dark brown hair. Then his gaze travelled slowly over the
slender black-clad figure silhouetted against the polished panels. His
fear was substantiated. Not a child who could be relegated to nurses and
governesses, but a girl in the dawn of womanhood. Passionately he cursed
John Locke.

He felt a fool, idiotically tongue-tied. He had been prepared to adopt
a suitably paternal attitude towards the small child he had expected. A
paternal attitude in connection with this self-possessed young woman was
impossible, in fact ludicrous. For the moment he seemed unable to cope
with the situation. It was the girl who spoke first. She came forward
slowly, across the long narrow room.

“I am Gillian Locke, _Monsieur_.”




CHAPTER IV


On the cushioned window seat in her bedroom at Craven Towers Gillian
Locke sat with her arms wrapped round her knees waiting for the summons
to dinner. With Miss Craven and her guardian she had left London that
morning, arriving at the Towers in the afternoon, and she was tired and
excited with the events of the day. She leant back against the panelled
embrasure, her mind dwelling on the last three crowded months they had
spent in Paris and London waiting until the house was redecorated and
ready to receive them. It had been for her a wonderful experience. The
novelty, the strangeness of it, left her breathless with the feeling
that years, not weeks, had rushed by. Already in the realisation of the
new life the convent days seemed long ago, the convent itself to have
receded into a far off past. And yet there were times when she wondered
whether she was dreaming, whether waking would be inevitable and she
would find herself once more in the old dormitory to pray passionately
that she might dream again. And until tonight there had scarcely been
time even to think, her days had been full, at night she had gone to bed
to sleep in happy dreamlessness. The hotel bedrooms with their litter
of trunks suggesting imminent flight had held no restfulness. To Gillian
the transitory sensation had strained already over-excited nerves and
heightened the dreamlike feeling that made everything seem unreal. But
here, the visible evidences of travel removed, the deep silence of a
large country house penetrating her mind and conducing to peace, she
could think at last. The surroundings were helpful. There was about the
room an air of permanence which the hotel bedrooms had never given, an
atmosphere of abiding quiet that soothed her. She was sensitive of an
influence that was wholly new to her and very sweet, that brought with
it a feeling of laughter and tears strangely mingled, that made the
room appear as no other room had ever done. It Was her room, and it had
welcomed her. It was like a big friendly silent person offering
mute reception, radiating repose. In a few hours the room had become
intimate, dear to her. She laughed happily--then checked at a guilty
feeling of treason against the grey old walls in Paris that had so long
sheltered her. She was not ungrateful, all her life she would remember
with gratitude the love and care she had received. But the convent had
been prison. Since her father had left her there, a tiny child, she
had inwardly rebelled; the life was abhorrent to her, the restraint
unbearable. With childish pride she had hidden her feelings, living
through a period of acute misery with no hint to those about her of what
she suffered. And the habit of suppression acquired in childhood had
grown with her own development. As the years passed the limitations of
the convent became more perceptible. She felt its cramping influence to
the full, as if the walls were closing in to suffocate her, to bury her
alive before she had ever known a fuller freer life. She had longed for
expansion--ideas she could not formulate, desires she could not express,
crowded, jostled in her brain. She wanted a wider outlook on life than
the narrow convent windows offered. Brief excursions into the world to
the homes of her friends had filled her with a yearning for freedom
and for independence, for a greater range of thought and action. Her
artistic studies had served to foster an unrest she struggled against
bravely and to conceal which she became daily more self-contained. Her
reserve was like a barrier about her. She was sweet and gentle to all
around her, but a little aloof and very silent. To the other girls she
had been a heroine of romance, puzzling mystery surrounded her; to the
Nuns an enigma. The Mother Superior, alone, had arrived at a partial
understanding, more than that even she could not accomplish. Gillian
loved her, but her reserve was stronger than her love. Sitting now
in the dainty English bedroom, revelling in the warm beauty of the
exquisite landscape that, mellowed in the evening light, lay spread out
beneath her eyes, Gillian thought a little sadly of her parting with the
Reverend Mother. She had tried to hide the happiness that the strange
feeling of freedom gave her, to smother any look or word that might
wound the gentle sensibility of the frail robed woman whose eyes were
sad at the approaching separation. Her conscience smote her that her own
heart held no sadness. She had said very little, nothing of the new life
that lay ahead of her. She hid her hopes of the future as jealously as
she had hidden her longings in the past, and she had left the convent as
silently as she had lived in it. She had driven back to the hotel with
a sense of relief predominating that it was all over, breathing deeply
with a sigh of relaxed tension. It seemed to her then as if she had
learned to breathe only within the last few days, as if the air itself
was lighter, more exhilarating.

From the convent her mind went back to earlier days. She thought of
her father, the handsome dissolute man, whose image had grown dim with
years. As a tiny child she had loved him passionately, the central
figure of her chequered and wandering little life--father and mother
in one, playmate and hero. Her recollection seemed to be of constant
travelling; of long hours spent in railway trains; of arrivals at
strange places in the dark night; of departures in the early dawn, half
awake--but always happy so long as the familiar arms held her weary
little body and there was the shabby old coat on which to pillow her
brown curls. A jumbled remembrance of towns and country villages; of
kind unknown women who looked compassionate and murmured over her in a
dozen different languages. It had all been a medley of impressions and
experiences--everything transient, nothing lasting, but the big untidy
man who was her all. And then the convent. For a few years John Locke
had reappeared at irregular intervals, and on the memory of those brief
visits she had lived until he came again. Then he had ceased to
come and his letters, grown short and few, full of vague
promises--unsatisfying--meagre, had stopped abruptly. At first she had
refused to admit to herself that he had forgotten, that she could mean
so little to him, that he would deliberately put her out of his life.
She had waited, excusing, trusting, until, heart-sick with deferred
hope, she had come to think of him as dead. She was old enough then
to realise her position and in spite of the love and consideration
surrounding her she had learned misery. Her popularity even was a source
of torment, for in the happy homes of her friends she had felt more
cruelly her own destitute loneliness.

When the lawyer's letter had come enclosing a few scrawled lines
written by her dying father she had felt that life could hold no more
bitterness. She had worshipped him--and he had abandoned her callously.
She was bone of his bone and he had made no effort even for his own
flesh. He had thrown her a burden on the convent that sheltered her so
willingly only for want of will power to conquer the weakness that had
devitalised brain and body. The thought crushed her. As she read his
confession, full of tardy remorse, her proud heart had been sick with
humiliation. She groped blindly through a sea of despair, her faith
broken, her trust gone. She hid her sorrow and her shame, fulfilling
her usual tasks, following the ordinary routine--a little more silent,
a little more reserved--her eyes alone betraying the storm that was
overwhelming her. She had loved him so dearly--that was the sting.
She had guarded her memory of him so tenderly, weaving a thousand
extravagant tales about him, pinnacling him above all men, her hero, her
knight, her _preux chevalier._ And now she realised that her memory was
no memory, that she had built up a fantastic figure of romance whose
origin rested on nothing tangible, whose elevation had been so lofty
that his overthrow was demolition. Her god had feet of clay. Her
superman was nothing. All that she had ever had, memory that was
delusion, was taken from her. Woken abruptly to the brutal truth she
felt that she had nothing left to cling to--a loneliness far greater
than she had known before. Then gradually her own honesty compelled her
to admit her fantasy. The dream man she had evolved had been of her
own making, the virtues with which she had endowed him bred of her own
imagination. Of the real man she knew nothing, and for the real man
there dawned slowly--though love for him had died--pity. It came to her,
passionately endeavouring to understand, that in the sheltered life she
led she had no knowledge of the temptations that beset a man outside
in the great world. Dimly she realised that some win out--and some go
under. He had failed. And it seemed to her that on her had fallen his
debt. She must take the place he had forfeited in the universe, she must
succeed where he had failed. Her strength must rise out of his weakness.
His honour was hers to re-establish, given the opportunity. And the
opportunity had been given. She had waited for the coming of her unknown
guardian with a feeling of dull revolt against the degradation of being
handed over inexorably to the disposal and charity of a stranger. Though
she had not been told she had guessed, years ago, that money for her
maintenance was wanting. The kindly deception of the Mother Superior
had been ineffectual. Gillian knew she was a pauper. The charity of the
convent school had been hard to bear. The charity of a stranger would
be harder. She writhed with the humiliation of it. She was nineteen--for
two years she must go and be and endure at the whim of an unknown. And
what would he be like, this man into whose hands her father had thrust
her! What choice would John Locke be capable of making--what love had he
shown during these last years that he should choose carefully and well?
From among what class of man, of the society into which he had sunk,
would he select one to give his daughter? He had written of “my old
friend, Barry Craven.” The name conveyed nothing--the adjective admitted
of two interpretations. Which? Day and night she was haunted with
visions of old men--recollections of faces seen when driving with her
friends or visiting their homes; old men who had interested her, old men
from whom she had instinctively shrunk. What type of man was it that was
coming for her? There were times when her courage deserted her and the
constantly recurring question made her nearly mad with fear. She was
like a wild creature caught in a trap, listening to the feet of the
keeper nearing--nearing. She had longed for the time when she could
leave the Convent, she clung to it now with dread at the thought of the
future. The London lawyer had written that Mr. Craven was returning
from Japan to assume his guardianship, and she had traced his route with
growing fear as the days slipped by--the keeper's tread coming closer
and closer. She had masked the terror the thought of him inspired,
preserving an outward apathy that seemed to imply complete indifference.
And in the end he had come sooner than she expected, for they thought he
would go first to London. One morning she had learned he was in
Paris, that very afternoon she would know her fate. The day had been
interminable. During his interview with the Mother Superior she had
paced the room where she was waiting as it seemed for hours, her nerves
at breaking point. When the Reverend Mother came back she could have
shrieked aloud and her desperate eyes failed to interpret the expression
on the Nun's face; she tried to speak, a husky whisper that died away
inarticulately. Faintly she heard the gentle words of encouragement and
with an effort of pride she walked quickly to the door of the visitors'
room. There she paused, irresolute, and the low peaceful roll of the
organ echoing from the distant chapel seemed to mock her. So often it
had comforted, giving courage to go forward--today its very peacefulness
jarred; nerve-racked she was out of tune with the atmosphere of calm
tranquillity about her. She felt alien--that more than ever she stood
alone. Then pride flamed afresh. With head held high and lips compressed
she went in. As he turned from the window it was his great height and
broad shoulders that struck her first--men of his physique were rare
in France--and, in the thought of a moment, the well cut conventional
morning coat had seemed absurd, and mentally she had clothed his long
limbs in damascened steel. Then she had seen that he was young, how
young she could not guess, but younger far than she had imagined. As
their eyes met the sombre tragedy in his had hurt her. She divined a
sorrow before which her own paled to nothingness and quick pity killed
fear. The sadness of his face lifted her suddenly into full realisation
of her womanhood. Compassion rose above self. Instinctively she knew
that the interview that was to her so momentous was to him only an
embarrassing interlude. Shyness remained but the terror she had felt
gave place to a feeling she had not then understood. As quickly
as possible he had taken her to the hotel, leaving to his aunt all
explanations that seemed necessary. And since then he had remained
consistently in the background, delegating his authority to Miss Craven.
But from the first his proximity had troubled her--she was always
conscious of his presence. Hypersensitive from her convent upbringing
she knew intuitively when he entered a room or left it. Men were to her
an unknown quantity; the few she had met--brothers and cousins of school
friends--had been viewed from a different standpoint. Hedged about
with rigid French convention there had been no chance of acquaintance
ripening into friendship--she had been merely a schoolgirl among other
girls, touching only the fringe of the most youthful of the masculine
element in the houses where she had stayed. She had been unprepared for
the change to the daily contact with a man like Barry Craven. It would
take time to accustom herself, to become used to the continual masculine
presence.

Miss Craven, to her nephew's relief, had taken the shy pale-faced
girl to her eccentric heart with a suddenness and enthusiasm that had
surprised herself.

And Gillian's reserve and pride had been unable to withstand the
whirlwind little lady. Miss Craven's personality took a strong hold on
her; she loved the woman, she admired the artist, and she was quick
to recognise the real feeling and deep kindness that lay under brusque
manner and quizzical speeches. She had good reason. She glanced now
round the big room. Everywhere were evidences of lavish generosity,
showered on her regardless of protest. Gillian's eyes filled slowly with
tears. It was all a fairy story, too wonderful almost to be true.
Why were they so good to her--how would she ever be able to repay the
kindness lavished on her? Her thoughts were interrupted by the latest
gift that rose out of his basket with a sleepy yawn and stretching
luxuriously came and laid his head on her knee, looking up at her with
sad brown eyes. She had always loved animals, the possession of some dog
had been an ardent desire, and she hugged the big black poodle now with
a little sob.

“Mouston, you pampered person, have you ever been lonely? Can you
imagine what it is like to be made to feel that you _belong_ to somebody
again?” She rubbed her cheek against his satiny head, crooning over him,
the dog thrilling to her touch with jerking limbs and sharp half-stifled
whines. It was her first experience of ownership, of responsibility
for a living creature that was dependent on her and for which she was
answerable. And it was likely to prove an arduous responsibility. He was
single-minded and jealous in his allegiance; Miss Craven he tolerated
indifferently, of Craven he was openly suspicious. He followed Gillian
like a shadow and moped in her absence, yielding to Yoshio, who had
charge of him on such occasions, a resigned obedience he gave to no
other member of the household. Through Mouston Gillian and Yoshio had
become acquainted.

Mouston's affection this evening became over-enthusiastic and
threatening to fragile silks and laces. Gillian kissed the top of his
head, shook solemnly an insistent paw, and put him on one side. She
moved to the dressing table and inspected herself critically in the big
mirror. She looked with grave amusement. Was that Gillian Locke? She
wondered did a butterfly feel more incongruous when it shed its dull
grub skin. For so many years she had worn the sombre garb of the convent
schoolgirl, the change was still new enough to delight and the natural
woman within her responded to the fascination of pretty clothing. The
dark draperies of the convent had palled, she had craved colour with an
almost starved longing.

The general reflection in the long glass satisfied, a more detailed
personal survey raised serious doubts. She had never recognised the
grace of her slender figure, the uncommon beauty of her pale oval
face--other types had appealed more, other colouring attracted. She had
studied her face often, disapprovingly. Once or twice, lacking a model,
she had essayed to reproduce her own features. She had failed utterly.
The faithful portraiture she achieved for others was wanting. She was
unable to express in her own likeness the almost startling exposition
of character that distinguished her ordinary work. She had been her
own limitation. Her failure had puzzled her, causing a searching mental
inquiry. She had no knowledge herself of how her special gift took form,
the work grew involuntarily under her hand. She was aware of no definite
impression received, no attempt at soul analysis. Vaguely she supposed
that in some subtle mysterious way the character of her sitter
communicated itself, influencing her; in fact her best work had often
had the least care bestowed upon it. Did her inability to transfer to
canvas a living copy of her own face argue that she herself was
without character--had she failed because there was in truth nothing to
delineate? Or was it because she sought to see something unreal--sought
to control a purely inherent impulse? It was a problem she had never
solved.

She looked now at the mirrored figure with her usual disapproval, great
brown eyes scowling back at her from the glass, then made a little
obliterating movement with her hand and shook her head. Appearance had
never mattered before, but now she wanted so much to please--to be a
credit to the interest shown, to repay the time and money spent upon
her. Her eyes grew wistful as she leant nearer to see if there were
any tell-tale traces of tears, then danced with sudden amusement as she
picked up a powder puff and dabbed tentatively.

“Oh, Gillian Locke, what would the Reverend Mother say!” she murmured,
and laughed.

The poodle, jealous for attention, leaped on to a chair beside her, his
paws on the plate glass slab scattering brushes and bottles, and still
laughing she smothered his damp eager nose with powder until he sneezed
disgusted protest.

With a conciliatory caress she left him to disarrange the dressing table
further, and went back to the window. Beneath her lawns extended to a
wide terrace, stone balustraded, from the centre of which a long flight
of steps led down to a formal rose garden sheltered by a high yew hedge
and backed by a little copse beyond which the heavily timbered park
stretched indefinitely in the evening light. The sense of space
fascinated her. She had always longed for unimpeded views, for the
stillness of the country. On the smooth shaven lawns great trees were
set like sentinels about the house; fancifully she thought of them as
living vigilant keepers maintaining for centuries a perpetual guard--and
smiled at her childish imagination. Her pleasure in the prospect
deepened. Already the charm of the Towers had taken hold of her, from
the first moment she had loved it. Throughout the long railway journey
and during the five mile drive from the station, she had anticipated,
and the actuality had outstripped her anticipation. The beauty of the
park, the herds of grazing deer, had delighted her; the old grey house
itself had stayed her spellbound. She had not imagined anything half so
lovely, so impressively enduring. She had seen nothing to compare
with its fine proportions, with the luxury of its setting. It differed
utterly from the French Chateaux where she had visited; there toil
obtruded, vineyards and rich fields of crops clustered close to the very
walls of the seigneur's dwellings, a source of wealth simply
displayed; here similar activities were banished to unseen regions, and
scrupulously kept avenues, close cut lawns and immaculate flower-beds
formed evidence of constant labour whose results charmed the eye but
were materially profitless. The formal grandeur appealed to her. She was
not altogether alien, she reflected, with a curious smile--despite his
subsequent downfall John Locke had sprung from just such stock as the
owner of this wonderful house. A sudden panic of lateness interrupted
her pleasure and she turned from the window, calling to the dog.
Her suite opened on to a circular gallery--from which bedrooms
opened--running round the central portion of the house and overlooking
the big square hall which was lit from above by a lofty glazed dome;
eastward and westward stretched long rambling wings, a story higher than
the main block, crowned with the turrets that gave the house its name.

A low murmur of men's voices came from below, and leaning over the
balustrade she saw Craven and his agent standing talking before the
empty fireplace. Sudden shyness overcame her; her guardian was still
formidable, Peters she had seen for the first time only a few hours
ago when he had met them at the station--a short broad-shouldered man
inclining to stoutness, with thick grey hair and close-pointed beard. To
go down deliberately to them seemed impossible. But while she hesitated
in an agony of self-consciousness Mouston precipitated the inevitable
by dashing on ahead down, the stairs and plunging into the bearskin
hearthrug, ploughing the thick fur with his muzzle and sneezing wildly.
The sense of responsibility outweighed shyness and she hurried after
him, but Peters anticipated her and already had the dog's unwilling head
firmly between his hands.

“What on earth has he got on his nose, Miss Locke?” he asked, in a tone
of wonder, but the keen blue eyes looking at her from under bushy
grey eyebrows were twinkling and her shyness was not proof against his
friendliness.

She dropped to her knees and flicked the offended organ with a scrap of
lace and lawn.

“Powder,” she said gravely.

“You can have no idea,” she added, looking up suddenly, “how delightful
it is to powder your nose when you have been brought up in a convent.
The Nuns consider it the height of depravity,” and she laughed, a
ringing girlish outburst of amusement that Craven had never yet heard.
He looked at her as she knelt on the rug soothing the poodle's outraged
feelings and smiling at Peters who was offering his own more
adequate handkerchief. That laugh was a revelation--in spite of her
self-possession, of her reserve, she was in reality only a girl, hardly
more than a child, but influenced by her quiet gravity he had forgotten
the fact.

As he watched her a slight frown gathered on his face. It seemed that
Peters, in a few hours, had penetrated the barrier outside which he,
after months, still remained. With him she was always shyly silent. On
the few rare occasions in Paris and in London when he had found himself
alone with her she had shrunk into herself and avoided addressing him;
and he had wondered, irritably, how much was natural diffidence and
how much due to convent training. But he had made no effort at further
understanding, for the past was always present dominating inclinations
and impulses--perpetual memory, jogging at his elbow. There were days
when the only relief was physical exhaustion and he disappeared for
hours to fight his devils in solitude. And in any case he was not
wanted, it was better in every way for him to efface himself. There
was nothing for him to do--thanks to the improvidence of John Locke
no business connected with the trust. Miss Craven had taken complete
possession of Gillian and he held aloof, not attempting to establish
more intimate relations with his ward. But tonight, with a fine
inconsistency, it piqued him that she should respond so readily
to Peters. He knew he was a fool--it mattered not one particle to
him--Peters' magnetism was proverbial--but, illogically, the frown
persisted.

As if conscious of his scrutiny Gillian turned and met his searching
gaze. The colour flooded her face and she pushed the dog aside and rose
hastily to her feet. Shyness supervened again and she was thankful for
the arrival of Miss Craven, who was breathless and apologetic.

“Late as usual! I shall be late when the last trump sounds. But this
time it was really not my fault. Mrs. Appleyard descended upon me!--our
old housekeeper, Gillian--and her tongue has wagged for a solid hour by
the clock. I am now _au fait_ with everything that has happened at the
Towers since I was here last--do your ears burn, Peter?--metaphorically
she has dragged me at her heels from garrets to cellars and back to the
garrets again. She is pathetically pleased to have the house open once
more.”

Still talking she led the way to the dining room. It was an immense
room, panelled like most of the house, the table an oasis on a desert
of Persian carpet, a huge fireplace predominating, and some of the more
valuable family portraits on the walls.

As Miss Craven entered she looked instinctively for the portrait of her
brother, which since his death had hung--following a family custom--in a
panel over the high carved mantelpiece. But it had been removed and
for it had been substituted a beautiful painting of Barry's mother.
She stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence. “An innovation?” she
murmured to her nephew, with her shrewd eyes on his face.

“A reparation,” he answered shortly, as he moved to his chair. And his
tone made any further comment impossible. She sat down thoughtfully and
began her soup in silence, vaguely disturbed at the departure from a
precedent that had held for generations. Unconventional and ultra-modern
as she was she still clung to the traditions of her family, and from
time immemorial the portrait of the last reigning Craven had hung
over the fireplace in the big dining room waiting to give place to its
successor. It all seemed bound up somehow with the terrible change that
had taken place in him since his return from Japan--a change she was
beginning more and more to connect with the man whose portrait had been
banished, as though unworthy, from its prominence. Unworthy indeed--but
how did Barry know? What had he learned in the country that had had
such a fatal attraction for his father? The old shameful story she had
thought buried for ever seemed rising like a horrible phantom from the
grave where it had lain so long hidden.

With a little shudder she turned resolutely from the painful thoughts
that came crowding in upon her and entered into animated conversation
with Peters.

Gillian, content to be unnoticed, looked about her with appreciative
interest; the big room, its sombre, rather formal furniture and fine
pictures, appealed to her. The arrangements were in perfect harmony,
nothing clashed or jarred, electric lighting was carefully hidden and
only wax candles burnt in heavy silver candlesticks on the table.

The fascination of the old house was growing every moment more
insistent, like a spell laid on her. She gave herself up to it, to the
odd happiness it inspired. She felt it curiously familiar. A strange
feeling came to her--it was as if from childhood she had been journeying
and now come home. An absurd thought, but she loved it. She had never
had a home, but for the next two years she could pretend. To pretend
was easy. All her life she had lived in a land of dreams, tenanted with
shadowy inhabitants of her own imagining--puppets who moved obedient to
her will through all the devious paths of make-believe; a spirit world
where she ranged free of the narrow walls that restricted her liberty.
It had been easy to pretend in the convent--how much easier here in
the solid embodiment of a dream castle and stimulated by the real human
affection for which her heart had starved. The love she had hitherto
known had been unsatisfying, too impersonal, too restrained, too
interwoven with mystical devotion. Mass Craven's affection was of a
hardier, more practical nature. Blunt candour and sincerity personified,
she did not attempt to disguise her attachment. She had been attracted,
had approved, and had finally co-opted Gillian into the family. She had,
moreover, great faith in her own judgment. And to justify that faith
Gillian would have gone through fire and water.

She looked gratefully at the solid little figure sitting at the foot of
the table and a gleam of amusement chased the seriousness from her eyes.
Miss Craven was in the throes of a heated discussion with Peters which
involved elaborate diagrams traced on the smooth cloth with a salt
spoon, and as Gillian watched she completed her design with a fine
flourish and leant back triumphant in her chair, rumpling her hair
fantastically. But the agent, unconvinced, fell upon her mercilessly
and in a moment she was bent forward again in vigorous protest, drumming
impatiently on the table with her fingers as he laughingly altered her
drawing. They were the best of friends and wrangled continually. To
Gillian it was all so fresh, so novel. Then her attention veered.
Throughout dinner Craven had been silent. When once started on a
discussion his aunt and Peters tore the controversy amicably to tatters
in complete absorption. He had not joined in the argument. As always
Gillian was too shy to address him of her own accord, but she was
acutely conscious of his nearness. She deprecated her own attitude, yet
silence was better than the banal platitudes which were all she had to
offer. Her range was so restricted, his--who had travelled the world
over--must be so great. With the exception of one subject her knowledge
was negligible. But he too was an artist--hopeless to attempt that
topic, she concluded with swift contempt for her own limitations; to
offer the opinions of a convent-bred amateur to one who had studied in
famous Paris ateliers and was acquainted with the art of many countries
would be an impertinence. But yet she knew that sometime she must break
through the wall that her own diffidence had built up; in the intimacy
of country house life the continuance of such an attitude would be both
impossible and ridiculous. Contritely she acknowledged that the tension
between them was largely her own fault, a disability due to training.
But she could not go through life sheltering behind that wholly
inadequate plea. If there was anything in her at all she must rise above
the conventions in which she had been reared; she had done with the
narrowness of the past, now she must think broadly, expansively, in all
things--even in the trivial matter of social intercourse. A saving sense
of humour sent a laugh bubbling into her throat which nearly escaped.
It was such a little thing, but she had magnified it so greatly. What,
after all, did it amount to--the awkwardness of a schoolgirl very
properly ignored by a guardian who could not be other than bored with
her society. _Tant pis!_ She could at least try to be polite. She
turned with the heroic intention of breaking the ice and plunging into
conversation, banal though it might be. But her eyes did not arrive
at his face, they were caught and held by his hand, lying on the white
cloth, turning and twisting an empty wine-glass between long strong
fingers. Hands fascinated her. They were indicative of character,
testimonies of individual peculiarities. She was sensitive to the
impression they conveyed. With the limited material available she had
studied them--nuns' hands, priests' hands, hands of the various inmates
of the houses where she had stayed, and the hands of the man who had
taught her. From him she had learned more than the mere rudiments of her
art; under his tuition a crude interest had developed into a definite
study, and as she sat looking at Barry Craven's hand a sentence from one
of his lectures recurred to her--“there are in some hands, particularly
in the case of men, characteristics denoting certain passions and
attributes that jump to the eye as forcibly as if they were expressions
of face.”

Engaged in present study she forgot her original purpose, noting the
salient points of a fresh type, enumerating details that formed
the composite whole. A strong hand that could in its strength be
merciless--could it equally in its strength be merciful? The strange
thought came unexpectedly as she watched the thin stem of the wineglass
turning rapidly and then more slowly until, with a little tinkle,
it snapped as the hand clenched suddenly, the knuckles showing white
through the tanned skin. Gillian drew a quick breath. Had she been the
cause of the mishap--had she stared noticeably, and he been angry at an
impertinence? Her cheeks burned and in a misery of shyness she forced
her eyes to his face. Her contrition was needless. Heedless of her he
was looking at the splintered glass between his fingers with a faint
expression of surprise, as if his wandering thoughts were but half
recalled by the accident. For a moment he stared at the shattered
pieces--then laid them down indifferently.

Gillian smothered an hysterical inclination to laugh. He was so totally
negligent of her presence that even this little incident had failed to
make him sensible of her scrutiny. Immersed in his thoughts he was
very obviously miles away from Craven Towers and the vicinity of a
troublesome ward. And suddenly it hurt. She was nothing to him but a
shy _gauche_ girl whose very existence was an embarrassment. The
determination so bravely formed died before his cold detachment. More
than ever was speech impossible.

She shrugged faintly with a little pout. So, confident of his
preoccupation, she continued to study him. Had the homecoming
intensified the sadness of his eyes and deepened the lines about his
mouth?--were memories of the mother he had adored sharpening tonight
the look of suffering on his face? Or was her imagination, over-excited,
exaggerating what she saw and fancying a great sorrow where there was
only boredom? She pondered, and had almost concluded that the latter was
the saner explanation when--watching--she saw a sudden spasm cross his
face of such agony that she caught her lip fiercely between her teeth
to stifle an exclamation. In the fleeting expression of a moment she
had seen the revelation of a soul in torment. She looked away hastily,
feeling dismayed at having trespassed. She had discovered a secret
wound. She sat tense, and a quick fear came lest the others might have
also seen. She glanced at them furtively. But the argument was
still unsettled, the tablecloth between them scored and creased with
conflicting sketches. She drew a sharp little sigh of relief. Only she
had noticed, and she did not matter. For a few moments her thoughts
ran riot until she pulled them up frowningly. It was no business of
hers--she had no right even to speculate on his affairs. Angry with
herself she turned for distraction to the portraits on the walls--they
at least would offer no disturbing problem. But her determination to
keep her thoughts from her guardian met with a check at the outset for
she found herself staring at Barry Craven as she had visualised him in
that first moment of meeting--steel-clad. It was the picture of a young
man, dressed in the style of the Elizabethan period, wearing a light
inlaid cuirass and leaning negligently against a stone balustrade,
a hooded falcon on his wrist. The resemblance to the owner of Craven
Towers was remarkable--the same build, the same haughty carriage of the
head, the same features and colouring; the mouth only of the painted
gallant differed, for the lips were not set sternly but curved in a
singularly winning smile. The portrait had recently been cleaned and
the colours stood out freshly. The pose of the figure was curiously
unrestrained for the period, a suggestion of energy--barely concealed by
the indolent attitude--broke through the conventional treatment of the
time, as if the painter had responded to an influence that had overcome
tradition. The whole body seemed to pulsate with life. Gillian looked at
it entranced; instinctively her eyes sought the pictured hands. The one
that held the falcon was covered with an embroidered leather glove, but
the other was bare, holding a set of jesses. And even the hands were
similar, the characteristics faithfully transmitted. Peters' voice
startled her. “You are looking at the first Barry Craven, Miss Locke. It
is a wonderful picture. The resemblance is extraordinary, is it not?”

She looked up and met the agent's magnetic smile across the table.

“It is--extraordinary,” she said slowly; “it might be a costume portrait
of Mr. Craven, except that in treatment the picture is so different from
a modern painting.”

Peters laughed.

“The professional eye, Miss Locke! But I am glad that you admit the
likeness. I should have quarrelled horribly with you if you had failed
to see it. The young man in the picture,” he went on, warming to the
subject as he saw the girl's interest, “was one of the most romantic
personages of his time. He lived in the reign of Elizabeth and was
poet, sculptor, and musician--there are two volumes of his verse in
the library and the marble Hermes in the hall is his work. When he
was seventeen he left the Towers to go to court. He seems to have been
universally beloved, judging from various letters that have come down
to us. He was a close friend of Sir Philip Sidney and one of Spenser's
numerous patrons. A special favourite with Elizabeth--in fact her
partiality seems to have been a source of some embarrassment, according
to entries in his private journal. She knighted him for no particular
reason that has ever transpired, indeed it seems to have been a matter
of surprise to himself, for he records it in his journal thus:

“'--dubbed knight this day by Gloriana. God He knoweth why, but not I.'
He was an idealist and visionary, with the power of putting his thoughts
into words--his love poems are the most beautiful I have ever read, but
they are quite impersonal. There is no evidence that his love was ever
given to any 'faire ladye.' No woman's name was ever connected with his,
and from his detached attitude towards the tender passion he earned, in
a fantastical court, the euphuistic appellation of _L'amant d' Amour._
Quite suddenly, after ten years in the queen's household, he fitted out
an expedition to America. He gave no reason. Distaste for the artificial
existence prevailing at Court, sorrow at the death of his friend
Sidney, or a wander-hunger fed on the tales brought home by the numerous
merchant adventurers may have been the cause of this surprising step.
His decision provoked dismay among his friends and brought a furious
tirade from Elizabeth who commanded him to remain near her. But in spite
of royal oaths and entreaties--more of the former than the latter--he
sailed to Virginia on a land expedition. Two letters came from him
during the next few years, but after that--silence. His fate is
not known. He was the first of many Cravens to vanish into oblivion
searching for new lands.” The pleasant voice hesitated and dropped to a
lower, more serious note. And Gillian was puzzled at the sudden anxiety
that clouded the agent's smiling blue eyes. She had listened with eager
interest. It was history brought close and made alive in its intimate
connection with the house. The dream castle was more wonderful even
than she had thought. She smiled her thanks at Peters, and drew a long
breath.

“I like that,” and looking at the picture again, “the Lover of Love!”
 she repeated softly; “it's a very beautiful idea.”

“A very unsatisfactory one for any poor soul who may have been fool
enough to lose her heart to him.” Miss Craven's voice was caustic.

“I have often wondered if any demoiselle 'pined in a green and yellow
melancholy for his sake,' she added, rising from the table.

“Reason enough, if he knew of it, for going to Virginia,” said Craven,
with a hard laugh. “The family traditions have never tended to undue
consideration of the weaker sex.”

“Barry, you are horrible!”

“Possibly, my dear aunt, but correct,” he replied coolly, crossing the
room to open the door. “Even Peter, who has the family history at his
fingers' ends, cannot deny it.” His voice was provocative but Peters,
beyond a mildly sarcastic “--thank you for the 'even,' Barry--” refused
to be drawn.

Her nephew's words would formerly have aroused a storm of indignant
protest from Miss Craven, touched in a tender spot. But now some
intuition warned her to silence. She put her arm through Gillian's and
left the room without attempting to expostulate.

In the drawing room she sat down to a patience table, lit a cigarette,
rumpled her hair, and laid out the cards frowningly. More than ever
was she convinced that in the two years he had been away some serious
disaster had occurred. His whole character appeared to have undergone
a change. He was totally different. The old Barry had been neither hard
nor cynical, the new Barry was both. In the last few weeks she had had
ample opportunity for judging. She perceived that a heavy shadow
lay upon him darkening his home-coming--she had pictured it so very
differently, and she sighed over the futility of anticipation. His
happiness meant to her so much that she raged at her inability to help
him. Until he spoke she could do nothing. And she knew that he would
never speak. The nightly occupation lost its usual zest, so she shuffled
the cards absently and began a fresh game.

Gillian was on the hearthrug, Houston's head in her lap. She leant
against Miss Craven's chair, dreaming as she had dreamt in the old
convent until the sudden lifting of the dog's head under her hands made
her aware of Peters standing beside her. He looked down silently on the
card table for a few moments, pointed with a nicotine-stained finger to
a move Miss Craven had missed and then wandered across the room and sat
down at the piano. For a while his hands moved silently over the keys,
then he began to play, and his playing was exquisite. Gillian sat and
marvelled. Peters and music had seemed widely apart. He had appeared
so essentially a sportsman; in spite of the literary tendency that his
sympathetic account of the Elizabethan Barry Craven had suggested
she had associated him with rougher, more physical pursuits. He was
obviously an out-door man; a gun seemed a more natural complement to
his hands than the sensitive keys of a piano, his thick rather clumsy
fingers manifestly incompatible with the delicate touch that was filling
the room with wonderful harmony. It was a check to her cherished theory
which she acknowledged reluctantly. But she forgot to theorise in the
sheer joy of listening.

“Why did he not make music a career?” she whispered, under cover of some
crashing chords. Miss Craven smiled at her eager face.

“Can you see Peter kow-towing to concert directors, and grimacing at an
audience?” she replied, rescuing a king from her rubbish heap.

With an answering smile Gillian subsided into her former position.
Music moved her deeply and her highly strung artistic temperament was
responding to the beauty of Peters' playing. It was a Russian folk song,
plaintive and simple, with a curious minor refrain like the sigh of an
aching heart--wild sad harmony with pain in it that gripped the throat.
Swayed by the sorrow-haunted music a wave of foreboding came over her, a
strange indefinite fear that was formless but that weighed on her like
a crushing burden. The happiness of the last few weeks seemed suddenly
swamped in the recollection of the misery rampant in the world. Who,
if their inmost hearts were known, were truly happy? And her thoughts,
becoming more personal, flitted back over the desolate days of her own
sad girlhood and then drifted to the tragedy of her father. Then, with
a forward leap that brought her suddenly to the present, she thought of
the sorrow she had seen on Craven's face in that breathless moment at
dinner time. Was there only sadness in the world? The brooding brown
eyes grew misty. A passionate prayer welled up in her heart that
complete happiness might touch her once, if only for a moment.

Then the music changed and with it the girl's mood. She gave her head
a little backward jerk and blinked the moisture from her eyes angrily.
What was the matter with her? Surely she was the most ungrateful girl in
the universe. If there was sorrow in the world for her then it must
be of her own making. She had been shown almost unbelievable kindness,
nothing had been omitted to make her happy. The contrast of her life
only a few weeks ago and now was immeasurable. What more did she want?
Was she so selfish that she could even think of the unhappiness that was
over? Shame filled her, and she raised her eyes to the woman beside her
with a sudden rush of gratitude and love. But Miss Craven, interested at
last in her game, was blind to her surroundings, and with a little smile
Gillian turned her attention to the silent occupant of the chair near
her. Craven had come into the room a few minutes before. He was leaning
back listlessly, one hand shading his face, a neglected cigarette
dangling from the other. She looked at him long and earnestly,
wondering, as she always wondered, what association there had been
between him and such a man as her father--what had induced him to take
upon himself the burden that had been laid upon him. And her cheeks
grew hot again at the thought of the encumbrance she was to him. It was
preposterous that he should be so saddled!

She stifled a sigh and her eyes grew dreamy as she fell to thinking of
the future that lay before her. And as she planned with eager confidence
her hand moved soothingly over the dog's head in measure to the
languorous waltz that Peters was playing.

After a sudden unexpected chord the player rose from the piano and
joined the circle at the other end of the room. Miss Craven was
shuffling vigorously. “Thank you, Peter,” she said, with a smiling nod,
“it's like old times to hear you play again. Gillian thinks you have
missed your vocation, she would like to see you at the Queen's Hall.”

Peters laughed at the girl's blushing protest and sat down near the card
table. Miss Craven paused in a deal to light a fresh cigarette.

“What's the news in the county?” she asked, adding for Gillian's
benefit: “He's a walking chronicle, my dear.”

Peters laughed. “Nothing startling, dear lady. We have been a singularly
well-behaved community of late. Old Lacy of Holmwood is dead, Bill Lacy
reigns in his stead and is busy cutting down oaks to pay for youthful
indiscretions--none of 'em very fierce when all's said and done. The
Hamer-Banisters have gone under at last--more's the pity--and Hamer
is let to some wealthy Australians who are possessed apparently of
unlimited cash, a most curious phraseology, and an assurance which is
beautiful to behold. They had good introductions and Alex has taken them
up enthusiastically--there are kindred tastes.”

“Horses, I presume. How are the Horringfords?”

“Much as usual,” replied Peters. “Horringford is absorbed in things
Egyptian, and Alex is on the warpath again,” he added darkly.

Miss Craven grinned.

“What is it this time?”

Peters' eyebrows twitched quaintly.

“Socialism!” he chuckled, “a brand new, highly original conception of
that very elastic term. I asked Alex to explain the principles of this
particular organization and she was very voluble and rather cryptic. It
appears to embrace the rights of man, the elevation of the masses, the
relations between landlord and tenant, the psychological deterioration
of the idle rich--”

“Alex and psychology--good heavens!” interposed Miss Craven, her hands
at her hair, “and the amelioration of the downtrodden poor,” continued
Peters. “It doesn't sound very original, but I'm told that the
propaganda is novel in the extreme. Alex is hard at work among their own
people,” he concluded, leaning back in his chair with a laugh.

“But--the downtrodden poor! I thought Horringford was a model landlord
and his estates an example to the kingdom.”

“Precisely. That's the humour of it. But a little detail like that
wouldn't deter Alex. It will be an interest for the summer, she's always
rather at a loose end when there's no hunting. She had taken up this
socialistic business very thoroughly, organizing meetings and lectures.
A completely new scheme for the upbringing of children seems to be a
special sideline of the campaign. I'm rather vague there--I know I made
Alex very angry by telling her that it reminded me of intensive market
gardening. That Alex has no children of her own presents no difficulty
to her--she is full of the most beautiful theories. But theories don't
seem to go down very well with the village women. She was routed the
other day by the mother of a family who told her bluntly to her face she
didn't know what she was talking about--which was doubtless perfectly
true. But the manner of telling seems to have been disagreeable and
Alex was very annoyed and complained to Thomson, the new agent. He, poor
chap, was between the devil and the deep sea, for the tenants had also
been complaining that they were being interfered with. So he had to go
to Horringford and there was a royal row. The upshot of it was that Alex
rang me up on the 'phone this morning to tell me that Horringford was
behaving like a bear, that he was so wrapped up in his musty mummies
that he hadn't a spark of philanthropy in him, and that she was coming
over to lunch tomorrow to tell me all about it--she's delighted to hear
that the house is open again, and will come on to you for tea, when
you will doubtless get a second edition of her woes. Half-an-hour later
Horringford rang me up to say that Alex had been particularly tiresome
over some new crank which had set everybody by the ears, that Thomson
was sending in a resignation daily, altogether there was the deuce to
pay, and would I use my influence and talk sense to her. It appears he
is working at high pressure to finish a monograph on one of the Pharaohs
and was considerably ruffled at being interrupted.”

“If he cared a little less for the Pharaohs and a little more for
Alex--” suggested Miss Craven, blowing smoke rings thoughtfully. Peters
shook his head.

“He did care--that's the pity of it,” he said slowly, “but what can you
expect?--you know how it was. Alex was a child married when she should
have been in the schoolroom, without a voice in the matter. Horringford
was nearly twenty years her senior, always reserved and absorbed in
his Egyptian researches. Alex hadn't an idea in the world outside the
stables. Horringford bored her infinitely, and with Alex-like honesty
she did not hesitate to tell him so. They hadn't a thought in common.
She couldn't see the sterling worth of the man, so they drifted apart
and Horringford retired more than ever into his shell.”

“And what do you propose to do, Peter?” Craven's sudden question was
startling, for he had not appeared to be listening to the conversation.

Peters lit a cigarette and smoked for a few moments before answering.
“I shall listen to all Alex has to say,” he said at last, “then I shall
tell her a few things I think she ought to know, and I shall persuade
her to ask Horringford to take her with him to Egypt next winter.”

“Why?”

“Because Horringford in Egypt and Horringford in England are two very
different people. I know--because I have seen. It's an idea, it may
work. Anyhow it's worth trying.”

“But suppose her ladyship does not succumb to your persuasive tongue?”

“She will--before I've done with her,” replied Peters grimly, and then
he laughed. “I guessed from what she said this morning that she was a
little frightened at the hornet's nest she had raised. I imagine she
won't be sorry to run away for a while and let things settle down. She
can ease off gently in the meantime and give Egypt as an excuse for
finally withdrawing.”

“You think Alex is more to blame than Horringford?” said Miss Craven,
with a note of challenge in her voice.

Peters shrugged. “I blame them both. But above all I blame the system
that has been responsible for the trouble.”

“You mean that Alex should have been allowed to choose her own husband?
She was such a child--”

“And Horringford was such a devil of a good match,” interposed Craven
cynically, moving from his chair to the padded fireguard. Gillian was
sitting on the arm of Miss Craven's chair, sorting the patience cards
into a leather case. She looked up quickly. “I thought that in
England all girls choose their own husbands, that they marry to please
themselves, I mean,” she said in a puzzled voice.

“Theoretically they do, my dear,” replied Miss Craven, “in practice
numbers do not. The generality of girls settle their own futures and
choose their own husbands. But there are still many old-fashioned people
who arrogate to themselves the right of settling their daughters' lives,
who have so trained them that resistance to family wishes becomes almost
an impossibility. A good suitor presents himself, parental pressure is
brought to bear--and the deed is done. Witness the case of Alex. In a
few years she probably would have chosen for herself, wisely. As it was,
marriage had never entered her head.”

“She couldn't have chosen a better man,” said Peters warmly, “if he had
only been content to wait a year or two--”

“Alex would probably have eloped with a groom or a circus rider before
she reached years of discretion!” laughed Miss Craven. “But it's a
difficult question, the problem of husband choosing,” she went
on thoughtfully. “Being a bachelor I can discuss it with perfect
equanimity. But if in a moment of madness I had married and acquired a
houseful of daughters, I should have nervous prostration every time a
strange man showed his nose inside the door.”

“You don't set us on a very high plane, dear lady,” said Peters
reproachfully.

“My good soul, I set you on no plane at all--know too much about you!”
 she smiled. Peters laughed. “What's your opinion, Barry?”

Since his one interruption Craven had been silent, as if the discussion
had ceased to interest him. He did not answer Peters' question for some
time and when at last he spoke his voice was curiously strained. “I
don't think my opinion counts for very much, but it seems to me that
the woman takes a big risk either way. A man never knows what kind of a
blackguard he may prove in circumstances that may arise.”

An awkward pause followed. Miss Craven kept her eyes fixed on the card
table with a feeling of nervous apprehension that was new to her. Her
nephew's words and the bitterness of his tone seemed fraught with hidden
meaning, and she racked her brains to find a topic that would lessen
the tension that seemed to have fallen on the room. But Peters broke
the silence before it became noticeable. “The one person present whom
it most nearly concerns has not given us her view. What do you say, Miss
Locke?”

Gillian flushed faintly. It was still difficult to join in a general
conversation, to remember that she might at any moment be called upon to
put forward ideas of her own.

“I am afraid I am prejudiced. I was brought up in a convent--in France,”
 she said hesitatingly. “Then you hold with the French custom of arranged
marriages?” suggested Peters. Her dark eyes looked seriously into his.
“I think it is--safer,” she said slowly.

“And consequently, happier?” The colour deepened in her face. “Oh,
I don't know. I do not understand English ways. I can speak only
of France. We talked of it in the convent--naturally, since it was
forbidden, _que voulez vous?_” she smiled. “Some of my friends were
married. Their parents arranged the marriages. It seems that--” she
stammered and went on hurriedly--“that there is much to be considered in
choosing a husband, much that--girls do not understand, that only older
people know. So it is perhaps better that they should arrange a matter
which is so serious and so--so lasting. They must know more than we do,”
 she added quietly.

“And are your friends happy?” asked Miss Craven bluntly.

“They are content.”

Miss Craven snorted. “Content!” she said scornfully. “Marriage should
bring more than contentment. It's a meagre basis on which to found a
life partnership.”

A shadow flitted across the girl's face.

“I had a friend who married for love,” she said slowly. “She belonged
to the old noblesse, and her family wished her to make a great marriage.
But she loved an artist and married him in spite of all opposition. For
six months she was the happiest girl in France--then she found out that
her husband was unfaithful. Does it shock you that I speak of it--we all
knew in the convent. She went to Capri soon afterwards, to a villa her
father had given her, and one morning she went out to swim--it was a
daily habit, she could do anything in the water. But that morning she
swam out to sea--and she did not come back.” The low voice sank almost
to a whisper. Miss Craven looked up incredulously. “Do you mean she
deliberately drowned herself?” Gillian made a little gesture of evasion.
“She was very unhappy,” she said softly. And in the silence that
followed her troubled gaze turned almost unconsciously to her guardian.
He had risen and was standing with his hands in his pockets staring
straight in front of him, rigidly still. His attitude suggested complete
detachment from those about him, as if his spirit was ranging far afield
leaving the big frame empty, impenetrable as a figure of stone. She
was sensitive to his lack of interest. She regretted having expressed
opinions that she feared were immature and valueless. A quick sigh
escaped her, and Miss Craven, misunderstanding, patted her shoulder
gently. “It's a very sad little story, my dear.”

“And one that serves to confirm your opinion that a girl does well to
accept the husband who is chosen for her, Miss Locke?” asked Peters
abruptly, as he glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.

Gillian joined in the general move.

“I think it is--safer,” she said, as she had said before, and stooped to
rouse the sleeping poodle.




CHAPTER V


Miss Craven was sitting alone in the library at the Towers. She had been
reading, but the book had failed to hold her attention and lay unheeded
on her lap while she was plunged in a profound reverie.

She sat very still, her usually serene face clouded, and once or twice a
heavy sigh escaped her.

The short November day was drawing in and though still early afternoon
it was already growing dark. The declining light was more noticeable in
the library than elsewhere in the house--a sombre room once the morning
sun had passed; long and narrow and panelled in oak to a height of
about twelve feet, above which ran a gallery reached by a hammered iron
stairway, it housed a collection of calf and vellum bound books which
clothed the walls from the floor of the gallery to within a few feet of
the lofty ceiling. On the fourth side of the room, whither the gallery
did not extend, three tall narrow windows overlooked the drive. The
furniture was scanty and severely Jacobean, having for more than two
hundred years remained practically intact; a ponderous writing table,
a couple of long low cabinets, and half a dozen cavernous armchairs
recushioned to suit modern requirements of ease. Some fine old bronzes
stood against the panelled walls. There was about the room a settled
peacefulness. The old furniture had a stately air of permanence.
The polished panels, and, above, the orderly ranks of ancient books
suggested durability; they remained--while generations of men came and
passed, transient figures reflected in the shining oak, handling for a
few brief years the printed treasures that would still be read centuries
after they had returned to their dust.

The spirit of the house seemed embodied in this big silent room that was
spacious and yet intimate, formal and yet friendly.

It was Miss Craven's favourite retreat. The atmosphere was sympathetic.
Here she seemed more particularly in touch with the subtle influence of
family that seemed to pervade the whole house. In most of the rooms it
was perceptible, but in the library it was forceful.

The house and the family--they were bound up inseparably.

For hundreds of years, in an unbroken line, from father to son ...
from father to son.... Miss Craven sat bolt upright to the sound of an
unmistakable sob. She looked with amazement at two tears blistering the
page of the open book on her knee. She had not knowingly cried since
childhood. It was a good thing that she was alone she thought, with a
startled glance round the empty room. She would have to keep a firmer
hold over herself than that. She laughed a little shakily, choked, blew
her nose vigorously, and walked to the middle window. Outside was stark
November. The wind swept round the house in fierce gusts before which
the big bare-branched trees in the park swayed and bowed, and trains
of late fallen leaves caught in a whirlwind eddied skyward to scatter
widely down again.

Rain lashed the window panes. Yet even when storm-tossed the scene had
its own peculiar charm. At all seasons it was lovely.

Miss Craven looked at the massive trees, beautiful in their clean
nakedness, and wondered how often she would see them bud again.
Frowning, she smothered a rising sigh and pressing closer to the window
peered out more attentively. Eastward and westward stretched long
avenues that curved and receded soon from sight. The gravelled space
before the house was wide; from it two shorter avenues encircling a
large oval paddock led to the stables, built at some distance facing the
house, but hidden by a belt of firs.

For some time Miss Craven watched, but only a game-keeper passed, a
drenched setter at his heels, and with a little shiver she turned back
to the room. She moved about restlessly, lifting books to lay them down
immediately, ransacking the cabinets for prints that at a second glance
failed to interest, and examining the bronzes that she had known from
childhood with lengthy intentness as if she saw them now for the first
time.

A footman came and silently replenished the fire. Her thoughts,
interrupted, swung into a new channel. She sat down at the writing table
and drawing toward her a sheet of paper slowly wrote the date. Beyond
that she did not get. The ink dried on the pen as she stared at the
blank sheet, unable to express as she wished the letter she had intended
to write.

She laid the silver holder down at last with a hopeless gesture and her
eyes turned to a bronze figure that served as a paper weight. It was a
piece of her own work and she handled it lovingly with a curiously sad
smile until a second hard sob broke from her and pushing it away she
covered her face with her hands.

“Not for myself, God knows it's not for myself,” she whispered, as if
in extenuation. And mastering herself with an effort she made a second
attempt to write but at the end of half a dozen words rose impatiently,
crumpled the paper in her hand and walking to the fireplace threw it
among the blazing logs.

She watched it curl and discolour, the writing blackly distinct,
and crumble into ashes. Then from force of habit she searched for
a cigarette in a box on the mantelpiece, but as she lit it a sudden
thought arrested her and after a moment's hesitation the cigarette
followed the half--written letter into the fire.

With an impatient shrug she went back to an arm chair and again tried to
read, but though her eyes mechanically followed the words on the printed
page she did not notice what she was reading and laying the book down
she gave up all further endeavour to distract her wandering thoughts.
They were not pleasant and when, a little later, the door opened she
turned her head expectantly with a sigh of relief. Peters came in
briskly.

“I've come to inquire,” he said laughing, “the family pew held me in
solitary state this morning. Time was when I never minded, but this
last year has spoiled me. I was booked for lunch but I came as soon as I
could. Nobody ill, I hope?”

Miss Craven looked at him for a moment before answering as he stood with
his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him, his face ruddy with
the wind and rain, his keen blue eyes on hers, reliable, unchanging.
It was a curious chance that had brought him--just at that moment. The
temptation to make an unusual confidence rose strongly. She had known
him and trusted him for more years than she cared to remember. How much
to say? Indecision held her.

“You are always thoughtful, Peter,” she temporised. “I am afraid there
is no excuse,” with a little smile; “Barry rode off somewhere quite
early this morning and Gillian went yesterday to the Horringfords.
I expect her back to-day in time for tea. For myself, I had gout or
rheumatism or the black dog on my back, I forget which! Anyhow, I
stayed at home.” She laughed and pointed to the cigarettes. He took one,
tapping it on his thumbnail.

“You were alone. Why didn't you 'phone? I should have been glad
to escape the Australians. They are enormously kind, but
somewhat--er--overwhelming,” he added with a quick laugh.

“My dear man, be thankful I never thought of it. I've been like a bear
with a sore head all day.” She looked past him into the fire, and struck
by a new note in her voice he refrained from comment, smoking slowly and
luxuriating in the warmth after a cold wet drive in an open motor. He
never used a closed car. But some words she had used struck him. “Barry
is riding--?” with a glance at the storm raging outside.

“Yes. He had breakfast at an unearthly hour and went off early. Weather
seems to make no difference to him, but he will be soaked to the skin.”

“He's tough,” replied Peters shortly. “I thought he must be out. As I
came in just now Yoshio was hanging about the hall, watching the drive.
Waiting for him, I suppose,” he added, flicking a curl of ash into the
fire. “He's a treasure of a valet,” he supplemented conversationally.
But Miss Craven let the observation pass. She was still staring into the
leaping flames, drumming with her fingers on the arms of the chair.
Once she tried to speak but no words came. Peters waited. He felt
unaccountably but definitely that she wished him to wait, that what was
evidently on her mind would come with no prompting from him. He felt in
her attitude a tension that was unusual--to-day she was totally unlike
herself. Once or twice only in the course of a lifelong friendship she
had shown him her serious side. She had turned to him for help then--he
seemed presciently aware that she was turning to him for help now.
He prided himself that he knew her as well as she knew herself and he
understood the effort it would cost her to speak. That he guessed the
cause of her trouble was no short cut to getting that trouble uttered.
She would take her own time, he could not go half-way to meet her. He
must stand by and wait. When had he ever done anything else at Craven
Towers? His eyes glistened curiously in the firelight, and he rammed his
hands down into his jacket pockets with abrupt jerkiness. Suddenly Miss
Craven broke the silence.

“Peter--I'm horribly worried about Barry,” the words came with a rush.
He understood her too well to cavil.

“Dear lady, so am I,” he replied with a promptness that did not console.

“Peter, what is it?” she went on breathlessly. “Barry is utterly
changed. You see it as well as I. I don't understand--I'm all at sea--I
want your help. I couldn't discuss him with anybody else, but you--you
are one of us, you've always been one of us. Fair weather or foul,
you've stood by us. What we should have done without you God only knows.
You care for Barry, he's as dear to you as he is to me, can't you do
something? The suffering in his face--the tragedy in his eyes--I wake
up in the night seeing them! Peter, can't you _do_ something?” She was
beside him, clutching at the mantel-shelf, shaking with emotion. The
sight of her unnerved, almost incoherent, shocked him. He realised the
depth of the impression that had been made upon her--deep indeed to
produce such a result. But what she asked was impossible. He made a
little negative gesture and shook his head.

“Dear lady, I can't do anything. And I wonder whether you know how it
hurts to have to say so? No son could be dearer to me than Barry--for
the sake of his mother--” his voice faltered momentarily, “but the fact
remains--he is not my son. I am only his agent. There are certain things
I cannot do and say, no matter how great the wish,” he added with a
twisted smile.

Miss Craven seemed scarcely to be listening. “It happened in Japan,” she
asserted in fierce low tones. “Japan! Japan!” she continued vehemently,
“how much more sorrow is that country to bring to our family! It
happened in Japan and whatever it was--Yoshio knows! You spoke of him
just now. You said he was hanging about--waiting--watching. Peter, he's
doing it all the time! He watches continually. Barry never has to send
for him--he's always there, waiting to be called. When Barry goes out
the man is restless until he comes in again--haunting the hall--it
gets on my nerves. Yet there is nothing I can actually complain of. He
doesn't intrude, he is as noiseless as a cat and vanishes if he
sees you, but you know that just out of sight he's still
there--waiting--listening. Peter, what is he waiting for? I don't think
that it is apparent to the rest of the household, I didn't notice it
myself at first. But a few months ago something happened and since then
I don't seem able to get away from it. It was in the night, about two
o'clock; I was wakeful and couldn't sleep. I thought if I read I might
read myself sleepy. I hadn't a book in my room that pleased me and I
remembered a half-finished novel I had left in the library. I didn't
take a light--I know every turn in the Towers blindfold. As you know,
to reach the staircase from my room I have to pass Barry's door, and at
Barry's door I fell over something in the darkness--something with hands
of steel that saved me from an awkward tumble and hurried me down the
passage and into the moonlit gallery before I could find a word of
expostulation. Yoshio of course. I was naturally startled and angry
in consequence. I demanded an explanation and after a great deal of
hesitation he muttered something about Barry wanting him--which is
ridiculous on the face of it. If Barry had really wanted him he would
have been inside the room, not crouched outside on the door mat. He
seemed very upset and kept begging me to say nothing about it. I don't
remember how he put it but he certainly conveyed the impression that it
would not be good for Barry to know. I don't understand it--Barry trusts
him implicitly--and yet this.... I'm afraid, and I've never been afraid
in my life before.” The little break in her voice hurt him. He felt
curiously unable to cope with the situation. Her story disturbed him
more than he cared to let her see in her present condition of unwonted
agitation. Twice in the past they had stood shoulder to shoulder through
a crisis of sufficient magnitude and she had showed then a cautious
judgment, a reliability of purpose that had been purely masculine in
its strength and sanity. She had been wholly matter-of-fact and
unimaginative, unswayed by petty trivialities and broad in her decision.
She had displayed a levelness of mind which had almost excluded
feeling and which had enabled him to deal with her as with another man,
confident of her understanding and the unlikelihood of her succumbing
unexpectedly to ordinary womanly weaknesses. He had thought that he
knew her thoroughly, that no circumstance that might arise could alter
characteristics so set and inherent. But to-day her present emotion
which had come perilously near hysteria, showed her in a new light
that made her almost a stranger. He was a little bewildered with the
discovery. It was incredible after all these years, just as if an
edifice that he had thought strongly built of stone had tumbled about
his ears like a pack of cards. He could hardly grasp it. He felt that
there was something behind it all--something more than she admitted.
He was tempted to ask definitely but second reflection brought the
conviction that it would be a mistake, that it would be taking an unfair
advantage. Sufficient unto the day--his present concern was to help her
regain a normal mental poise. And to do that he must ignore half of what
her suggestions seemed to imply. He felt her breakdown acutely, he must
say nothing that would add to her distress of mind. It was better to
appear obtuse than to concur too heartily in fears, a recollection of
which in a saner moment he knew would be distasteful to her. She would
never forgive herself--the less she had to forget the better. She
trusted him or she would never have spoken at all. That he knew and he
was honoured by her confidence. They had always been friends, but in her
weakness he felt nearer to her than ever before. She was waiting for him
to speak. He chose the line that seemed the least open to argument.
He spoke at last, evenly, unwilling alike to seem incredulous or
overanxious, his big steady hand closing warmly over her twitching
fingers.

“I don't think there is any cause--any reason to doubt Yoshio's
fidelity. The man is devoted to Barry. His behaviour certainly
sounds--curious, but can be attributed I am convinced to
over-zealousness. He is an alien in a strange land, cut off from his
own natural distractions and amusements, and with time on his hands his
devotion to his master takes a more noticeable form than is usual with
an ordinary English man-servant. That he designs any harm I cannot
believe. He has been with Barry a long time--on the several occasions
when he stayed with him at your house in London did you notice anything
in his behaviour then similar to the attitude you have observed
recently? No? Then I take it that it is due to the same anxiety that we
ourselves have felt since Barry's return. Only in Yoshio's case it is
probably based on definite knowledge, whereas ours is pure conjecture.
Barry has undoubtedly been up against something--momentous. Between
ourselves we can admit the fact frankly. It is a different man who has
come back to us--and we can only carry on and notice nothing. He is
trying to forget something. He has worked like a nigger since he came
home, slogging away down at the estate office as if he had his bread to
earn. He does the work of two men--and he hates it. I see him sometimes,
forgetful of his surroundings, staring out of the window, and the look
on his face brings a confounded lump into my throat. Thank God he's
young--perhaps in time--” he shrugged and broke off inconclusively,
conscious of the futility of platitudes. And they were all he had to
offer. There was no suggestion he could make, nothing he could do. It
was repetition of history, again he had to stand by and watch suffering
he was powerless to aid, powerless to relieve. The mother first and now
the son--it would seem almost as if he had failed both. The sense of
helplessness was bitter and his face was drawn with pain as he stared
dumbly at the window against which the storm was beating with renewed
violence. The sight of the angry elements brought almost a feeling of
relief; it would be something that he could contend with and overcome,
something that would go towards mitigating the galling sense of
impotence that chafed him. He felt the room suddenly stifling, he wanted
the cold sting of the rain against his face, the roar of the wind in the
trees above his head. Abruptly he buttoned his jacket in preparation
for departure. Miss Craven pulled herself together. She laid a detaining
hand on his arm. “Peter,” she said slowly, “do you think that Barry's
trouble has any connection with--my brother? The change of pictures in
the dining-room--it was so strange. He said it was a reparation. Do you
think Barry--found out something in Japan?”

Peter shook his head. “God knows,” he said gruffly. For a moment there
was silence, then with a sigh Miss Craven moved towards a bell.

“You'll stay for tea?”

“Thanks, no. I've got a man coming over, I'll have to go. Give my love
to Gillian and tell her I shall not, forgive her soon for deserting me
this morning. Has she lost that nasty cough yet?”

“Almost. I didn't want her to go to the Horringfords, but she promised
to be careful.” Miss Craven paused, then:

“What did we do without Gillian, Peter?” she said with an odd little
laugh.

“'You've got me guessing,' as Atherton says. She's a witch, bless her!”
 he replied, holding out his hands. Miss Craven took them and held them
for a moment.

“You're the best pal I ever had, Peter,” she said unsteadily, “and
you've given all your life to us Cravens.”

The sudden gripping of his hands was painful, then he bent his head and
unexpectedly put his lips to the fingers he held so closely.

“I'm always here--when you want me,” he said huskily, and was gone.

Miss Craven stood still looking after him with a curious smile.

“Thank God for Peter,” she said fervently, and went back to her station
by the window. It was considerably darker than before, but for some
distance the double avenue leading to the stables was visible. As she
watched, playing absently with the blind-cord, her mind dwelt on the
long connection between Peter Peters and her family. Thirty years--the
best of his life. And in exchange sorrow and an undying memory. The
woman he loved had chosen not him but handsome inconsequent Barry Craven
and, for her choice, had reaped misery and loneliness. And because
he had known that inevitably a day would come when she would need
assistance and support he had sunk his own feelings and retained his
post. Her brief happiness had been hard to watch--the subsequent long
years of her desertion a protracted torture. He had raged at his own
helplessness. And ignorant of his love and the motive that kept him at
Craven Towers she had come to lean on him and refer all to him. But for
his care the Craven properties would have been ruined, and the Craven
interests neglected beyond repair.

For some time before her sister-in-law's death Miss Craven had known, as
only a woman can know, but now for the first time she had heard from
his lips a half-confession of the love that he had guarded jealously for
thirty years.

The unusual tears that to-day seemed so curiously near the surface rose
despite her and she blinked the moisture from her eyes with a feeling of
irritated shame.

Then a figure, almost indistinguishable in the gloom, coming from the
stables, caught her eye and she gave a sharp sigh of relief.

He was walking slowly, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders
hunched against the storm of wind and rain that beat on his broad back.
His movements suggested intense weariness, yet nearing the house his
step lagged even more as if, despite physical fatigue and the inclement
weather, he was rather forcing himself to return than showing a natural
desire for shelter.

There was in his tread a heaviness that contrasted forcibly with the
elasticity that had formerly been characteristic. As he passed close by
the window where Miss Craven was standing she saw that he was splashed
from head to foot. She thought with sudden compassion of the horse that
he had ridden. She had been in the stables only a few weeks before when
he had handed over another jaded mud-caked brute trembling in every
limb and showing signs of merciless riding to the old head groom who
had maintained a stony silence as was his duty but whose grim face
was eloquent of all he might not say. It was so unlike Barry to
be inconsiderate, toward animals he had been always peculiarly
tender-hearted.

She hurried out to the hall, almost cannoning with a little dark-clad
figure who gave way with a deep Oriental reverence. “Master very wet,”
 he murmured, and vanished.

“There's some sense in him,” she muttered grudgingly. And quite suddenly
a wholly unexpected sympathy dawned for the inscrutable Japanese
whom she had hitherto disliked. But she had no time to dwell on her
unaccountable change of feeling for through the glass of the inner door
she saw Craven in the vestibule struggling stiffly to rid himself of a
dripping mackintosh. It had been no protection for the driving rain
had penetrated freely, and as he fumbled at the buttons with slow cold
fingers the water ran off him in little trickling streams on to the mat.

She had no wish to convey the impression that she had been waiting for
him. She met him as if by accident, hailing him with surprise that rang
genuine.

“Hallo, Barry, just in time for tea! I know you don't usually indulge,
but you can do an act of grace on this one occasion by cheering my
solitude. Peter looked in for ten minutes but had to hurry away for an
engagement, and Gillian is not yet back.”

His face was haggard but he smiled in reply, “All right. In the library?
Then in five minutes--I'm a little wet.”

In an incredibly short time he joined her, changed and immaculate. She
looked up from the tea urn she was manipulating, her eyes resting on him
with the pleasure his physical appearance always gave her. “You've been
quick!”

“Yoshio,” he replied laconically, handing her buttered toast.

He ate little himself but drank two cups of tea, smoking the while
innumerable cigarettes. Miss Craven chatted easily until the tea table
was taken away and Craven had withdrawn to his usual position on the
hearthrug, lounging against the mantelshelf.

Then she fell silent, looking at him furtively from time to time, her
hands restless in her lap, nerving herself to speak. What she had to say
was even more difficult to formulate than her confidence to Peters. But
it had to be spoken and she might never find a more favourable moment.
She took her courage in both hands.

“I want to speak to you of Gillian,” she said hesitatingly.

He looked up sharply. “What of Gillian?” The question was abrupt, an
accent almost of suspicion in his voice and she moved uneasily.

“Bless the boy, don't jump down my throat,” she parried, with a nervous
little laugh; “nothing of Gillian but what is sweet and good and dear
... and yet that's not all the truth--it's more than that. I find it
hard to say. It's something serious, Barry, about Gillian's future,” she
paused, hoping that he would volunteer some remark that would make her
task easier. But he volunteered nothing and, stealing a glance at him
she saw on his face an expression of peculiar stoniness to which she had
lately become accustomed. The new taciturnity, which she still found so
strange, seemed to have fallen on him suddenly. She stifled a sigh and
hurried on:

“I wonder if the matter of Gillian's future has ever occurred to you? It
has been in my mind often and lately I have had to give it more serious
attention. Time has run away so quickly. It is incredible that nearly
two years have passed since she became your ward. She will be twenty-one
in March--of age, and her own mistress. The question is--what is she to
do?”

“Do? There is no question of her _doing_ anything,” he replied shortly.
“You mean that her coming of age will make no difference--that things
will go on as they are?” Miss Craven eyed him curiously.

“Yes. Why not?”

“You know less of Gillian than I thought you did.” The old caustic tone
was sharp in her voice.

He looked surprised. “Isn't she happy here?”

“Happy!” Miss Craven laughed oddly. “It's a little word to mean so much.
Yes, she is happy--happy as the day is long--but that won't keep her.
She loves the Towers, she is adored on the estate, she has a corner in
that great heart of hers for all who live here--but still that won't
keep her. In her way of thinking she has a debt to pay, and all these
months, studying, working, hoping, she has been striving to that end.
She is determined to make her own way in the world, to repay what has
been expended on her----”

“That's dam' nonsense,” he interrupted hotly.

“It's not nonsense from Gillian's point of view,” Miss Craven answered
quickly, “it's just common honesty. We have argued the matter, she and
I, scores of times. I have told her repeatedly that in view of your
guardianship you stand _in loco parentis_ and, therefore, as long as she
is your ward her maintenance and artistic education are merely her just
due, that there can be no question of repayment. She does not see it in
that light. Personally--though I would not for the world have her know
it--I understand and sympathize with her entirely. Her independence, her
pride, are out of all proportion to her strength. I cannot condemn, I
can only admire--though I take good care to hide my admiration ...
and if you could persuade her to let the past rest, there is still the
question of her future.”

“That I can provide for.”

Miss Craven shook her head.

“That you can not provide for,” she said gravely.

The flat contradiction stirred him. He jerked upright from his former
lounging attitude and stood erect, scowling down at her from his great
height. “Why not?” he demanded haughtily.

Miss Craven shrugged. “What would you propose to do?” He caught the
challenge in her tone and for a moment was disconcerted. “There would be
ways--” he said, rather vaguely. “Something could be arranged--”

“You would offer her--charity?” suggested Miss Craven, wilfully dense.

“Charity be damned.”

“Charity generally is damnable to those who have to suffer it. No,
Barry, that won't do.”

He jingled the keys in his pocket and the scowl on his face deepened.

“I could settle something on her, something that would be adequate, and
it could be represented that some old investment of her father's had
turned up trumps unexpectedly.”

But Miss Craven shook her head again. “Clever, Barry, but not clever
enough. Gillian is no fool. She knows her father had no money, that he
existed on a pittance doled out to him by exasperated relatives which
ceased with his death. He told her plainly in his last letter that there
was nothing in the world for her--except your charity. Think of what
Gillian is, Barry, and think what she must have suffered--waiting for
your coming from Japan, and, to a less extent, in the dependence of
these last years.”

He moved uncomfortably, as if he resented the plainness of his aunt's
words, and having found a cigarette lit it slowly. Then he walked to the
window, which was still unshuttered, and looked out into the darkness,
his back turned uncompromisingly to the room. His inattentive attitude
seemed almost to suggest that the matter was not of vital interest to
him.

Miss Craven's face grew graver and she waited long before she spoke
again. “There is also another reason why I have strenuously opposed
Gillian's desire to make her own way in the world, a reason of which she
is ignorant. She is not physically strong enough to attempt to earn her
own living, to endure the hard work, the privations it would entail. You
remember how bronchitis pulled her down last year; I am anxious about
her this winter. She is constitutionally delicate, she may grow out
of it--or she may not. Heaven knows what seeds of mischief she has
inherited from such parents as hers. She needs the greatest care,
everything in the way of comfort--she is not fitted for a rough and
tumble life. And, Barry, I can't tell her. It would break her heart.”

Her eyes were fixed on him intently and she waited with eager
breathlessness for him to speak. But when at length he answered his
words brought a look of swift disappointment and she relaxed in her
chair with an air of weary despondency. He replied without moving.

“Can't you arrange something, Aunt Caro? You are very fond of Gillian,
you would miss her society terribly; cannot you persuade her that she
is necessary to you--that it would be possible for her to work and still
remain with you? I know that some day you will want to go back to your
own house in London, to take up your own interests again, and to travel.
I can't expect you to take pity much longer on a lonely bachelor. You
have given up much to help me--it cannot go on for ever. For what you
have done I can never thank you, it is beyond thanks, but I must not
trade on your generosity. If you put it to Gillian that you, personally,
do not want to part with her--that she is dear to you--it's true, isn't
it?” he added with sudden eagerness. And in surprise at her silence
he swung on his heel and faced her. She was leaning back in the big
armchair in a listless manner that was not usual to her.

“I am afraid you cannot count on me, Barry,” she said slowly. He stared
in sheer amazement.

“What do you mean, Aunt Caro?--you do care for her, don't you?”

“Care for her?” echoed Miss Craven, with a laugh that was curiously
like a sob, “yes, I do care for her. I care so much that I am going to
venture a great deal--for her sake. But I cannot propose that she should
live permanently with me because all future permanencies have been taken
out of my hands. I hate talking about myself, but you had to know some
day, this only accelerates it. I have not been feeling myself for some
time--a little while ago I went to London for definite information.
The man had the grace to be honest with me--he bade me put my house in
order.” Her tone left no possibility of misunderstanding. He was across
the room in a couple of hasty strides, on his knees beside her, his
hands clasped over hers.

“Aunt Caro!” The genuine and deep concern in his voice almost broke her
self-control. She turned her head, catching her lip between her teeth,
then with a little shrug she recovered herself and smiled at him.

“Dear boy, it must come some day--it has come a little sooner than
I expected, that is all. I'm not grumbling, I've had a wonderful
life--I've been able to do something with it. I have not sat altogether
idle in the market-place.”

“But are you sure? Doctors are not infallible.”

“Quite sure,” she answered steadily; “the man I went to was very kind,
very thorough. He insisted I should have other opinions. There was a
council of big-wigs and they all arrived at the same conclusion, which
was at least consoling. A diversity of opinion would have torn my nerves
to tatters. I couldn't tell you before, it would have worried me. I hate
a fuss. I don't want it mentioned again. You know--and there's an end of
it.” She squeezed his hands tightly for a moment, then got up abruptly
and went to the fireplace.

“I have only one regret--Gillian,” she said as he followed her. “You see
now that it is impossible for me to make a definite home for her, even
supposing that she were to agree to such a proposal. They gave me two or
three years at the longest--it might be any time.”

Craven stood beside her miserable and tongue-tied. Her news affected
him deeply, he was stunned with the suddenness of it and amazed at the
courage she displayed. She might almost have been discoursing on the
probable death of a stranger. And yet, he reflected, it was only in
keeping with her general character. She had been fearless all through
life, and for her death held no terrors.

He tried to speak but words failed him. And presently she spoke again,
hurriedly, disjointedly.

“I am helpless. I can do nothing for Gillian. I could have left her
money in my will, despite her pride she would have had to accept it. I
can't even do that. At my death all I have, as you know, goes back into
the estate. I have never saved anything--there never seemed any reason.
And what I made with my work I gave away. There is only you--only one
way--Barry, won't you--Barry!” She was crying undisguisedly, unconscious
even of the unaccustomed tears. “You know what I mean--you must know,”
 she whispered entreatingly, struggling with emotion.

He was standing rigid, to her strained fancy he seemed almost to
have stopped breathing and there was in his attitude something that
frightened her. It came to her suddenly that, after all, he was to all
intents and purposes a stranger to her. Even the intimacy of these
last months, living in close contiguity to him in his own house had
not broken down the barrier that his sojourn in Japan had raised. She
understood him no better than on the day of his arrival in Paris. He had
been uniformly thoughtful and affectionate but had never reverted to the
old Barry whom she had known so well. He had, as it were, retired within
himself. He lived his life apart, with them but not of them, daily
carrying through the arduous work he set himself with a dogged
determination in which there was no pleasure. Yet, beyond a certain
gravity, to the casual observer there was in him no great change. He
entertained frequently and was a popular host, interesting and appearing
interested. Only Miss Craven and Peters, more intimate, saw the
effort that he made. To Miss Craven it seemed sometimes as if he were
deliberately living through a self-appointed period--she had found
herself wondering what cataclysm would end it. She was conscious of the
impression, which she tried vainly to dismiss as absurd, of living over
an active volcano. What would be the result of the upheaval when it
came? She had prayed earnestly for some counter-distraction that might
become powerful enough to surmount the tragic memory with which he
lived--a memory she was convinced and the tragedy was present in his
face. She had cherished a hope, born in the early days of their return
to Craven Towers and maintained in the face of seeming improbability of
fulfilment, that had grown to be an ardent desire. In the realization of
that hope she thought she saw his salvation. With the knowledge of her
own precarious hold on life she clung even more closely to what had
become the strongest wish she had ever known. She had never deluded
herself into imagining the consummation of her wish imminent, she
had frankly acknowledged to herself that his inscrutability was
impenetrable, and now hope seemed almost extinguished. She realized it
with a feeling of helplessness. And yet she had a curious impulse,
an inner conviction that urged with a peremptoriness that over-rode
subterfuge. She would speak plainly, be the consequences what they were.
It was for the ultimate happiness of the two beings whom she loved best
on earth--for that surely she might venture something. She had never
been afraid of plain speaking, it would be strange if she let
convention deter her now. Convention! it had wrecked many a life--so
had interference, she thought with sudden racking indecision. What if
by interference she hindered now, rather than helped? What if speech
did more mischief than silence? Irresolutely she wavered, and to her
indecision there came suddenly the further disturbing thought--if Barry
acceded to her earnest wish what ground had she for pre-supposing that
it would result in his happiness? She had no definite knowledge, no
positive assurance wherewith to press her request. The inmost feelings
of both were hidden from her. Her meddling might only bring more sorrow
to him who seemed already weighed down under a crushing burden of
grief. Gratitude and an intense admiration she knew existed. But between
admiration and any deeper feeling there was a wide gulf. And yet what
might not be hidden behind the grave seriousness of those great dark
eyes that looked with apparently equal frankness at every member of the
household? Months spent in the proximity of an unusually handsome man,
the romance of the tie between them--it was an experience that any
woman, least of all an unsophisticated convent-bred girl, could hardly
pass through unscathed. It was surely enough to gamble on, she reflected
with grim humour that did not amuse. It was a great hazzard, the highest
stakes she had ever played for who had never been afraid of losing. The
thought spurred her. If it was to be the last throw then let there be
no hesitation. A reputation for courage and coolness had gone with her
through life.

She turned to him abruptly, all indecision gone, complete mistress of
herself again.

“Barry, don't you understand?” she said with slow distinctness. “I want
you to ask Gillian to marry you.”

He started as if she had stabbed him.

“Good God,” he cried violently, “you don't know what you are saying!”
 And from his tortured face she averted her eyes hastily, sick at heart.
But she held her ground, aware that retreat was not now possible.

She answered gently, steadying her voice with difficulty.

“Is it so extraordinary that I should wish it, should hope for it? I
care for you both so deeply. To know that your mother's place would be
filled by one who is worthy to follow her--how worthy only I, who have
been admitted to her high ideals, appreciate; to know that there would
be the happiness of home ties here for you, to know that I leave Gillian
safe in your hands--it would make my going very easy, Barry.”

His head was down on his arms on the mantelshelf, his face hidden from
her. “Gillian--safe--in my hands--_my God_!” he groaned, and shuddered
like a man in mortal agony.

All the deep love she had for him, all the fears she entertained for him
leaped up in her with sudden strength, forcing utterance and breaking
down the reticence she had imposed upon herself. She caught his arm.

“Barry, what is it--for heaven's sake speak! Do you think I have
been blind all these months, that I have seen nothing? Can't you tell
me--anything?” her voice, quivering with emotion, was strange to him,
strange enough to recall him to himself. He straightened slowly and drew
away from her with a little shiver. “There is nothing I can tell you,”
 he replied dully, “nothing that I can explain, only this--I went through
hell in Japan. I don't want any sympathy--it was my own fault, my own
doing.... Just now I made a fool of myself, I was off my guard, your
words startled me. Forget it, you can do me no good by remembering.”

He made an abrupt movement as if to leave the room but Miss Craven stood
squarely in front of him, her chin raised stubbornly. She knew now that
she was face to face with something even more terrible than she had
imagined. He had avoided a definite answer. By all reasoning she should
have accepted his rebuff but intuition, stronger than reason, impelled
her. If he went now it would be the end. She knew that positively.
The question could never be opened up again. She could not let it pass
without a final effort. It was inconceivable that this shadow could
always lie across his life. Whatever tragical event had occurred
belonged to the past--surely the future might hold some alleviation,
some happiness that might compensate for the sorrow that had lined his
face and brought the silver threads that gleamed in his thick dark hair.
Surely in the care for another life memory might be dulled and
there might dawn for him a new hope, a new peace. Despite his broken
suggestive words her trust in him was still maintained; she had no fear
for Gillian--with him her future would be assured. And there seemed no
other alternative. Her confidence in herself furthermore was not shaken,
she had a deep unalterable conviction that the wish for the union she
so desired was based upon something deeper than mere fancy. It was not
anything that she could put into words or even into concrete thought,
but the belief was strong. It was a vivid assurance that went beyond
reasoning, that made it possible for her to speak again.

“Are you going to let the past dominate the rest of your life,” she
asked slowly, “is the future to count for nothing? There are, in all
probability, many years ahead of you--cannot you, in them, obliterate
what has gone before?”

He turned from her with a hopeless gesture and a muttered word she could
not catch. But he did not go as she feared he would. He lingered in the
room, staring into the heart of the glowing fire and Miss Craven played
her last card.

“And--Gillian?” she said firmly, all the Craven obstinacy in her voice,
and waited long for his answer. When it came it was flat, monotonous.

“I cannot marry her. I cannot marry--anybody.”

“Are you married already?” The question escaped before she could bite it
back. With a quickening heartbeat she awaited an outburst, a retort
that would end everything. But he answered quietly, in the same toneless
voice: “No, I am not married.”

She caught at the loop-hole it seemed to offer. “If there is no bar----”
 she began eagerly, but he cut her short. “I have done with all that sort
of thing,” he said harshly.

“Why?” she persisted, with a doggedness that matched his own. “If you
have known sorrow, does that necessarily mean that you can never again
know happiness? Must you for a--a memory, turn your back irrevocably on
any chance that may restore your peace of mind? I believe that such a
chance is waiting for you.”

He looked at her with strange intentness. “For me....” he smiled
bitterly. “If you only knew!”

“I only know that you are hesitating at what most men would jump at,”
 she retorted, suddenly conscious of strained nerves and feeling as if
she were battering impotently against a granite rock-face. His hands
clenched but he did not reply and swift contrition fell on her. She
turned to him impulsively. “Forgive me, Barry. I shouldn't have said
that, but I want this thing so desperately. I am convinced that it
would mean happiness for you, for you both. And when I think of
Gillian--alone--fighting against the world----” She broke down
completely and he gripped her hands with a strength that made her wince.

“She'll never do that if I can help it,” he said swiftly.

Miss Craven looked up with sudden hope. “You will ask her?” she
whispered expectantly. He put her from him gently. “I can promise
nothing. I must think,” he said deliberately, and there was in his face
a look that held her silent.

With uncertain feelings she watched him leave the room.... Inevitable
re-action set in, doubts overwhelmed her. Had she done what was best
or had she blundered irretrievably? She went unsteadily to a chair,
extraordinarily tired, exhausted in her new weakness by the emotional
strain through which she had passed. She was beginning to be a little
aghast at what she had done, at the force that she had set moving.
And yet she had been actuated by the highest motives. She believed
implicitly that the joining of the two lives whose future was all her
care would result in the ultimate happiness of both. They had grown
used to each other. A closer relationship than that of guardian and ward
seemed, in view of the comparatively slight difference in age, a natural
outcome of the intimacy into which they had been thrown. It was
not without precedent; similar events had happened before and would
doubtless happen again, she argued, striving to stifle the still
lingering doubt that whispered that she had gone beyond her prerogative.
And what she had done was in a way inexplicable even to herself. All
through she had felt that involuntary forceful impulse that had been
almost fatalistic, she had urged through the prompting of an inward
conviction. She had perhaps attached too much importance to it, her own
wish had been magnified until it assumed the appearance of fate.

Her closed eyes quivered as she leaned back in the chair.

She had done it for the best, she kept repeating mechanically to
herself, to try and bring happiness into his life; to insure the safety
of the girl who had become so dear to her. Had it been his thought too,
even before she spoke? His manner had been so strange. He had recoiled
from her suggestion but she had been left with the impression that it
was no new one to him. She had caught a fleeting look, before his face
had taken on that impenetrable mask, that had given the lie to his
emphatic words. He had seemed to be wrestling with himself, she had seen
the moisture thick on his forehead, his set face had looked as if it
could never soften again. When he had gone he had given her no definite
promise and she had no possibility of guessing what his decision would
be. But on reflection she found hope in his deferring reply. It was all
that was left to her. She had done her utmost, the rest lay with him.
She sighed deeply, she had never felt such weariness of mind and body.
As she gave way to a feeling of growing lassitude drowsiness came
over her which she was too tired to combat and for some time she slept
heavily. She awoke with a start to find Gillian, wide-eyed with concern,
kneeling beside her, the girl's slim warm fingers clasped closely round
her sleep-numbed hands. Dazed with sudden waking she looked up without
speaking at the fresh young face that bent over her. Gillian rubbed the
cold hands gently. “Aunt Caro, you were asleep! I've never caught you
napping before,” she laughed, but a hint of anxiety mingled with the
wonder in her voice. Miss Craven slowly smiled reassurance. Her weakness
seemed to have vanished with sleep, she felt herself once more strong
enough to hide from the searching affectionate eyes anything that might
give pain or cause uneasiness. She sat up straighter.

“Laziness, my dear, sheer laziness,” she said sturdily. Gillian looked
at her gravely. “Sure?” she asked, “you are sure that you are quite
well? You looked so tired--your face was quite white.”

“Quite sure--unbeliever! And you--did you have a good time; did you
remember to take your tonic, and did you keep warm?”

Gillian laughed softly and stood up, ticking off the items on her
fingers. “I did have a good time, I did remember to take my tonic, and
this heavenly coat has kept me as warm as pie--Nina Atherton taught me
that. That nice family considerably enlarged my vocabulary,” she added
with enjoyment, slipping out of a heavy fur coat and coming back to
perch on the arm of Miss Craven's chair.

“Not yours only,” was the answer, “Peter was quoting the husband this
afternoon.”

They were both silent for a moment thinking of the three charming
Americans who had spent a couple of months at the Towers the previous
summer, bringing with them an adored scrap of humanity and a host of
nurses, valets and maids.

Then Gillian drew her arm closer around Miss Craven.

“Alex pressed me to stay until to-morrow, I had the greatest trouble to
get away. But I promised to come back this afternoon, and, do you
know, Aunt Caro, I had the queerest feeling this morning. I thought
you _wanted_ me, wanted me urgently. As if you could ever want anybody
urgently, you self-reliant wonder.” She gave the shoulder she was
caressing an affectionate hug. “But it was odd, wasn't it? I nearly
telephoned, and then I concluded you would think I had taken leave of my
senses.”

Miss Craven sat very still.

“I should have,” she replied, and hoped that her voice appeared more
natural than it sounded to herself. Gillian laughed.

“Anyhow, I'm glad you had Mr. Peters to cheer your solitary tea. I hated
to think of you being alone.”

“He didn't. He left early. But Barry condescended to take pity on me.”

“Mr. Craven!” There was the slightest pause before she added: “I thought
he scorned _le five o'clock_. He's not nearly so domesticated as David.”

“As who, my dear?” asked Miss Craven, staring. Gillian gave another
little laugh.

“Oh, that's my private name for Mr. Peters--he doesn't mind--he spoils
me dreadfully--'the sweet singer in Israel'--you know. He has got the
most beautiful tenor voice I have ever listened to.”

“Peter--sing! I've never heard him sing,” said Miss Craven in wonder,
and she looked up with a new curiosity. “I've known him for thirty
years, and in less than that number of months you discover an
accomplishment of which everybody else is ignorant. How did you manage
it, child?”

“By accident, one evening in the summer. You were dining out, and
Mouston and I had gone for a ramble in the park--it's gorgeous there in
the _crepuscule_--and we were quite close to the Hermitage. I heard him
and I eaves-dropped--is there such a word? It was so lovely that I
had to clap and he came out and found an unexpected audience on the
windowsill. Wasn't it dreadful? He was so dear about it and explained
that it was a very private form of amusement, but since the cat was out
of the bag there was an end of the matter, only he positively declined
to perform in public. I bullied him into singing some more, and then he
walked home with me.”

“You twist Peter round your little finger and trade on his good nature
shamelessly,” said Miss Craven severely, but her teasing held no
terrors.

“He's such a dear,” the girl repeated softly, and slipping off the arm
of the chair she went to the fire and knelt down to put back a log that
had fallen on to the hearth and was smouldering uselessly. Miss Craven
looked at her as, the log replaced, she still knelt on the rug and
held her hands mechanically to the blaze. She had an intense and wholly
futile longing to speak what was in her mind and, demanding confidence
for confidence, penetrate the secret of the heart that had confided to
her all but this one thing. Little by little through no pressure but
by mere telepathic sympathy, reserve had melted away and hopes and
aspirations had been submitted and discussed. But of this one thing
there could be no discussion. Miss Craven realised it and stifled a
regretful sigh. Even she, dear as she knew herself to be, might not
intrude so intimately. For by such an intrusion she might lose all that
she had gained. She could not forfeit the confidence that had grown
to mean so much to her, it was too high a price to pay even for the
knowledge she sought. She must have patience, she thought, as she ran
her fingers with the old gesture through her grey curls. But it was hard
to be patient when any moment might bring the summons that would put
her beyond the ken of earthly events. To go, leaving this problem still
unsolved! She set her teeth and sat rigid, gripping the oak rails of the
chair until her fingers ached, battling with herself. She looked again
at the slim kneeling figure, the pale oval face half turned to her, the
thick dark hair piled high on the small proud head glistening in the
firelight. A thing of grace and beauty--in mind and body desirable. How
could he hesitate....

“Barry was riding--all day--in this atrocious weather. He came in
soaked,” she said abruptly, almost querulously, unlike her usual
tolerant intonation. There was no immediate answer and for a moment she
thought she had not been heard. The girl had moved slightly, turning
her face away, and with a steady hand was building the dying fire into a
pyramid. She completed the operation carefully and sat back on her heels
flourishing the tiny brass tongs.

“He's tough,” she said lightly, unconsciously echoing Peters' words and
apparently heedless of the interval between Miss Craven's remark and her
own reply. She seemed more interested in the fire than in her guardian.
Laying the tongs away leisurely she came back to Miss Craven's chair
and settled down on the floor beside her, her arms crossed on the
elder woman's knee. She looked up frankly, a faint smile lightening her
serious brown eyes.

“I don't think Mr. Craven wants any sympathy, _cherie_,” she said
slowly, “I reserve all mine for Yoshio, he fusses so dreadfully when
the 'honourable master' goes for those tremendous long rides or is out
hunting. Have you noticed that he always waits in the hall, to be ready
at the first moment to rush away and get dry clothes and a hot bath and
all the other Oriental paraphernalia for checking chills and driving
the ache out of sore bones? I don't suppose Mr. Craven has ever had sore
bones--he is so splendidly strong--and Yoshio certainly seems determined
he never shall. Mary thoroughly approves of him, she's a fusser by
nature too; she deplores his heathenism but says he has more sense than
many a Christian. Soon after we came here I found him in the hall one
day staring through the window, looking the picture of misery, his funny
little yellow face all puckered up. He saw me out of the back of his
head, truly he did, for he never turned, and tried to slip away. But I
made him stay and talk to me. I sat on the stairs and he folded himself
up on the mat--I can't describe it any other way--and told me all about
Japan, and California and Algeria and all the other queer places he has
been to with Mr. Craven. He has such a quaint dramatic way of speaking
and lapses into unintelligible Japanese just at the exciting moments--so
tantalising! They seem to have been in some very--what do you
say?--tight corners. We got quite sociable. I was so interested in
listening to his description of the wonderful gardens they make in Japan
that I never heard Mr. Craven come in and did not realise that he was
standing near us until Yoshio suddenly shot up and fled, literally
vanished, and left me _planteel_! I felt so idiotic sitting on the
stairs hugging my knees and Mr. Craven, all splashed and muddy, waiting
for me to let him pass--I was dreadfully frightened of him in those
days,” the faintest colour tinged her cheeks. “I longed for an
earthquake to swallow me up,” she laughed and scrambled to her feet,
gathering the heap of furs into her arms and holding them dark and
silky against her face. “You shouldn't have encouraged in me a love
of beautiful furs, Aunt Caro,” she said inconsequently, with sudden
seriousness. “I've sense enough left to know that I shouldn't indulge
it--and I'm human enough to adore them.”

“Rubbish! furs suit you--please my sense of the artistic. I would not
encourage you if you had a face like a harvest moon and no carriage--I
can't bear sloppiness in anything,” snapped Miss Craven in quite her old
style. “When do the Horringfords start for Egypt?” she added by way of
definitely changing the subject.

Gillian rubbed her cheek against the soft sealskin with an understanding
smile. It was hopeless to try and curb Miss Craven's generosity,
hopeless to attempt to argue against it. “Next week,” she answered the
inquiry. “Tuesday, probably. They stay in Paris for a month _en route;_
Lord Horringford wants some data from the Louvre and also to arrange
some preliminaries with the French Egyptologist who is joining their
party.”

“Hum! And Alex--still interested in mummies?”

“More than ever, she is full of enthusiasm. She talks of dynasties and
tribal deities, of kings and _Kas_ and symbols until my head spins. Lord
Horringford teases her but it is easy to see that her interest pleases
him. He says she is the mascot of the expedition, that she brought luck
to the digging last year.”

“Alex has had many hobbies but never one that ran for two seasons,” said
Miss Craven thoughtfully; “I am glad she has found an interest at last
that promises to be permanent.”

Gillian gathered the furs closer in her arms and made a few steps toward
the door. “She has found more than that,” she said softly, and the
colour flamed in her sensitive face. Miss Craven nodded. “You mean
that in unearthing the buried treasure of a dead past she has found the
living treasure of a man's love? Yes, and not any too soon, poor silly
child. Men like Horringford don't bear playing with. I wonder whether
she knows how near she has been to making shipwreck of her life.”

“I think she knows--now,” said Gillian, with a little wise smile as she
left the room.

The sound of her soft contralto singing an old French nursery rhyme
echoed faintly back to the library:

  “Mon père m'a donné un petit mari,
   Mon Dieu, quel homme!”

And, listening, Miss Craven smiled half-sadly, for the quaint words
carried her back to the days of her own childhood. But the exigencies
of the present thrust aside past memories. She sat on, wrapped in her
thoughts until the dropping temperature of the room sent through her
a sudden chill, so she rose with a shiver and a startled glance at her
watch.

“Dry bones and love,” she said musingly, “it's a curious combination!
Peter, my man, you gave wise advice there.... But not all your wisdom
can help _my_ trouble.”




CHAPTER VI


December had brought a complete change of weather. It was within a few
days of Christmas, a typical old-fashioned Yuletide with a firm white
mantle of snow lying thick over the country.

Underneath the ground was iron and for two weeks all hunting had been
stopped.

Craven was returning to the Towers after an absence of ten days.
The motor crawled through the park for in places the frozen road was
slippery as glass and the chauffeur was a cautious North-countryman
whose faith in the chains locked round the wheels was not unlimited; he
was driving carefully, with a wary eye for the worst patches noted on
the outward run, and, beside him, equally alert, sat Yoshio muffled to
the ears in an immense overcoat, a shapeless bundle.

It was early afternoon, calm and clear, and in the air the intense
stillness that succeeds a heavy snowfall. The pale sun, that earlier
in the day had iridised the snow, was now too low to affect the dead
whiteness of the scene against which the trees showed magnified and
sharply black. Here and there across the smooth surface stretching on
either side of the road lay the curiously differing tracks of animals.
From the back seat of the car where he sat alone Craven marked them
mechanically. He knew every separate spoor and could have named the
owner of each; ordinarily they would have claimed from him a certain
interest but today he passed them without a second thought. He did not
resent the slow progress of the car, he was in no hurry to reach the
Towers. He had come to a momentous decision but shrank from the action
that must necessarily follow; once at the house he knew that he would
permit himself no further delay, he would put his purpose into effect
at the earliest opportunity--today if possible; here there was still
time--vaguely he wondered for what? Not for reflection, that was
done with. He had striven with all his strength to arrive at a right
determination; he had thought until reasoning became a mere repetition
of fixed ideas moving in a circle and arriving always at an unvaried
starting point. There seemed no consequence that he had not weighed in
his mind, no issue that he had not considered. To ponder afresh would be
to cover again uselessly ground that he had gone over a hundred times.
Three days ago he had made his choice, he had no intention of departing
from it. For good or ill the thing must go forward now. And, after all,
the ultimate decision did not lie with him. Admitting it his thoughts
became introspective. Throughout his deliberations he had put self on
one side, there had been no question of his own wishes; now for the
first time he allowed personal considerations to rise unchecked. For
what did he hope? He knew the reason of his reluctance to reach the
house--he desired success and yet he feared it, feared the consequences
that might result, feared the strength of his own will to persevere in
the course he had chosen. For him there was no other way but, merciful
God, it would be hard! He set his teeth and stared at the frozen
landscape with unseeing eyes. Since her outburst four weeks ago Miss
Craven had not spoken again of the wish that was nearest her heart, but
he knew that she was waiting for an answer, knew that that answer must
be given. One way or the other. Day had succeeded day in torturing
indecision. He had lived, slept with the problem, at no time was it
out of his mind. In the course of the long rides that had become more
frequent, obtruding during the monotonous hours spent in the estate
office, the problem persisted. In the sleepless hours of the night he
wrestled with it. If it had been a matter of personal inclination, if
the past had not risen between them there would have been no hesitation.
He would have gone to her months ago, would have begged the priceless
gift that she alone could give. He wanted her, almost above the hope
of salvation, and the inducement to ignore the past had been all
but overpowering. He loved and desired with all the strength of the
passionate nature he had inherited. He craved for her with an intensity
that was anguish, that set him wondering how far the power of endurance
reached, how much a man could bear. He was torn with the fierce
promptings of primeval forces. To take her, willing or unwilling,
despite honour, despite all that stood between them, to make her his and
hold her in the face of all the world--at times the temptation had been
maddening. There had been days when he had not dared to look on her,
when he had drawn himself more than ever apart from the common life,
fearful of himself, fearful of circumstances that seemed beyond his
ordering. And the thought that another could take what he might not
had engendered an insensate jealousy that was beyond reason. He did not
recognise himself, he had not known the depths of his own nature. If
there had been no bar, if she could have come to him willingly, if there
could indeed have been for him the full ties of home--the thought was
agony. Miss Craven's words had been a sword turning in an open wound. To
the burden he already carried had been added this.

The future of his ward had been his problem as well as Miss Craven's.
Only a little while ago a way had seemed clear, not a way to his own
happiness--by his own act he had put himself beyond all possibility of
that--but a way that would mean security and happiness for her who had
come to mean more than life to him. For her safety he would have given
his soul. The term of his guardianship was drawing to an end, in a
few months his legal control over her terminated. Miss Craven who had
surrendered her independence for two years would be returning to her own
home, to her old life; it had seemed a foregone conclusion that Gillian
would accompany her.

But the double shock in the revelation of Miss Craven's precarious state
and Gillian's delicacy had been staggering. He had not been prepared for
a contingency that seemed to cut the ground from under his feet. With
all the will in the world his aunt was powerless to further the plan he
proposed, any day might bring the Great Summons. And Gillian! The little
persistent cough rang in his ears always. Gillian and poverty--by day it
haunted him, he woke in the night sweating at the very thought. It was
intolerable. And yet there appeared no means of escaping it--save one.
For a moment, with a fierce joy, he saw fate aiding him, forcing into
his hands what he yearned to gather to himself, then he recoiled from
even the thought of her purity linked with the stain of his past. He
had racked his brain to discover an alternative. To force upon her an
adequate income that would put her beyond want and the necessity of work
would be easy. To induce her to use the money thus provided he divined
would be impossible, he seemed to know intuitively that her will would
not give way to his. During these last weeks he had looked at her
with new understanding, it seemed incredible that he had never before
recognised the determination that underlay her shy gentleness.
Character shone in the frank brown eyes, there was a firmness that was
unmistakable in the arched lips that were the only patch of colour in
her delicate face. From his wealth she would accept nothing. Would she
accept him--all that he dared offer? It was no new idea, the thought had
been in his mind often but always he resolutely put it from him with a
feeling of abhorrence. It was an insult to her womanhood, an expedient
that nothing could justify. And yet step by step he was forced back
upon it--there seemed no other way to save her from herself. Days of
harrassing indecision, his only thought she, brought him no nearer to
a conclusion. And time was passing. He had reached a point when further
deliberation was beyond his power; when all his strength seemed to turn
into hopeless longing that, to the exclusion of all else, craved even
the mockery of possession; when days were torment and nights a sleepless
horror. Then change of scene had aided final determination. The factor
of the Scotch estate had written of a sudden and unexpected difficulty
for which he asked personal advice. A telegram had stopped his proposed
visit to the Towers and Craven had himself gone instead to Scotland. And
in the solitude of his northern home he had decided on the only course
that seemed open to him. He would go to her with his poor offer, the
poorest surely that ever a man made to a woman, and the rest would lie
with her. But how would she receive it? He had a vision of the soft
brown eyes blazing with scorn, of the slender figure he ached to hold
in his arms turning from him in cold disgust, and he clenched his hands
until the nails bit deep into his wet palms.

A bad skid that slewed the car half round broke his thoughts and in a
few minutes they were at the house.

Forbes, the elderly butler who had been an under footman when Peters
first came to the Towers, was waiting for him in the hall, informative
with the garrulousness of an old and privileged servant. A late
luncheon was waiting--he sighed patiently on hearing that it was not
required--Miss Craven had gone to the Vicarage for tea; Mr. Peters was
expected to dinner that night and he had telephoned in the morning to
tell Mr. Craven--Craven cut him short. Peter's message could wait, only
one thing seemed to matter just now.

“Where is Miss Locke?” he asked curtly. “In the studio, sir,” replied
Forbes with resignation. If Mr. Barry didn't want to hear what Mr.
Peters had got to say he, for one, was not going to press the matter.
Mr. Barry had had his own way of doing things since the days when he sat
on the pantry table kicking his heels and flourishing stolen jam under
Forbes' very nose--a masterful one always, he was. And if it was a case
of Miss Gillian--Forbes retired with an armful of ulster and rugs into
the cloakroom to hide a sympathetic grin.

Craven crossed the hall and went into the study. He looked without
interest through an accumulation of letters lying on the writing table,
then threw them down indifferently. Walking to the fireplace he lit a
cigarette and stood staring at the cheerful blaze. At last he raised
his head and gazed with deliberation at himself in the glass over the
mantle. He scowled at the stern worn face reflected in the mirror,
looking curiously at its deep cut lines, at the silver patches in the
thick brown hair. Then with a violent exclamation he swung abruptly on
his heel, flung the cigarette into the fire and left the room. He went
upstairs slowly, surprised at the feeling of apathy that had come over
him. In the face of direct action the high tension of the last few
weeks had snapped, leaving him dull, almost inert, and reluctance to
go forward grew with every step. But at the head of the stairs his mood
changed suddenly. All that the coming interview meant to him revealed
itself with startling clearness. With a deep breath he caught at the
rail, for he was shaking uncontrollably, and covered his face with his
hand.

“God!” he whispered, and again: “God!”

Then he gripped himself and went quickly across the gallery, turning
down the corridor that led to the west wing. He followed the oddly
twisting passage, contorted at the whim of succeeding generations where
rooms had been enlarged or abolished, passing rows of closed doors and
another staircase. The corridor terminated in the room he was seeking.
It had been the old playroom; at the extreme end of the wing it faced
northward and westward and was well suited for the studio into which it
had been converted. It was Gillian's own domain and he had never asked
to visit it. As he reached the door he heard from within the shrill
treble of a boy's mirth and then a low soft laugh that made his
heart beat quicker. He tapped and went in and for a moment stared in
amazement. He did not recognise the room, it was a totally unexpected
French _atelier_ tucked away in the corner of a typically English house.

The polished rug-laid floor, the fluted folds of _toile-de-genes_
clothing the walls, the litter of sketches and pictures, casts and
easels, the familiar lay-figure grotesquely attitudinising in a corner,
above all the atmosphere carried him straight to Paris. It was the
room of an artist, and a French artist. His eyes leaped to her. She was
standing before a big easel looking wonderingly over her shoulder at the
opening door, the brush she was using poised in her hand, her eyes wide
with astonishment, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks.

In the picturesque painter's blouse, her brown hair loosely framing her
face, she seemed altogether different. He could not define wherein lay
the change, he had no time to discriminate, he only knew that seen thus
she was a thousand times more desirable than she had ever been and that
his heart cried out for her more fiercely than before. He looked at her
with hungry longing, then quickly--lest his eyes should betray him--from
her to her model. A boy of ten with an intelligent small brown face, a
mop of black curls, and red lips parted in a mischievous smile, he stood
on the raised platform with the easy assurance of a professional.

Craven shut the door behind him and came forward. She turned to meet
him and the colour rushed in a crimson wave to the roots of her hair.
“_Monsieur ... vous etes de retour ... mais, soyez le bienvenu_!” she
stammered, with surprise unconsciously lapsing into the language of
childhood. Then she caught herself up with a little laugh of confusion
and hurried on in English: “I am so sorry ... there is nobody in but me.
Will you have some tea? It is only three o'clock,” with a glance at her
wrist, “but I expect you lunched early.”

“I don't want any tea,” he said bluntly. “I came to see you.” He spoke
in French, mindful of two sharp ears on the platform. The colour in her
face deepened painfully and her eyes fell under his steady gaze. She
moved slowly back to the easel.

“If you could wait a few moments----” she murmured.

“I don't want to interrupt,” he said hastily. “Please finish your work.
You don't mind if I stay? I haven't been here since I was a boy; you
have changed the room incredibly. May I look round?”

She nodded assent over a tube of colour, and returned to her study.

Left to himself he wandered leisurely round the room, examining the
pictures and sketches that were heaped indiscriminately. He had never
before displayed any interest in her work, and was now amazed at what he
saw. There was power in it that surprised him, that made him wonder what
intuition had given the convent-bred girl the knowledge she exhibited.
The tardy recognition of her talent strengthened his stranger feeling
toward her. He went thoughtfully to the fireplace, and, from the
rug, surveyed the room and its occupants. The atmosphere recalled old
memories--he had studied in Paris after leaving Oxford--only one thing
seemed lacking.

“May I smoke?” he asked abruptly.

Gillian turned with a quick smile.

“But, of course. What need to ask? After Aunt Caro has been here for an
hour the room is blue.”

For another ten minutes he watched her in silence, free to look as he
would, for her back was toward him and in his position before the fire
he was beyond the range of the little model's inquisitive black eyes.

Then she laid palette and brushes on a near table and stepped back,
frowning at what she had done until a smile came slowly to chase the
creases from her forehead. She spoke without moving, still looking at
the canvas: “That is all for to-day, Danny. The light has gone.”

The small boy stretched himself luxuriously, and descending from the
platform, joined her and gazed with evident interest at his portrait.
He peered in unconscious but faithful imitation of her own critical
attitude, his head slanted at the same angle as hers. “It's coming on,”
 he announced solemnly, and Craven guessed from the girl's laugh that it
was a repetition of some remark heard and stored up for future use. The
boy grinned in response, and slipping behind her went to the table where
she had laid her tools. “Can I clean palut?” he asked hopefully, his
hand already half-way to the coveted mass of colour.

“Not to-day, thanks, Danny.”

“Shall I fetch th' dog, Miss?” more hopefully. Gillian turned to him
quickly.

“He bit you last time.”

Danny wriggled his feet and his small white teeth flashed in a wide
smile. “He won't bite I again,” he said confidently. “Mammy said 'twas
'cos he loved you and hated to have folks near you. She said I was to
whisper in his ear I loved you too, 'cos then he wouldn't touch me. Dad
he says 'tis a damned black devil,” he added with candid relish and a
sidelong glance of mischief at his employer.

Gillian laughed and gave his shoulder a little pat.

“I'm afraid he is,” she admitted ruefully. The boy threw his head back.
“I ain't afeard o' he,” he said stoutly. “_Shall_ I fetch 'im?”

“I think we'll leave him where he is, Danny,” she said gravely, as if
in confidence. “He's probably very happy. Now run away and come again on
Saturday.” She waved a paint-stained rag at him and turned again to
the picture. Obediently he started towards the door, then hesitated,
glancing irresolutely at Craven, and tip-toed back to the easel.

“Them things in the drawer,” he muttered sepulchrally, in a voice not
intended to reach the ears of the rather awe-inspiring personage on the
hearthrug. Gillian whipped round contritely. “Danny, I forgot them!” she
apologised, and tweaking a black curl went to a bureau and produced a
square cardboard box. Danny tucked it under his arm with murmured thanks
and a duck of the head, and crossing the room noiselessly went out,
closing the door behind him softly. Craven came slowly to her. She moved
to give him place before the easel. Craven looked at the small alert
brown face, the odd black eyes dancing with almost unearthly merriment,
the red lips curving upward to an enigmatical smile, and his wonder and
admiration grew.

“Who is he?” he asked curiously, puzzled by a likeness he seemed to
recognise dimly and yet was unable to place.

“Danny Major--the son of one of your gamekeepers,” said Gillian; “his
mother has gipsy blood in her.”

Craven whistled. “I remember,” he said, interested. “Old Major was
head-keeper. Young Major lost his heart to a gipsy lass and his father
kicked him out of doors. Peters, as usual, smoothed things over and kept
the fellow on at his job, in spite of a great deal of opposition--he had
seen the girl and formed his own opinion. I asked once or twice and he
said that it had turned out satisfactorily. So this is the son--he's a
rum-looking little beggar.”

Gillian was cleaning brushes at the side table. “He's the terror of the
neighbourhood,” she said smiling, “but for some reason he is a perfect
angel when he comes here. It isn't the chocolates,” she added hastily
as she saw a fleeting smile on his face, “he just likes coming. And
he tells me the most wonderful things about the woods and the wood
beasties.”

“He would,” said Craven significantly, “it's in the blood. What's this?”
 he asked, pointing to a smaller board propped face inward against the
big canvas. For a moment she did not answer and the colour flamed into
her face again. She put the brushes away, and wiping her fingers on a
cloth, lifted the board and gave it into his hands.

“It's Danny as I see him,” she said in an odd voice. And, looking at
it, Craven realised that the cleverness of the painted head on the large
canvas paled to mediocrity beside the brilliance of the sepia sketch he
held. It was the same head--but marvellously different--set on the body
of a faun. The dancing limbs were pulsing with life, the tiny hoofs
stamping the flower-strewn earth in an ecstasy of movement; the head was
thrown forward, bent as though to catch a distant echo, and among the
tossing curls showed two small curving horns; to the enigmatical smile
of the original had been added a subtle touch of mockery, and the wide
eyes held a look of mystical knowledge that was uncanny. Craven held
it silently, it seemed an incredible piece of work for the girl to have
conceived. And, beside him, she waited nervously for his verdict, with
close-locked twitching fingers. He had never come before, had never
shown any interest in the work that meant so much to her. She was hungry
for his praise, fearful of his censure. If he saw nothing in it now
but the immature efforts of an amateur! Her heart tightened. She drew a
little nearer to him, her eyes fixed apprehensively on his intent face,
her breath coming quickly. At length he replaced the sketch carefully.
“You have a wonderful talent,” he said slowly. A little gasp of relief
escaped her and her lips trembled in spite of all efforts to keep them
steady. “You like it?” she whispered eagerly, and was terrified at the
awful pallor that overspread his face. For a moment he could not speak.
The words, the intonation! He was back again in Japan, looking at
the painting of a lonely fir tree clinging to a jutting sea-washed
cliff--the faintest scent of oriental perfume seemed stealing through
the air. He drew his hand across his eyes. “Merciful God ... not here
... not now!” he prayed in silent agony. Then with a desperate effort he
mastered himself and turned to the frightened girl with a forced smile.
“Forgive me--I've a beastly headache--the room went spinning round for
a minute,” he said jerkily, wiping the moisture from his forehead. She
looked at him gravely. “I think you are very tired, and I don't believe
you had any lunch,” she said with quiet decision. “I'm going to make
some coffee. Aunt Caro says my coffee drinking is more vicious than her
smoking,” she went on, purposely giving him time to recover himself, and
crossing the room she collected little cups and a small brass pot.
“Any how it's the real article, and in spite of what she says Aunt Caro
doesn't scorn it. She comes regularly to drink my _cafe noir_ with her
after-lunch cigarette.”

Craven dropped down heavily on the broad cushioned window seat, his
hands clasped over his throbbing temples, fighting to regain his shaken
nerve. And yet there was a great hope dawning. For the first time the
threatening vision had failed to materialise, and the fact gave him
courage. If a time should come when it would definitely cease to haunt
him! He could never forget, never cease to regret, but he would feel
that in the Land of Understanding the hapless victim of his crime had
forgiven the sin that had robbed her of her young life.

And as he grew calmer he began to be conscious that in the room where
he sat there was a restfulness that he had not felt in any other part
of the house since his return to Craven Towers. It was acting on him
curiously and he wondered what it portended. And as he pondered it
Gillian came to him with a cup of coffee in either hand.

_“Monsieur est servi,”_ she said with a little laugh. She seemed to have
suddenly overcome shyness as if, in her own domain, the first surprise
of his visit over, her surroundings gave her confidence. Or, perhaps,
the womanliness that had been called out to meet his passing weakness
had set her on another plane. All signs of giddiness had left him and,
with her usual intuition, she did not trouble him with questions. For
the first time she found it easy to speak to him, and talked as
she would have done to Peters. She spoke of his northern visit and,
following his lead, of her work, freely and without embarrassment. Every
moment the restraint that had been between them seemed growing less.
She marvelled that she had ever found him unapproachable and wondered,
contritely, if her shyness had been alone to blame. She had been always
constrained and silent with him--small wonder that he had avoided
her, she thought humbly. Yet how could it have been otherwise? The tie
between them, the wonderful generosity he had shown, the aloofness
he had maintained, had made it impossible for her to view him as an
ordinary human being. She owed him everything and passionate recognition
and a sense of her indebtedness had grown with equal fervour. She had
almost worshipped him. He had taken her from a life that had grown
unbearable, he had given her the opportunity to follow the career for
which she longed. She could never repay him, she found it difficult to
put into words even to herself just what she felt towards him. From the
first she had raised him to the empty pedestal vacated by that fallen
idol, her father. And out of hero-worship had grown love, at first the
exalted devotion of an immature girl, adoration that was purely sexless
and selfless--a mystical love without passion, spiritual. He had
appeared to her as a being of another sphere and, mentally, she had
knelt at his feet as to a patron saint. But with her own development
love had expanded. She realised that what she felt for him was no longer
childish adoration, but a greater, more wonderful emotion. She had grown
to a full understanding of her own heart, the divinity had become a
man for whose love she yearned. But she loved hopelessly as she
loved deeply, she had no thought that her love could be returned. His
proximity had always troubled her, and to-day as she sat on the window
seat beside him she was conscious of a greater unrest than she had ever
before felt, and her heart throbbed painfully with the vague formless
longings, inexplicable and frightening, that stirred within her until it
seemed impossible that her agitation could pass unnoticed. Shyness fell
on her again, the ready words faltered, and gradually she became silent.
Craven took the empty coffee cups and replaced them on the table by the
fire. Going back to the window he found her kneeling up on the cushioned
seat, her hands clasped before her, looking out at the white world. The
childish attitude that seemed in keeping with the artist's blouse and
tumbled hair made her look singularly young. He stood beside her, so
close that he almost touched her shoulder, and his eyes ranged hungrily
over the whole slim beauty of her, lingering on the little bent brown
head, the soft curve of her girlish bosom, until the yearning for her
grew intolerable and the restraint he put upon himself took all his
resolution. The temptation to gather her into his arms was almost more
than he could resist, he folded them tightly across his chest--he could
not trust them. He could barely trust himself. The unwonted intimacy,
the subtle torture of her nearness set his pulses leaping madly. The
blood beat in his head, his body quivered with the passionate longing,
the fierce desire that rushed over him. In the agony of the moment only
the elemental man existed, and he was sensible alone of the burning
physical need that rose above all higher purer sentiment. To hold her
crushed against his throbbing heart, to bury his face in the fragrance
of her soft hair, to kiss her lips till she should beg his mercy--there
seemed no greater joy on earth. He wanted her as he had wanted nothing
in his life before. And yet, if he gained what he had come to ask he
knew that what he suffered now would be as nothing to what he would have
to endure. To know her his wife, bound in every sense to him--and to
turn his face from the happiness that by all laws was his! Had he the
strength? Almost it seemed that he had not. He was only human--and there
was a limit to human endurance. If circumstances proved too hard....
The sound of a little smothered cough checked his thoughts abruptly. He
realised that in self-commiseration he had lost sight of the purpose of
his visit. It was only she who mattered; her health, her happiness that
must be considered. He cursed himself and searched vainly for words
to express what he must say. And the more he thought the more utterly
speech evaded him. Then chance aided. She coughed again and with a
little impatient gesture rose to her feet.

“Aunt Caro has decided to go to Cimiez for the rest of the
winter--because of my cough. She settled it while you were away. I don't
want to go, my cough is nothing. I wouldn't exchange this”--pointing to
the snow-clad park--“for all the warmth and sunshine of the Riviera.
I want to store up all the memories I can. You don't know how I have
learned to love the Towers.” It was as if the last words had escaped
unintentionally for she flushed and turned again abruptly to the
darkening window. His heart gave a sudden leap but he did not move.

“Then why leave it?” he asked brusquely.

She leaned her forehead on the frosting glass and her eyes grew misty.

“You _know_,” she said softly, and her voice trembled. “In all the world
I have only my--my talent and my self-respect. If I were to do what you
and Aunt Caro, in your wonderful generosity, propose--oh, don't stop
me, you _must_ listen--I should only have my talent left. Can't you
see, can't you understand that I must work, that I must prove my
self-respect? For all that you have done, for all that you have given
me I have tried to thank you--often. Always you have stopped me. Do you
grudge me the only way in which I can show my gratitude, the only way
in which I can prove myself worthy of your esteem?” Her voice broke in a
little sob. Then she turned to him quickly, her hands out-stretched and
quivering. “If I could only do something to repay----” she cried, with
a passionate earnestness he had never heard in her before. He caught at
the opening that offered. “You can,” he said quietly, “but it is so big
a thing--it would more than swamp the debt you think you owe me.”

“Tell me,” she whispered urgently as he paused.

He turned from her eager questioning face with acute embarrassment. He
hated himself, he hated his task, only the darkness of the room seemed
to make it possible.

“Gillian,” he said, with constrained gravity. “I came to you to-day
deliberately to ask you what I believe no man has any right to ask a
woman. I have tried all the afternoon to tell you. Something you said
just now makes it easier. You say you love the Towers--do you love it
well enough to stay here as its mistress, on the only terms that I can
offer?”

The look of incredulous horror that leaped into her startled eyes made
him realise suddenly the interpretation that might be put upon his
words. He caught her hands almost roughly. “Good heavens, child, not
that!” he cried aghast. “What do you take me for? I am asking you to
marry me--but not the kind of marriage that every woman has the right to
expect. If I could offer you that, God knows how willingly I would. But
there has been that in my life which comes between me and the happiness
that other men can look forward to. For me that part of life is over.
I have only friendship to offer. I know I am asking more than it seems
possible for you to grant, more, a thousand times more than I ought to
ask you--but I do ask it, most earnestly. If you can bring yourself to
make so great a sacrifice, if you can accept a marriage that will be a
marriage only in name----”

She shuddered from him with a bitter cry. “You are offering me
_charity_!” she wailed, struggling to free her hands. But he held them
firmer. “I am asking you to take pity on a very lonely man,” he said
gently. “I am asking you to care for a very lonely house. You have
brought sunshine into the Towers, you have brought sunshine into the
lives of many people living on the estate. I am asking you to stay where
you are so much wanted--so much--loved.”

Then he let her go and she walked unsteadily to the fireplace. She
stood for a moment, her fingers working convulsively, staring into
the smouldering embers, and then sank into a chair, for her limbs were
shaking under her. He followed slowly and stooped to stir the fire to a
blaze. Covertly she looked at him as the red light illuminated his face
and scalding tears gathered in her eyes. And, curiously, it was not
wholly of herself that she was thinking. She was envying, with a feeling
of hopeless intolerable pain, that other woman whom he had loved. For
his words could only have meant one thing, and the great sorrow she had
imagined seemed all at once explained. She wondered what manner of woman
she had been, if she had died--or if she had proved unworthy. And the
last thought roused a sudden fierce resentment--how could a woman who
had won his love throw it back at his feet, unwanted! The envious tears
welled over and she brushed them furtively away. Then her thoughts
turned in compassion to him. Through death or faithlessness love had
brought no joy to him--he suffered as she was suffering now. She looked
at the silver threads gleaming in his hair, at the deep lines in his
face and the pain in her eyes gave place to a wonderful tenderness. She
had prayed for a chance to show her gratitude; if what he asked could
bring any alleviation to his life, if her presence could bring any sort
of comfort to his loneliness, was not even that more than she had ever
dared to hope? That he should turn to her was understandable. He had men
friends in plenty, but women he openly and undisguisedly avoided. He had
grown used to her presence at the Towers, a marriage such as he proposed
would call for no great alteration in the daily routine to which he had
become accustomed. If by doing this she could in any way repay....

The replenished fire was filling the room with soft flickering light,
it cast strange shadows on the curtained walls and revealed the girl's
strained white face pitilessly. Craven had risen and was standing
looking down on her. She grew aware of his scrutiny and flinched, the
hot blood rolling slowly, painfully over her face and neck. He spoke
abruptly, as if the words were forced from him:

“But I want you to realise fully what this marriage with me would mean,
for it is a very big sacrifice I am asking of you. Whatever happened,
you would be bound to me. If”--his voice faltered momentarily--“if you
were sometime to meet a man--and love him--you would be my wife, you
would not be free to follow your heart.”

She stared straight before her, her hands clasped tight around her
knees, shivering slightly. “I shall never--want to marry--in that way,”
 she said in a strangled voice. He smiled sadly. “You think that now--you
are very young,” he argued, “but we have the future to think of.”

She did not answer and in the silence that ensued he wondered what had
induced him to put forward an argument that might defeat his purpose. In
any other case it would have been only the honourable thing to do, but
in this it was a risk he should not have taken. He moved impatiently.
Then suddenly he leaned forward and laid his hands on her shoulders,
drawing her gently to her feet.

“Gillian!”

Slowly she raised her head. The touch of his hands was almost more than
she could bear, but she steadied her trembling lips and met his gaze
bravely as he spoke again.

“If you will agree to this--this _mariage de convenance_, I will do
all that lies in my power to make your life happy. You will be free in
everything. I ask nothing but that you will look on me as a friend to
whom you can always come in any difficulty or any trouble. You will be
complete mistress of yourself, your time, your inclinations. I will not
interfere with you in any way.”

She searched his face, trying to read what lay behind his inscrutable
expression. His eyes were kind, but there was in them a curious
underlying gleam that she could not understand. And his voice puzzled
her. She was bewildered, torn with conflicting doubts. Sensitively she
shrank from his inexplicable suggestion, she could see no reason for his
amazing proposal save an extraordinary generosity that filled her with
gratitude and yet against which she revolted.

“You are doing this in pity!” she cried miserably.

“Before God I swear that I am not,” he said, with unexpected fierceness
that startled her, and the sudden painful gripping of the strong hands
on her shoulders made her for the first time aware of his strength. She
thought of it wonderingly. If it had been otherwise, if he had loved
her, how gladly she would have surrendered to it. It would have stood
between her and the unknown world that loomed sometimes in spite of her
confidence with a sinister horror on which she dared not dwell. In the
safety of his arms she would never have known fear, his strength would
have shielded her through life. And, in a lesser degree, his strength
might still be hers to turn to, if she would. A new conception of the
future she had planned rushed over her, the confidence she had felt fell
suddenly away, leaving fear and dread and a terror of loneliness. His
touch had destroyed her faith in herself. It had done more. In some
subtle way it seemed to her he had by his touch claimed her. And with
his hands still pressing her shoulders she felt a strange inability to
oppose him. He had sworn that it was not pity that dictated his offer.
He had said that love did not exist for him. What then could be his
motive? She could find none.

“You wouldn't lie to me?” she whispered, tormented with doubt, “you wish
this--this marriage--truly?”

He looked at her steadily.

“I wish it, truly,” he said firmly.

“You would let me go on with my work?” she faltered, fighting for time.

“I have said that I would not interfere with you in any way, that you
would be free in everything,” he answered, and as if in earnest of the
freedom promised his hands slipped from her.

The fire had died down again, and the room was almost dark, he could
hardly see her where she stood. He waited, hoping she would speak, then
abruptly: “Can you give me an answer, Gillian?”

He heard the quick intake of her breath, felt her trembling beside him.

“Oh, if you would give me time,” she murmured entreatingly. “I want to
think. It means so much.”

“Take all the time you wish,” he said, and went quietly away. And his
going brought a sudden desolation. She longed to call him back,
to promise what he asked, to yield without further struggle. But
uncertainty held her. Motionless she stood staring through the darkness
at the dim outline of the door that had closed behind him, her breast
heaving tumultuously, until tears blinded her and with a gasping sob
she slipped to the floor. She had never dared to hope that he could
love her, but the truth from his own lips was bitter. And for a time the
realisation of that bitterness deadened all other feeling. Overwrought
with the emotion of the last few hours, her nerves strained to breaking
point, she was unable to check the tide of grief that shook her to the
very depths of her being. With her face hidden in the soft rug, her
outflung hands clenching convulsively, she wept in an abandonment of
sorrow.

If he had never spoken, if he had never made this strange proposal but
had maintained until the end the detached reserve that had seemed to set
so wide a gulf between them, it would have been easier to bear. He would
have passed out of her life, inscrutable as he had always been. But with
his change of attitude, in the intimacy of the few hours they had spent
alone, she had seen him with new eyes. The mysterious unapproachable
guardian had gone for ever, and in his place was a very human man
revealing characteristics she had never imagined to exist, showing an
interest and a gentleness she had never suspected. He had exhibited a
similarity of tastes and ideas that agreed extraordinarily with her
own, he had talked as to a comrade. The companionship had been very
sweet--very sorrowful. She could never think of him again as he had
been, and the new conception of him gave a poignant stab to her grief.
In the brief happiness of the afternoon she had had a fleeting vision of
what might have been “if he had loved me,” she moaned, and it seemed to
her that she had never known until now the real depth of her own love.
What she had felt before was not comparable with the overwhelming
passion that the touch of his hands had quickened. It swept her like
a raging torrent, carrying her beyond the limit of her understanding,
bringing with it strange yearnings that, half-understood, she shuddered
from, ashamed.

Torn with emotion she wept until she had no tears left, until the hard
racking sobs died away and her tired sorrow-shaken body lay still.
For the moment, exhausted, her agony of mind was dulled and time was
non-existent. She did not move or lift her head from the tear-wet rug.
A great weariness seemed to deaden all faculty. The minutes passed
unnoticed. Then some latent consciousness stirred in her brain and she
looked up startled.

It was quite dark and she realised, shivering, that the room had grown
very cold. The calm afternoon had given place to a stormy night
and heavy gusts of wind were sweeping round the angle of the house,
shrieking and whistling eerily; from the window came the soft _swish
swish_ of dry hard snow beating against the panes. She started to her
feet. She had no idea of the hour but she knew it must be late. Perhaps
the dinner gong had already sounded and, missed, somebody might come in
search of her. She shrank from being found thus. Feeling her way to a
lamp she turned the switch and the soft light flooding the room made her
wince. A glance at her watch showed that she had still a few moments in
which to gain her room unobserved.

She felt oddly lightheaded and her feet dragged wearily. The tortuous
passage had never seemed so interminable, the succession of closed doors
appeared unending. Reaching her own room she collapsed on to a sofa
that was drawn up before the fire, her head aching, her limbs shivering
uncontrollably, worn out with emotion. Exhausted in mind and body she
seemed unable even to frame a thought logically or coherently--only an
interrupted medley of unconnected ideas chased through her tired brain
until her temples throbbed agonisingly. She knew that sometime she would
have to rouse herself, that sometime a decision would have to be made,
but not now. Now she could only lie still and make no effort. She was
angry with herself, contemptuous of her weakness. She had disdained
nerves, she was humiliated now by her present lack of control. But even
self-scorn was a passing thought from which she turned wearily.

One fact only remained, clear and distinct from the confusion in her
mind--he did not love her. He did not love her. It hurt so. She hid her
face in the pillows, writhing with the shame the knowledge of her own
love brought her. The deep booming of the dinner gong awoke her to the
necessity of some kind of action. She rang the bell that hung within
reach of her hand and, by the maid who answered her summons, sent her
excuses to Miss Craven, pleading a headache for remaining upstairs.

A few minutes later Mary, grim-visaged and big-hearted, appeared with a
tray, headache remedies and multifarious messages from the dining room.
She bathed the girl's aching head, brushing the tumbled brown hair and
piling it afresh into a soft loose knot. Grumbling gently at the long
hours of work to which she attributed the unusual indisposition, she
took full advantage of the rare opportunity of rendering personal
attention and fussed to her heart's content, stripping off the stained
overall and substituting a loose velvet wrapper; and then stood over
her, a kindly martinet, until the light dinner she had brought was
eaten. Afterwards she packed pillows, made up the fire, and administered
a particularly nauseous specific emanating from a homeopathic medicine
chest that was her greatest pride, and then took herself away, still
mildly admonishing.

Gillian leaned back against the cushions with a feeling of greater
ease and restfulness. Food had given her strength and under Mary's
ministrations her mental poise had steadied. She would not let herself
dwell on the question that must before long be settled, Miss Craven
would be coming soon, and until she had been and gone no definite
settlement could be attempted.

She lay looking at the fire, endeavouring to keep her mind a blank. It
was odd to be alone, she missed the familiar black form lying on the
hearth-rug, but tonight she could not bear even Mouston's presence,
and Mary had taken a request to Yoshio, to whose room the dog had been
banished from the studio, that he would keep him until the morning.

A tap at the door and Miss Craven appeared, anxious and questioning.

“Only a headache?--my dear, I don't believe it!” she protested, plumping
down on the side of the sofa and clutching at her hair, that sure sign
of perturbation. “You've never had a headache like this before. You've
been working too hard. You were painting all the morning and they tell
me you worked throughout the afternoon and had no tea. Gillian, dear,
when will you learn sense? I don't at all approve of you having tea sent
to the studio _only_ when you ring for it. Young people require regular
meals and as often as not neglect 'em; young artists are the worst
offenders--you needn't contradict me, I know all about it. I did it
myself.” She patted the clasped hands lying near her and scrutinised
the girl more closely. “You're as pale as a ghost and your eyes are too
bright. Did Mary take your temperature? No?--the woman must have lost
her senses. I'll telephone to Doctor Harris to come and see you in
the morning. If you looked a fraction more feverish I'd send for you
to-night, storm or no storm. Peter braved it, open car as usual. He sent
his love. Barry turned up from Scotland this afternoon. He looks very
tired--says he had a bothering time and a wretched journey--Gillian!”
 she cried sharply as the girl slid from the sofa on to her knees beside
her and raised a quivering piteous face.

“Aunt Caro, I'm not ill,” the words came in tumbling haste, “there's
nothing bodily the matter with me--I'm only dreadfully unhappy. I know
Mr. Craven is back--he came to me in the studio this afternoon. He asked
me to marry him,” the troubled voice sank to a whisper, “and I--I don't
know what to do.”

“My dear.” The tenderness of Miss Craven's tone sent a strangling wave
of emotion into Gillian's throat. “Aunt Caro, did you know? Do you wish
it too?” she murmured wistfully.

Unwilling to admit a previous knowledge which would be difficult to
explain, Miss Craven temporised. “I very greatly hoped for it,” she said
guardedly; “you and Barry are all I have to care for, and you are both
so--alone. I know you think of a very different life, I know you have
dreams of making a career for yourself. But a career is not all that a
woman wants in her life; it can perhaps mean independence and fame,
it can also mean great loneliness and the loss of the full and perfect
happiness that should be every woman's. You mustn't judge all cases
by me. I have been happy in my own way but I want a greater, richer
happiness for you, dear. I want for you the best that the world can
give, and that best I believe to be the shelter and the safety of a
man's love.”

The brown head dropped on her knee. “You are thinking of me--I am
thinking of him,” came a stifled whisper.

Miss Craven stroked the soft hair tenderly. “Then why not give him what
he asks, my dear,” she said gently. “He has known sorrow and suffering.
If through you, he can forget the past in a new happiness, will you not
grant it him? Oh, Gillian, I have so hoped that you might care for each
other; that, together, you might make the Towers the perfect home it
should be, a home of mutual trust and love. You and Barry and, please
God, after you--your children.” She choked with unexpected emotion and
brushed the mist from her eyes impatiently.

And at her knee Gillian knelt motionless, her lip held fast between her
teeth to stop the bitter cry that nearly escaped her, her heart almost
bursting. The picture Miss Craven's words called up was an ideal of
happiness that might have been. The suffering that reality promised
seemed more than she could contemplate. What happiness could come
from such a travesty? The strange yearnings she had experienced seemed
suddenly crystallised into form, and the knowledge was a greater pain
than she had known. What she would have gone down to the gates of death
to give him he did not require--the unutterable joy that Miss
Craven suggested would never be hers. She searched for words, for an
explanation of her silence that must seem strange to the elder woman.
Miss Craven obviously knew nothing of the unusual conditions attached to
his proposal, her words proved it, and Gillian could not tell her. She
could not betray his confidence even if she had so wished. If she could
but speak frankly and show all her difficulty to the friend who
had never yet failed in love and sympathy----She sought refuge in
prevarication. “How can I marry him?” she cried miserably. “You
don't know anything about me. I'm not a fit person to be his wife--my
antecedents----”

“Bother your antecedents!” interrupted Miss Craven, with a somewhat
shaky laugh. “My dearest girl, Barry isn't going to marry them, he's
going to marry you. They can have been anything you like or imagine but
it does not alter the fact that their daughter is the one woman on earth
I want for Barry's wife.” She stooped and gathered the girl into her
arms.

“Gillian, can you give us, Barry and me, this great happiness?”

Gently Gillian disengaged herself and rose slowly to her feet. She made
a little helpless gesture, swaying as she stood. “What can I say?” she
said brokenly. “Do you think it means nothing to me! Don't you know that
what I already owe you and Mr. Craven is almost more than I can bear,
that I would give my life for either of you? But this--oh, you don't
understand--I can't tell you--I can't explain----” She dropped back
on the sofa and her voice came muffled and entreatingly from among the
silken cushions, “If you knew how I long to repay you for your wonderful
goodness, if you knew what your love has meant to me! Oh, dearest, I'd
give the world to please you! But I don't know what to do, I don't know
what is honest--and you can't help me, nobody can help me. I've got to
settle it myself. I've got to think----”

Miss Craven guessed the crying need for solitude conveyed in the last
faltering words and rose in obedience to the unspoken request. She stood
for a moment, looking tenderly down on the slim prostrate figure, and a
fear that grew momentarily stronger came to her that in her endeavour
to bring happiness to these two lives she had blundered fatally. She
had been a fool, rushing in. And with almost a feeling of dismay she
realised it was beyond her ability now to stay what she had put in
motion. She was as one who, having wantonly released some complex
mechanism, stands aghast and powerless at the consequence of his
rashness. And yet, despite the seeming setback to her hopes, the
conviction that had urged her to this step was still strong in her;
she still had faith in its ultimate achievement. She touched the girl's
shoulder in a quick caress. “You are worn out, child. Go to bed and rest
now, and think to-morrow,” she said soothingly.

For long after she left the room Gillian lay without moving. Then with
a long shuddering sigh she sat up. She tried to concentrate on
the decision she must make but her thoughts, ungovernable, dwelt
persistently on the unknown woman whom she had convinced herself he must
have loved, and the passionate envy she had felt before swept her again
until the pain of it sent a whispered prayer to her lips for strength to
put it from her. Huddled on the side of the sofa, her head supported on
her hands, she stared fixedly into the fire as if seeking in the leaping
flames the answer to the problem that confronted her. Then in her agony
of mind inaction became impossible and she rose and paced the room with
hurried nervous tread.

To do what was right--to do what was honourable; to conquer the
clamorous self that cried out for acceptance of this semblance of
happiness that was offered. To bear his name, to have the right to be
near him, to care for him and for his interests as far as she might.
To be his wife--even if only in name. Dear God, did he know how he had
tempted her? But she had no right. The crushing burden of debt she owed
rose like an unsurpassable mountain between her and what she longed
for. Only by repayment could she keep her self-respect. The dreams
of independence, the place she had thought to make for herself in the
world, the re-establishing of her father's name--could she forego what
she had planned? Was it not a nobler aim than the gratification of self
that urged the easier way? Yet would it be the easier way? Was she not
really in her heart shrinking from the difficulty and sadness that this
loveless marriage would bring? Was it not cowardice that prompted a
supposed nobility of thought that now appeared ignoble? She wrung her
hands in desperation. Had she no courage or steadfastness at all? Was
the weakness of purpose that had ruined her father's life to be her
curse as it had been his?

She felt suddenly very young, very inexperienced. Her early training
that had denied the exercise of individual responsibility and had
inculcated a passivity of mind that precluded self-determination had
bitten deeper than she knew. Her life since leaving the convent had been
smooth and uneventful, there had been no occasion to practise the new
liberty of thought and action that was hers. And now before a decision
that would be so irrevocable, that would involve her whole life--and not
hers alone--she felt to the full the disability of her upbringing.
Alone she must make her choice and she shrank from the burden of
responsibility that fell upon her. She had nobody to turn to for counsel
or advice. In her loneliness she longed for the solace of a mother's
tenderness, the shelter of a mother's arms, and bitterness came to her
as she thought of the parents who had each in their turn abandoned her
so callously. She had been robbed of her birthright of love and care.
She was alone in the world, alone to fight her own battles, alone in the
moment of her direst need.

Then all at once she seemed to see in the trend of her thoughts only
a supreme selfishness that had lost sight of all but personal
consideration. Was her love of so little worth that in thought
for herself she had forgotten him? He had asked her to pity his
loneliness--and she had had only pity for herself. Her lips quivered as
she whispered his name in an agony of self-condemnation.

Coming back slowly to the fireside she slipped to the floor and
leaned her head against the sofa listening to the storm that beat with
increasing violence against the house, and the roar of the tempest
without seemed in strange agreement with the tumult that was raging in
her heart. The words he had used came back to her. Did it really lie
in her power to lessen the loneliness of his life? To give him what he
asked--was not that, after all, the true way to pay her debt? With a
little sob she bowed her head on her hands.... An hour later she rose
stiffly, cramped with long sitting, and moving nearer to the fire chafed
her cold hands mechanically. Her face was very sad and her wide eyes
heavy with unshed tears. She drew a long sobbing breath. “Because I love
him,” she murmured. “If I didn't love him I couldn't do it.” A thought
that brought new hope came to her. She loved him so deeply, might not
her love, she wondered wistfully, perhaps some day be strong enough to
heal the wound he had sustained--strong enough even to compel his love?
Then doubt seized hold on her again. Would she, in the limited scope
that she would have, find opportunity--would he ever allow her to get
near enough to him?... She flung her hands out in passionate appeal.

“Oh, God! if this thing that I am doing is wrong, if it brings sorrow
and unhappiness, let me be the only one to pay!”

A sudden longing to make retraction impossible came over her. She looked
anxiously at her watch. Was it too late to go to him to-night? Only when
she had told him would she be sure of herself. Her word once given there
could be no withdrawal.

It was nearly midnight but she knew he rarely left his study until
later. Peters would be gone, he was methodical in his habits and retired
punctually at eleven o'clock with a regularity that was unvarying. She
was sure of finding him alone. She dared not wait until the morning, she
must go now while she had the courage. Delay might bring new doubts, new
uncertainty. Impulsively she started towards the door, then paused on a
sudden thought that sent the warm blood in a painful wave to her
face. Would he misunderstand, think her unwomanly, attribute her hasty
decision to a sordid desire for material gain, for the ease that would
be hers, for the position that his name would give? It was the natural
thought for him who offered so much to one who would give nothing in
return. And not for him alone--in the eyes of the world she would be
only a little adventuress who had skilfully seized the opportunity
that circumstance had given to advantage herself. But the world did not
matter, she thought with scornful curling lip, it was only in his eyes
that she desired to stand well. Then with quick shame she knew that the
sentiments she had ascribed to him were unworthy, the outcome only
of her own strained imagination, and she put them from her. She went
quickly to the gallery, dimly lit from a single lamp left alight in the
hall below--left for Craven as she knew. Silence brooded over the great
house. The storm that earlier had beat tempestuously against the dome
as if striving to shatter the massive glass plates that opposed its fury
had blown itself out and glancing upward Gillian saw the huge cupola
shrouded with snow that gleamed palely in the soft light. The stillness
oppressed her and odd thoughts chased through her mind. She looked to
right and left nervously and in a sudden inexplicable panic sped down
the wide staircase and across the shadowy hall until she reached the
study door. There she halted with wildly beating heart, panting and
breathless. It was a room which she had never before entered, and an
almost paralysing shyness made her shake from head to foot. Nerving
herself with a strong effort she tapped with trembling fingers and, at
the sound of an answering voice, went in.

Strength seemed all at once to leave her. Physically and mentally
exhausted, a feeling of unreality supervened. The strange room swam
before her eyes. As in a dream she saw him start to his feet and
come swiftly to her across a seemingly unending length of carpet that
billowed and wavered curiously, his big frame oddly magnified until he
appeared a very giant towering above her; as in a dream she felt him
take her ice-cold hands in his. But the warm strong grasp, the grave
eyes bent compellingly on her, dragged her back from the shuddering
abyss into which she was sinking. Far away, as though coming from a
great distance, she heard him speaking. And his voice, gentler than she
had ever known it, gave her courage to whisper, so low that he had to
bend his tall head to catch the fluttering words, the promise she had
come to give.




CHAPTER VII


On an afternoon in early September eighteen months after her marriage
Gillian was driving across the park toward the little village of Craven
that, old world and quite unspoiled, clustered round a tiny Norman
church two miles distant from the Towers. She leaned back in the
victoria, her hands clasped in her lap, preoccupied and thoughtful.
A scented heap of deep crimson roses and carnations lay at her feet;
beside her, in contrast to her listless attitude, Mouston sat up tense
and watchful, his sharp muzzle thrust forward, his black nose twitching
eagerly at the distracting agitating smells borne on the warm air
tempting him from monotonous inactivity to a soul satisfying scamper
over the short cropped grass but, conscious of the dignity of his
position, ignoring them with a gravity of demeanour that was almost
comical. Once or twice when his wrinkling nostrils caught some
particularly attractive odour his pads kneaded the cushions vigorously
and a snarly gurgle rose in his throat. But no other sign of
restlessness escaped him--it was patience bred of experience. For miles
around he was a well-known figure, sitting grave and motionless on his
accustomed side of the victoria as it rolled through the country lanes.
To the villagers of Craven, all directly or indirectly dependent on
the estate, he was welcome in that he was inseparable from the gentle
tender-hearted girl whom they worshipped, but their welcome was
a qualified one that never descended to the familiar; his strange
appearance and disdainful aloofness made him an object of curiosity
to be viewed with most safety from a respectful distance; time had not
accustomed them to him and tales of his uncanny understanding filtering
through, richly embroidered, to the village from the house, did not tend
to lessen the awe with which he was regarded. They marvelled, without
comprehension, at the partiality of his mistress; he was the “black
French devil” to more households than that of Major, the gamekeeper, an
“unorranary brute” to those of less gifted imagination.

To Mouston Gillian's periodical visits to the village were a tedium
endured for the sake of the coveted seat beside her.

The passing of a herd of deer, feeding intently and--save for one or two
more timid hinds who started nervously--too used to the carriage to
heed its approach, roused the poodle, as always, to a high pitch of
excitement; they were old enemies and his annoyance gave vent to a
sharp yelp as he sidled close to Gillian and endeavoured to attract her
attention with an insistent paw. But for once she was heedless of the
hints of her dumb companion, and, whining, he slunk back into his own
corner, curling up on the seat with his forepaws brushing the mass
of scented blossom. And ignorant of the pleading brown eyes fixed
pathetically on her, Gillian followed the train of her own troubled
thoughts. For eighteen months she had been Barry Craven's wife, for
eighteen months she had endeavoured to fulfill her share of the contract
they had made--and to herself she admitted failure.

The strain was becoming unendurable.

In the eyes of the world an ideal couple, in reality--she wondered if in
the whole universe there were two more lonely souls than they. She knew
now that the task she had set herself that stormy December night was
beyond her power, that it had been the unattainable dream of an immature
love-sick girl. She had fought to retain her high ideals, to believe
that love--as great, as unselfish as hers--must beget love, but she had
come to realise the utter futility of her dream and to wonder at the
childish ignorance that had inspired it. The sustaining hope that she
might indeed be a comfort to his loneliness had died hard, but
surely. For he gave her no opportunity. Despite unfailing kindness and
overwhelming generosity he maintained always a baffling reserve she
found impossible to penetrate. Of his inner self she knew no more than
she had ever done, she could get no nearer to him. But in all matters
that dealt with their common life he was scrupulously frank and
out-spoken; he had insisted on her acquiring a knowledge of his
interests and a working idea of his affairs, from which she had shrunk
sensitively, but he had persisted, arguing that in the event of his
death--Peters not being immortal--it was necessary that she should be
able to administer possessions that would be hers--and the thought of
those possessions crushed her. It was only after a long struggle, in
distress that horrified him, that she persuaded him to forego the big
settlement he proposed making. If she had not loved him his liberality
would have hurt her less, but because of her love his money was a
scourge. She hated the wealth to which she felt she had no right, to
herself she seemed an impostor, a cheat. She felt degraded. She would
rather he had bought her, as women have from time immemorial been
bought, that she might have paid the price, as they pay, and so retained
the self-respect that now seemed for ever lost. It would have been a
means of re-establishing herself in her own eyes, of easing the burden
of his bounty that grew daily heavier and from which she could never
escape. It was evident in all about her; in the greater state and
ceremony observed at the Towers since their marriage, which, while
it pleased the household, who rejoiced in the restoration of the old
régime, oppressed her unspeakably; in the charities she dispensed--his
charities that brought her no sense of sacrifice, no joy of self-denial;
in the social duties that poured in upon her.

His wealth served only to strengthen the barrier between them, but for
that she might have been to him what she longed to be. If the talent
that now seemed so useless could have been used for him she would have
found a measure of happiness even if love had never come to crown her
service. In poverty she would have worked for him, slaved for him, with
the strength and tirelessness that only love can give. But here the
gladness of giving, of serving, was denied, here there was nothing
she might do and the futility of her life choked her. She had
conscientiously endeavoured to assume the responsibilities and duties
of her new position, but there seemed little for her to do, for the big
household ran smoothly on oiled wheels under the capable administration
of Forbes and Mrs. Appleyard, with whom, both honest and devoted to the
interests of the family they had served so long and faithfully, she knew
it was unnecessary and unwise to interfere. In any unusual circumstance
they would refer to her with tactful deference but for the rest she knew
that, perforce, she must be content to remain a figure-head. Even her
work--interrupted constantly by the social duties incumbent on her and
performed from a sense of obligation--failed to comfort and distract. It
was all so utterly useless and purposeless. The gift with which she had
thought to do so much was wasted. She could do nothing with it. She was
no longer Gillian Locke who had dreamed of independence, who had hoped
by toil and endeavour to clear the stain from her father's name. She was
the rich Mrs. Craven--who must smile to hide a breaking heart, who must
play the part expected of her, who must appear always care-free and
happy. And the constant effort was almost more than she could
achieve. In the ceaseless watch she set upon herself, in the rigid
self-suppression she exercised, it seemed to her as if her true self had
died, and her entity faded into an automaton that moved in mechanical
obedience to the driving of her will. Only during the long night hours
or in the safe seclusion of the studio could she relax, could she be
natural for a little while. That Craven might never learn the misery of
her life, that she might not fail him as she had failed herself, was
her one prayer. She welcomed eagerly the advent of guests, of foreign
guests--more exigent in their demands upon her society--particularly;
with the house filled the time of host and hostess was fully occupied
and the difficult days passed more easily, more quickly. The weeks they
spent alone she dreaded; from the morning greeting in the breakfast room
to the moment when he gave her the quiet “Good-night” that might
have come from an undemonstrative brother, she was in terror lest an
unguarded word, a chance expression, might tell him what she sought to
keep from him. But so insensible did his own constant pre-occupation of
mind make him appear of much that passed, that she feared his intuition
less than that of Peters who she was convinced had a very shrewd idea of
the state of affairs existing between them. It was manifested in diverse
ways; not by any spoken word direct or indirect, but by additional
fatherly tenderness of manner, by unfailing tactfulness, by quick
intervention that had saved many awkward situations. It was practically
impossible in view of his almost daily association with the house and
its inmates that he could be unaware of certain facts. But the wise
kindly eyes that she had feared most were closed for ever.

The Great Summons for which Miss Craven had been so calmly prepared had
come more suddenly, more tragically even than she had anticipated. She
had passed over as she would have wished, had she been given the choice,
not in the awful loneliness of death but one of a company of heroic
souls who had voluntarily and willingly stood aside that others might
have the chance to live.

A few months after the marriage on which she had set her heart the
family curse had seized her as suddenly and as imperatively as it had
ever done her nephew. An exhibition of statuary in America had served
as an adequate excuse and she had started at comparatively short notice,
accompanied by the faithful Mary, after a stormy interview with her
doctor, whose gloomy warnings she refuted with the undeniable truism
that one land was as good as another to die in. Within a few hours of
the American coast the tragedy, short and overwhelming, had occurred.
From the parent ice a thousand miles away in the north the stupendous
white destruction had moved majestically down its appointed course to
loom out of the pitch-black night with appalling consequence. A sudden
crash, slight enough to be unnoticed by hundreds, a convulsive shudder
of the great ship like the death struggle of a Titan, had been followed
by unquellable panic, confusion of darkness, inadequate boats and
jamming bulkheads. Miss Craven and Mary were among the first on deck and
for the short space of time that remained they worked side by side
among the terror-stricken women and children, their own life-belts early
transferred to dazed mothers who clutched wild-eyed at wailing babes.
Together they had stood back from the overcrowded boats, smiling and
unafraid; together they had gone down into the mystery of the deep, two
gallant women, no longer mistress and maid but sisters in sacrifice and
in the knowledge of that greater love for which they cheerfully laid
down their lives.

And while Gillian mourned her bitterly she was yet glad that Miss
Craven was spared the sadness of witnessing the complete failure of her
cherished dream.

In the little Norman church toward which Gillian was driving there had
been added yet another memorial to a Craven who had died tragically
and far from home; a record of disastrous calamity that, beginning four
hundred years before with the Elizabethan gallant, had relentlessly
pursued an ill-starred family. The church lay on the outskirts of the
village and close to the south entrance of the park.

Gillian stopped the carriage for a few moments to speak to the
anxious-looking woman who had hurried out from the creeper-covered lodge
to open the gates. Behind one of the casements of the cottage a child
was fighting for life, a cripple, with an exquisite face, whom Gillian
had painted. To the sorrowful mother the eager tender words, the soft
impulsive hand that clasped her own work-roughened palm, the wide dark
eyes, misty with sympathy were worth infinitely more than the material
aid, so carefully packed by Mrs. Appleyard, that the footman carried up
the narrow nagged path to the cottage door.

And as the impatient horses drew the carriage swiftly on again Gillian
leaned back in her seat with a quivering sigh. The woman at the lodge,
despite her burden of sorrow, despite her humbleness, was yet richer
than she and, with intolerable pain, she envied her the crowning joy of
womanhood that would never be her own. The child she longed for would
never by the touch baby hands bring consolation to her starved and
lonely heart. Her thoughts turned to her husband in a sudden passion of
hopeless love and longing. To bear him a child--to hold in her arms a
tiny replica of the beloved figure that was so dear to her, to watch
and rejoice in the dawning resemblance that the ardour of her love would
make inevitable.... Hastily she brushed away the gathering tears as the
carriage stopped abruptly with a jingle of harness at the lichgate.

Coaxing the reluctant Mouston from the seat where he still sulked she
tied him to the gate, took the armful of flowers from the grave-faced
footman, and dismissing the carriage walked slowly up the lime-bordered
avenue. The orderliness and beauty of the churchyard struck her as it
always did--a veritable garden of sleep, with level close-shorn turf
set thick with standard rose trees, that even the clustering headstones
could not make chill and sombre.

From the radiant sunshine without she passed into the cool dimness of
the little building. With its tiny proportions, ornate and numerous
Craven memorials and--for its size--curiously large chancel, it seemed
less the parish church it had become than the private chapel for which
it had been built. Then the house had been close by, but during the
troublous years of Mary Tudor was pulled down and rebuilt on the present
site.

Through the quiet silence Gillian made her way up the short central
aisle until she reached the chancel steps. For a few minutes she knelt,
her face crushed against the flowers she held, in silent passionate
prayer that knew neither form nor words--a soundless supplication that
was an inchoate appeal to a God of infinite understanding. Then rising
slowly she pushed back the iron gate and went into the chancel. Directly
to the left the new monument gleamed cleanly white against the old
dark wall. Simple and bold, as she would herself have designed it, the
sculptor's memorial was the work of the greatest genius of the day who
had willingly come from France at Craven's invitation to perpetuate the
memory of a sister artist who had also been a lifelong friend.

A rugged pedestal of green bronze--with an inset panel representing the
tragedy--rose upward in the shape of billowing curling waves supporting
a marble Christ standing erect with outstretched pitying hand, majestic
and yet wholly human.

Gillian gazed upward with quivering lips at the Saviour's inclined
tender face, and opening her arms let the scented mass of crimson
blossom fall slowly to the slab at her feet that bore Miss Craven's name
and Mary's cut side by side.

    _“Greater love hath no man than this, that
    a man lay down his life for his friends.”_

She read the words aloud, and with a stifled sob slipped down among the
roses and carnations that Caro Craven had loved, and leaned her aching
head against the cool hard bronze. “Dearest,” she whispered, in an agony
of tears, “I wonder can you hear? I wonder are you allowed, where you
are, to know what happens here on earth? Oh, Aunt Caro, _cherie_, do you
know that I have failed--failed to bring him the peace and consolation
I thought my love was strong enough to give, I have tried so hard to
understand, to help ... I have prayed so earnestly that he might turn to
me, that I might be to him what you would have me be ... but I have not
been able ... I have failed him ... failed you ... myself. Oh, dearest,
do you know?”

Prone among the roses, at the feet of the pitying Christ, she cried
aloud in her desperate loneliness to the dead woman who had given her
the tenderest love she had ever known. The shadows lengthened widely
before she rose and drew the scattered flowers into a fragrant heap.
She stood for a while studying intently the relief of the wreck; it
suggested a train of thought, and with a sudden impulse she traversed
the chancel and sought among the memorials of dead Cravens for the
tablets commemorating those who had disappeared or died tragically. By
chance at first and later by design these had all been placed within the
confines of the chancel that formed so large a part of the tiny church.
Before the florid Italian monument that recorded all that was known of
the short life of the Elizabethan adventurer she paused long, looking
with quickening heart-beat at the graceful kneeling figure whose face
and form were those of the man she loved.

_Barry Craven ... he set his eyes unto the west_.... Amongst the
calamitous record there were four more of the name--their bodies
scattered widely in distant unknown graves, victims of the spirit of
adventure and unrest. She moved slowly from one to the other, reading
again the tragical inscriptions she knew by heart, cut as deeply in her
memory as on the marble slabs before her.

    _Barry Craven--Lost in the Amazon Forest_.
    _Barry Craven--In the silence of the frozen seas_.
    _Barry Craven--Perished in a sandstorm in the Sahara_.
    _Barry Craven--In Japan_.
    _Barry Craven--Barry Craven_.

The name leaped at her from all sides until, with a shudder, she buried
her face in her hands to shut out the staring capitals that flamed
in black and gold before her eyes. The dread that was with her always
seemed suddenly closer than it had ever been, menacing, inevitable.
Would the fear that haunted her day and night become at some not far
distant time an actual fact? Would the curse that had already led to
ten years' perpetual wandering lay hold of him again--would he, too, in
quest of the peace he had never found, disappear as they had done? Was
it for this that he had insisted on her acquiring a knowledge of his
affairs? With the quick intuition of love she had come to understand
the deep unrest that beset him periodically, an unrest she recognised
as wholly apart and separate from the other shadow that lay across his
life. With unfailing patience she had learned to discriminate. Covertly
she had watched him, striving to fathom the varying moods that swayed
him, endeavouring to anticipate the alternating frames of mind that made
any definite comprehension of his character so difficult. The charm
of manner and apparent serenity that led others to think of him as one
endowed beyond further desire with all that life could give did not
deceive her. He played a part, as she did, a part that was contrary to
his nature, contrary to his whole inclination. She guessed at the strain
on him, a strain it seemed impossible for him to endure, which some
day she felt must inevitably break. His habitual self-control was
extraordinary--once only during their married life had he lost it when
some event, jarring on his overstrung nerves, had evoked a blaze of
anger that seemed totally out of proportion to the circumstance, that
would have given her proof, had she needed one, of his state of mind.

His outburst had been a perfectly natural reaction, but while she
admitted the fact she felt a nervous dread of its recurrence.

She feared anything that might precipitate the upheaval that loomed
always before her like a threatening cloud. For sooner or later the
unrest that filled him would have to be satisfied. The curse of Craven
would claim him again and he would leave her. And she would have to
watch him go and wait in agony for his return as other women of the race
had watched and agonised. And if he went would he ever return? or
would she too know the anguish of suspense, the long drawn horror of
uncertainty, the fading hope that year by year would become slighter
until at last it would vanish altogether and the bitter waters of
despair close over her head? A moan, like the cry of a wounded animal,
broke from her. In vivid self-torturing imagination she saw among the
sinister record around her another tablet--that would mean finality. He
was the last of the Cravens. Did it mean nothing to him--had the sorrow
of that past that was unknown to her but which had become woven into her
own life so inextricably, so terribly, killed in him even the pride
of race? Had he, deep down in the heart that was hidden from her, no
thought of parenthood, no desire to perpetuate the family name, the
family traditions? It would seem that he had not--and yet she wondered.
The woman he had loved--of whose existence she had convinced herself--if
she had lived, or proved faithful, would he still have desired no son?
She shrank from the stabbing thought with a very bitter sob.

A sudden horror of her environment came over her. Around her were
suggestions from which she shuddered, evidences that raised the haunting
dread with which she lived to a culmination of fear. It had never seemed
so near, so strong. It was stronger than her will to put it from her
and in it, with inherent superstition, she saw a premonition. The little
peaceful church became all at once a place of terror, a grisly charnel
house of vanished hopes and lives. The spirits of countless Cravens
seemed all about her, hostile, malign, triumphing in her weakness,
rejoicing in her fear--spectral figures of the dead crowding, hurrying,
threatening. She seemed to see them, a dense and awful concourse,
closing round her, to hear them whispering, muttering, jibing--at her,
a thing apart, an alien soul whose presence they resented. The clamorous
voices rang in her ears; vague shapes, illusive and shadowy, appeared to
float before her eyes. She shrank from what seemed the contact of actual
bodily forms. Unnerved and overwrought she yielded to the horror of
her own imagination. With a stifled cry she turned and fled, her arms
outstretched to fend from her the invisible host that seemed so real,
not daring even to look again at the pitying Christ whose calm serenity
formed such a striking contrast to her storm-tossed heart.

Blindly she sped down the chancel steps, along the short central aisle,
out into the timbered porch, where she blundered sharply into somebody
who was on the point of entering. Who, it did not at the moment seem to
matter--enough that it was a human creature, real and tangible, to whom
she clung trembling and incoherent. A strong arm held her, and against
its strength she leaned for a few moments in the weakness of reaction
from the nervous strain through which she had passed. Then as she
slowly regained control of herself she realised the awkwardness of
her position, and her cheeks burned hotly. She drew back, her fingers
uncurling from the tweed coat they clutched so tightly, and, trying
to slip clear of the arm that still lay about her shoulders, looked up
shyly with murmured thanks.

Then: “David,” she cried. “Oh, David----” and burst into tears. Guiding
her to the bench that rested against the side of the porch Peters drew
her down beside him. “Just David,” he said, with rather a sad little
smile, “I was passing and Mouston told me you were here.” He spoke
slowly, giving her time to recover herself, thanking fate that she
had collapsed into his arms rather than into those of some chattering
village busybody. He had caught a glimpse of her face as she came
through the church door and knew that her agitation was caused by
something more than sorrow for Miss Craven, great as that sorrow was. He
had seen fear in the hunted eyes that looked unrecognisingly into his--a
fear that he somehow resented with a feeling of helpless anger.

The affection he had for her was such as he would have given the
daughter that might have been his had providence been kinder. And with
the insight that affection gave he had seen, with acute uneasiness, a
steadily increasing change in her during the last eighteen months. The
marriage from which he, as well as Miss Craven, had hoped so much seemed
after all to have brought no joy to either husband or wife. With his
intimate knowledge and close association he saw deeper than the casual
visitor to whom the family life at the Towers appeared an ideal of
domestic happiness and concord. There was nothing he could actually take
hold of, Craven was at all times considerate and thoughtful, Gillian
a model of wifely attention. But there was an atmosphere that,
super-sensitive, he discerned, a vague underlying feeling of tension
that he tried to persuade himself was mere imagination but which at the
bottom of his heart he knew existed. There had been times when he had
seen them both, as it were, off their guard, had read in the face
of each the same bitter pain, the same look of unsatisfied longing.
Possessing in so high a degree everything that life could give they
appeared to have yet missed the happiness that should by all reasoning
have been theirs. Whose was the fault? Caring for them both it was
a question that he turned from in aversion, he had no wish to judge
between them, no desire to probe their hidden affairs. Thrown constantly
into their society while guessing much he shut his eyes to more. But
anxiety remained, fostered by the memory of the tragedy of Barry's
father and mother. Was he fated to see just such another tragedy played
out before him with no power to avert the ruin of two more lives? The
pity of it! He could do nothing and his helplessness galled him.

To-day as he sat in the little porch with Gillian's hand clasped in his
he felt more than ever the extreme delicacy of his position. Intuitively
he guessed that he was nearer than he had ever been to penetrating the
cloud that shadowed her life and Barry's but with equal intuition he
knew he must convey no hint of his understanding. He gauged her shy
sensitive mind too accurately and his own loyalty debarred him from
forcing such a confidence. Instead he spoke as though the visit to Miss
Craven's memorial must naturally be the cause of her agitation.

“Why come, my dear, if it distresses you?” he said, in quiet
remonstrance; “she would not misunderstand. She had the sanest, the
healthiest conception of death. She died nobly--willingly. It would
sadden her immeasurably if she knew how you grieved.” Her fingers worked
convulsively in his. “I know--I know,” she whispered, “but, oh, David,
I miss her so--so inexpressibly.”

“We all do,” he answered; “one cannot lose a friend like Caro Craven
lightly. But while we mourn the dead we have the living to consider--and
you have Barry,” he added, with almost cruel deliberation. She faced him
with steady eyes from which she had brushed all trace of tears.

“Barry understands,” she said with quick loyalty; “he mourns her
too--but he doesn't _need_ her as I do.” It was an undeniable truth that
reduced Peters to silence and for a while Gillian also was silent.
Then she turned to him again with a little tremulous smile, the colour
flooding her delicate face.

“I'm glad it was only you, David, just now. Please forget it. I don't
know what's the matter with me to-day, I let my nerves get the upper
hand--I'm tired--the sun was hot----”

“So of course you sent the carriage away and proposed walking two miles
home by way of a rest cure!” he interrupted, jumping up with alacrity,
and taking advantage of the turn in the conversation. “Luckily I've got
the car. Plenty of room for you and the pampered one.” And waving aside
her protests he tucked her into the little two-seater, bundling Mouston
unceremoniously in after her.

The village school was near the church, and while Peters steered the car
carefully through groups of children who were loitering in the road she
sat silent beside him, wondering, in miserable self-condemnation, how
much she had betrayed during those few moments of hysterical outburst.
Resolutely she determined that she would be strong, strong enough to put
away the dread that haunted her, strong enough to meet trouble only when
it came.

Clear of the children and running smoothly through the park Peters
condescended to break the silence.

“How went Scotland?” he asked, slowing down behind a frightened fawn
who was straying on the carriage road and cantering ahead of the car in
panicky haste. “Your letters were not satisfactory.”

“I wasn't taught to write letters. I never had any to write,” she said
with a smile that made the sensitive man beside her wince. “I did
my best, David, dear. And there wasn't much to tell. There were only
men--Barry said he couldn't stand women with the guns again after the
bother they were last year. They were nice men, shy silent creatures,
big game hunters mostly, and two doctors who have been doing research
work in Central Africa. When any of them could be induced to talk of
their experiences it was a revelation to me of what men will endure and
yet consider enjoyment. You would have liked them, David. Why didn't you
come? It would have done you more good than that horrid little yacht.
And we were alone the last two weeks--we missed you,” she added
reproachfully.

Peters had had his own reasons for absenting himself from the Scotch
lodge, reasons that, connected as they were with Craven and his wife, he
could not enlarge upon. He turned the question with a laugh.

“The yacht was better suited to a crusty old bachelor, my dear,” he
smiled. Then he gave her a searching glance. “And what did you do all
day long by yourself while the men were on the hills?”

She gave a little shrug.

“I sketched--and--oh, lots of things,” she answered, rather vaguely.
“There's always plenty to do wherever you are if you take the trouble to
look for it.”

“Which most people don't,” he replied, bringing the car to a standstill
before the front door.

“Is Barry back from London?”

“Coming this afternoon. Thanks for the lift, David, you've been a
Good Samaritan this afternoon. I don't think I could have walked.
Goodbye--and please forget,” she whispered.

He smile reassuringly and waved his hand as he restarted the car.

Calling to Mouston, who was rolling happily on the cool grass, she went
slowly into the house. With the poodle rushing round her she mounted
thoughtfully the wide stairs and turned down the corridor leading to
the studio. It seemed of all rooms the one best suited to her mood. She
wanted to be alone, beyond the reach of any chance caller, beyond the
possibility of interruption, and it was understood by all that in the
studio she must not be disturbed.

In the passage she met her maid and, giving her her hat and gloves,
ordered tea to be sent to her.

Mouston trotted on ahead into the room with the confident air of a
proprietor, fussily inspecting the contents with the usual canine
interest as if suspicious that some familiar article of furniture had
been removed during his absence and anxious to reassure himself that
all things were as he had left them. Then he curled up with a satisfied
grunt on the chesterfield beside which he knew tea would be placed.
Gillian looked about her with a sigh. The room, much as she loved it,
had never been the same to her since that December afternoon that seemed
so much longer than a bare eighteen months ago. The peace it had given
formerly was gone. Now there was associated with it always the memory
of bitter pain. She had never been able to recapture the old feeling of
freedom and happiness it had inspired. It was her refuge still,
where she came to wrestle with herself in solitude, where she sought
forgetfulness in long hours of work but it was no longer the antechamber
to a castle of dreams. There were no dreams left, only a crushing
numbling reality. She thought of her husband, and the question that was
always in her mind seemed to-day more than ever insistent. Why had
he married her? The reason he had given had been disproved by his
subsequent attitude. He had asked her to take pity on a lonely man--and
he had given her no opportunity. She had tried by every means in her
power to get nearer to him, to be to him what she thought he meant her
to be and all her endeavour had come to nothing. Had she tried enough,
done enough? Miserably she wondered would another have succeeded where
she had failed? And had she failed because, after all, the reason he had
given was no true reason? And suddenly, for the first time, in a vivid
flash of illuminating comprehension she seemed to realise the true
reason and the quixotic generosity that had prompted it. It was as if
a veil had been rudely torn from before her eyes. It explained much,
letting in an entirely new light upon many things that had puzzled her.
It placed her in a new position, changing her whole mental standpoint.
How could she have been so stupidly blind, so dense--how could she
have misunderstood? He had lied to her, a kindly noble lie, but a lie
notwithstanding--he had married her out of pity, to provide for her in
the lack of faith he had in her power to provide for herself. To him,
then, her dreams of independence had been only a childish ambition that
he judged unsubstantial, and in his dilemma he had conceived it his
duty to do what seemed to her now a thing intolerable. A burning wave
of shame went through her. She was humiliated to the very dust, crushed
with the sense of obligation. She was only another burden thrust upon
him by a man who had had no claim to his liberality. Her father--the
superman of her childish dreams! How had he dared? If love for him had
not died years before it would have died at that moment in the fierce
resentment that burned in her. But to the man who had so willingly
accepted such an imposition her heart went out in greater love and
deeper gratitude than she had yet known.

Yet, how, with this new knowledge searing her soul, could she ever face
him again? She longed to creep away and hide like a stricken animal--and
he was coming home to-day. Within a few hours she would have to meet
him, conscious at last of the full extent of her indebtedness and
conscious also of the impossibility of communicating her discovery. For
she knew that she could never bring herself to refer to it, and she
knew him well enough to be aware that any such reference was out of the
question. The gulf between them was too wide. The two days she had spent
alone at the Towers had seemed interminable, but with a revulsion of
feeling she wished now that his coming could be delayed. She shrank from
even the thought of seeing him. Though she called herself coward she
determined to postpone the meeting she dreaded until dinner, when the
presence of Forbes and a couple of footmen would brace her to meet the
situation and give her time to prepare for the later more difficult
hours when she would be alone with him. For he made a practice, rigidly
adhered to, of sitting with her in the evenings during the short time
she remained downstairs. He was punctilious in that courtesy as in all
other acts of consideration. His own bed-hour was very much later and
she often wondered what he did, what were his thoughts, alone in the
solitary study that was his refuge as the studio was hers.

But she had come almost to fear the evening hours they spent together,
the feeling of constraint was becoming more and more an embarrassment.
The last two weeks in Scotland had been more difficult than any
preceding them. Craven's restlessness had been more apparent, more
pronounced. And looking back on it now she wondered whether it was
association with the men with whom he had travelled and shot in distant
countries that was stirring in him more acutely the wander-hunger that
was in his blood. During the after dinner reminiscences in the Scotch
shooting lodge he had himself been curiously silent, but he had sat
listening with a kind of fierce intentness that to her anxious watching
eyes had been like the forced calm of a caged animal enduring captivity
with seeming resignation but cherishing always thoughts of escape.

It was then that her vague dread leaped suddenly into concrete fear.
An incident that had occurred a few days after the big game hunters had
left them had further disquieted her. On going to him for advice on some
domestic difficulty she had found him poring over a large map. He had
rolled it up at her approach and his manner had made it impossible for
her to express an interest that would otherwise have seemed natural.
With the reticence to which she had schooled herself she had made
no comment, but the thought of that rolled up hidden canvas and its
possible significance remained with her. It might mean only a renewed
interest in the scenes of past exploits--fervently she hoped it did. But
it might also mean the projection of new activities....

The arrival of a footman bringing tea put a period to her thoughts.
While the man arranged the simple necessaries that were more suited to
the studio than the elaborate display Forbes considered indispensable
downstairs, she crossed the room to an easel where stood a half-finished
picture. She looked at it critically. Was he right--was there, after
all, nothing in her work but the mediocre endeavour of an amateur? She
had been so confident, so sure. And the master in Paris who had taught
her--he also had been confident and sure. Yet as she studied the
uncompleted sketch before her she felt her confidence waver. It had not
satisfied her while she was working on it, it seemed now hopelessly and
utterly bad. With a heavy sigh she stared at it despondently, seeing
in it the failure of all her hopes. Then in quick recoil courage came
again. One piece of bad work did not constitute failure--she would not
admit failure. She had worked on it at a time of extreme depression,
when all the world had seemed black and hopeless, and the deplorable
result was due to lack of concentration. She had allowed her own
disturbed thoughts to intrude too vividly, and her wandering attention,
her unhappiness, had reacted disastrously on her work. It must be
so. Her own judgment she might have doubted, but the word of her
teacher--no. She _had_ to succeed, she had to justify herself,
to justify de Myères. “_Travaillez, travaillez, et puis encore
travaillez_,” she murmured, as she had heard him say a hundred times,
and tore the sketch across and across, tossing the pieces into a large
wicker basket. With a little shrug she turned to the tea table beside
which Mouston was sitting up in eager expectation, watching the dancing
kettle lid with solemn brown eyes. She made tea and then drew the dog
close to her, hugging him with almost passionate fervour. It was not
a frequent event, but there were times when her starved affections,
craving outlet, were expended in default of other medium upon the poodle
who gave in return a devotion that was entirely single-minded. Yoshio
was still the only member of the household who could touch him with
impunity, and toward Craven his attitude was a curious mixture of hatred
and fear. To Mouston--her only confidant--she whispered now the new
projects she had formed during the last two solitary days for a better
understanding of the obscure mind that had hitherto baffled her, for a
further endeavour to break through the barrier existing between them. To
speak, if only to a dog, was relief and she was too engrossed to notice
the sound the poodle's quick ears caught directly. With a growl he
wrenched his head free of her arm and, startled, she looked up expecting
to see a servant.

She saw instead her husband. His unexpected appearance in a room he
habitually avoided robbed her, all unprepared to meet him as she was, of
the power of speech. White-lipped she stared at him, unable to formulate
even a conventional greeting, her heart beating rapidly as she watched
him cross the room. He, too, seemed to have no words, and she saw with
increased nervousness that his face was dark with obvious displeasure.
The silence that was fast becoming marked was broken by Mouston who with
another angry snarl leaped suddenly at Craven with jealous hostility,
to be caught up swiftly by a pair of powerful hands and flung into a far
corner, where he landed heavily with a shrill yelp of surprise and
pain that died away in a broken whimper as, cowed by the unlooked-for
retribution, he crawled under a big bureau that seemed to offer a safe
retreat.

“Barry!” Gillian's exclamation of incredulous amazement made Craven
sensible that the punishment he had inflicted must seem to her
unnecessarily severe. She could not be expected to see into his mind,
could not possibly know the feeling of loathing inspired by the sight of
the poodle in her arms. He was jealous--of a dog and in no mood to curb
the temper that his jealousy roused.

“I am sorry,” he said shortly. “I didn't mind him going for me, it's
perhaps natural that he should--but I hate to see you kiss the dam'
brute,” he added with a sudden violence in his voice that braced her
as a more temperate explanation would not have done. To be deliberately
cruel to an animal, no matter how great the provocation, was unlike
Craven; she felt convinced that Mouston was not the primary cause of
his irritability. Something must have occurred previously to disturb
him--the business, perhaps, for which he had waited in London, and,
seeking her, the scene he had surprised had grated on fretted nerves.
He had never before commented on her affection for the dog who was her
shadow; he had never even remonstrated with her, as Peters had many
times, for spoiling him. His present attitude seemed therefore the more
inexplicable--but she realised the impossibility of remonstrance. The
dog had behaved badly and had suffered for his indiscretion; she could
not defend him--had she wanted to. And she did not want to. At the
moment Mouston hardly seemed to matter--nothing mattered but the
unbearable fact of Craven's displeasure. If she could have known the
real cause of that displeasure it would have made speech easier. She
feared to aggravate his mood but she knew some answer was expected of
her. Silence might be misconstrued.

With calmness she did not feel she forced her voice to steadiness.

“Most women make fools of themselves over some animal, _faute de
mieux,”_ she said lightly. “I only follow the crowd.”

“Is it _faute de mieux_ with you?” The sharp rejoinder struck her like a
physical blow. Unable to trust herself, unable to check the quivering
of her lips, she turned away to get another cup and saucer from a near
cabinet.

“Answer me, Gillian,” he said tensely. “Is it for want of something
better that you give so much affection to that cringing beast”--he
pointed to the poodle who was crawling abjectly on his stomach toward
her from the bureau where he had taken refuge--“is it a child that your
arms are wanting--not a dog?” His face was drawn, and he stared at
her with fierce hunger smouldering in his eyes. He was hurting himself
beyond belief--was he hurting her too? Could anything that he might
say touch her, stir her from the calm placidity that sometimes, in
contradiction to his own restlessness, was almost more than he could
tolerate? She had fulfilled the terms of their bargain faithfully,
apparently satisfied with its limitation. She appeared content with this
damnable life they were living. But a sudden impulse had come to him
to assure himself that his supposition was a true one, that the outward
content she manifested did not cover longings and desires that she
sought to hide. Yet how would it benefit either of them for him to
wring from her a secret to which he, by his own doing, had no right?
In winning her consent to this divided marriage he had already done
her injury enough--he need not make her life harder. And just now, in
a moment of ungovernable passion, he had said a brutal thing, a thing
beyond all forgiveness. His face grew more drawn as he moved nearer to
her.

“Gillian, I asked you a question,” he began unsteadily. She confronted
him swiftly. Her eyes were steady under his, though the pallor of her
face was ghastly.

“You are the one person who has no right to ask me that question,
Barry.” There was no anger in her voice, there was not even reproach,
but a gentle dignity that almost unmanned him. He turned away with a
gesture of infinite regret.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, in a strangled voice. “I was a cur--what I
said was damnable.” He faced her again with sudden vehemence. “I wish to
God I had left you free. I had no right to marry you, to ruin your life
with my selfishness, to bar you from the love and children that should
have been yours. You might have met a man who would have given you both,
who would have given you the full happy life you ought to have. In my
cursed egoism I have done you almost the greatest injury a man can do a
woman. My God, I wonder you don't hate me!”

She forced back the words that rushed to her lips. She knew the danger
of an unconsidered answer, the danger of the whole situation. The
durability of their future life seemed to depend on her reply, its
continuance to hang on a slender thread that, perilously strained,
threatened momentarily to snap. She was fearful of precipitating the
crisis she had long realised was pending and which now seemed drawing to
a head. An unconsidered word, an intonation even, might bring about the
catastrophe she feared.

She sought for time, praying for inspiration to guide her. The waiting
tea table supplied her immediate want.

Mechanically she filled the cups and cut cake with deliberate precision
while her mind worked feverishly.

His distress weighed with her more than her own.

Positive as she now was of the true reason that had prompted him to
marry her she saw in his outburst only another chivalrous attempt to
hide that reason from her. He had purposely endeavoured to misrepresent
himself, and, understanding, a wave of passionate gratitude filled her.

Her love was clamouring for audible expression. If she could only speak!
If she could only break through the restrictions that hampered her,
tell him all that was in her heart, measure the force of her living love
against the phantom of that dead past that had killed in him all the
joy of life. But she could not speak. Pride kept her silent, and the
knowledge that she could not add to the burden he already bore the
embarrassment of an unsought love.

But something she must say, and that before he noticed the hesitation
that might rob her words of any worth. Only by refusing to attach an
undue value to the significance of what he had said could she arrest the
dangerous trend of the conversation and bring it to a safer level.

She sat down slowly, re-arranging the simple tray with ostentatious
care.

“You didn't force me to marry you, Barry,” she said quietly. “I knew
what I was doing, I realised the difficulties that might arise. But
you have nothing to reproach yourself with. You have been kind and
considerate in everything. I am enormously grateful to you--and I am
very content with my life. Please believe that. There is only one thing
that I could wish changed; you said that we were to be friends--and you
have let me be only a fair weather friend. Won't you let me sometimes
share and help in the difficulties, as well as in the pleasures? Your
interests, your obligations are so great--” she went on hurriedly, lest
he should think she was aiming at deeper, more personal concerns--“I
can't help knowing that there must be difficulties. If you would only
let me take my part--” She looked up, meeting his gloomy stare at last,
and a faint appeal crept into her eyes. “I'm not a child, Barry, to be
shown only the sunny side of life.”

An indescribable expression flitted across his face, changing it
marvellously.

“I would never have you know the dark side,” he said briefly, as he took
the cup she held out to him.

She was conscious that the tension, though lessened had not altogether
disappeared. There was in his manner a constraint that set her heart
throbbing painfully. She glanced furtively from time to time at his
stern worn face, and the weariness in his eyes brought a lump into her
throat.

He talked spasmodically, of friends whom he had seen in London, of a
hundred and one trivial matters, but of the business that had kept him
in town he said nothing and she wondered what had been in his mind when
he had departed from an established rule and deliberately sought her in
a room that he never entered. Had he come with any express intention,
any confidence that had been thwarted by Mouston's stupid behaviour? She
stifled a sigh of disappointment. He might never again be moved by the
same impulse.

With growing anxiety she noticed that his restlessness was greater even
than usual. Refusing a second cup of tea he lit a cigarette, pacing up
and down as he talked, his hands plunged deep in his pockets.

In one of the silences that punctuated his jerky periods he paused by a
little table on which lay a portfolio, and lifting it idly looked at
the sketches it contained. With a sudden look of apprehension Gillian
started and made a half movement as if to rise, then with a shrug she
sank back on the sofa, watching him intently. It was her private sketch
book, and there was in it one portrait in particular, his own, that she
had no wish for him to see. But remonstrance would only call attention
to what she hoped might pass unnoticed. Craven turned over the sketches
slowly. He had seen little of his wife's work since their marriage, she
was shy of submitting it to him, and with the policy of non-interference
he had adopted he had expressed no curiosity. He recognised many faces,
and, recognising, remembered wherein lay her special skill. He found
himself looking for characteristics that were known to him in the
portraits of the men and women he was studying. There was no attempt at
concealment--vices and virtues, liberality of mind, pettiness of soul
were set forth in naked truth. A sympathetic picture of Peters arrested
him, though the name written beneath it puzzled. He looked at the kindly
generous countenance with its friendly half-sad eyes and tender mouth
with a feeling of envy. He would have given years of his life to have
possessed the peace of mind that was manifested in the calm serenity of
his agent's face.

His lips tightened as he laid the sketch down. With his thoughts
lingering on the last portrait for a second or two he looked at the next
one absently. Then a stifled exclamation broke from him and he peered
at it closer. And, watching, Gillian drew a deep breath, clenching her
hands convulsively. He stood quite still for what seemed an eternity,
then came slowly across the room and stood directly in front of her. And
for the first time she was afraid of meeting his eyes.

“Do I look like--that?”

Her head drooped lower, her fingers twining and intertwining nervously,
and her dry lips almost refused their office.

“I have seen you like that,” very slowly and almost inaudibly, but he
caught the reluctant admission.

“So--_damnable_?”

She flinched from the loathing in his voice.

“I _am_ sorry--” she murmured faintly.

“Good God!” the profanity was wrung from him, but had he thought of
it he would have considered it justified, for the face at which he was
staring was the beautiful tormented face of a fallen angel. He looked
with a kind of horror at the hungry passionate eyes fierce with
unsatisfied longing, shadowed with terrible memory, tortured, hopeless;
at the set mouth, a straight grim line under the trim golden brown
moustache; at the bitterness and revolt expressed in all the deep cut
lines of the tragic face. He laid it down with a feeling of repulsion.
She saw him like that! The pain of it was intolerable.

He laughed with a harsh mirthlessness that made her quiver.

“It is a truer estimation of my character than the one you gave me a
few minutes ago,” he said bitterly, “and you may thank heaven I am your
husband only in name. God keep you from a nearer acquaintance with me.”
 And turning on his heel he left her. Long after he had gone she sat on
motionless, her fingers picking mechanically at the chintz cover of the
sofa, staring into space with wide eyes brimming with tears. She knew it
was a cruel sketch, but she had never meant him to see it. It had taken
shape unconsciously under her hand, and while she hated it she had
kept it because of the remarkable likeness and because it was the only
picture she had of him.

The dreams of a better understanding seemed swept away by her own
thoughtlessness and folly. She had hurt him and she could never explain.
To refer to it, to try and make him understand, would do more harm
than good. With a pitiful sob she covered her face with her hands, and,
beside her, Mouston the pampered cringed and whimpered unheeded and
forgotten.

She had looked forward to his return with such high hopes and now they
lay shattered at her feet. During a brief hour that might have drawn
them nearer together they had contrived to hurt each other as it must
seem to both by deliberate intent. For herself she knew that she was
innocent of any such intention--but was he? He had never hurt her
before, even in his most difficult moods he had been to her unfailingly
kind and considerate. But to-day--shudderingly she wondered did it mark
a new era in their relations? And in miserable futile longing she wished
that this afternoon had never been.

After what had occurred the thought of facing him across a table during
an interminable dinner and sitting with him alone for the long hours of
a summer evening drove her to a state bordering on panic. She pushed the
thick hair off her forhead with a little gasp. It was cowardly--but
she could not, would not. Despising herself she crossed the room to the
telephone.

At the Hermitage Peters was indulging in a well-earned rest after a long
hot day that had been both irksome and tiring. Wearing an old tweed coat
he lounged comfortably in a big chair, a couple of sleepy setters at his
feet, a foul and ancient pipe in full blast. The room, flooded with the
evening sun, was filled with a heterogeneous collection of books and
music manuscript, guns, fishing rods and whips. The homely room had
stamped on it the characteristics of its owner. It was a room to work
in, and equally a room in which to relax. The owner was now relaxing,
but the bodily rest he enjoyed did not extend to his mind, which was
very actively disturbed. His usually genial face was furrowed and he
sucked at the old pipe with an energy that enveloped him in a haze of
blue smoke. The ringing of the telephone in the opposite corner of the
room came as an unwelcome interruption. He glared at it resentfully,
disinclined to move, but at the second ring rose reluctantly with a
grunt of annoyance, pushing the drowsy setters to one side. He took down
the receiver with no undue haste and answered the call gruffly, but his
bored expression changed rapidly as he listened. The soft voice came
clearly but hesitatingly:

“Is that you, David? Could you come up to dinner--if--if you're not
going anywhere else--I've got a tiresome headache and it will be so
stupid for Barry. I don't want him to be dull the first evening at home.
So if you could--please, David--”

His face grew grim as he detected the quiver in the faltering indecisive
words, but he answered briskly.

“Of course I'll come. I'd love to,” he said, with a cheeriness he was
far from feeling. He hung up the receiver with a heavy sigh. But he had
hardly moved when the telephone rang again sharply.

“Damn the thing!” he muttered irritably.

This time a very different voice, curt and uncompromising:

“--that you, Peter?--Yes!--Doing anything tonight?--Not?--Then for God's
sake come up to dinner.” And then the receiver jammed down savagely.

With grimmer face Peters moved thoughtfully across the room and touched
a bell in the wall by the fireplace. His call was answered with the
usual promptness, and when he had given the necessary orders and the man
had gone he laid aside his pipe, tidied a few papers, and went slowly to
an adjoining room.

The Hermitage was properly the dower house of the Towers, but for the
last two generations had not been required as such. The room Peters now
entered had originally been the drawing room, but for the thirty years
he had lived in the house he had kept it as a music room. Panelled in
oak, with polished floor and innocent of hangings, the only furniture a
grand piano and a portrait, it was at once a sanctuary and a shrine. And
during those thirty years to only two people had he given the right of
entrance. To the woman whose portrait hung on the wall and, latterly,
to the girl who had succeeded her as mistress of Craven Towers. To this
room, to the portrait and the piano, he brought all his difficulties; it
was here he wrestled with the loneliness and sadness that the world
had never suspected. To-night he felt that only the peace that room
invariably brought would enable him to fulfil the task he had in hand.

       *       *       *       *

Craven was alone in the hall when he arrived, and it was not until the
gong sounded that Gillian made a tardy appearance, very pale but with a
feverish spot on either cheek. Peters' quick eye noticed the absence of
the black shadow that was always at her heels. “Where is the faithful
Mouston? Not in disgrace, surely--the paragon?” he teased, and was
disconcerted at the painful flush that overspread her face. But she
thrust her arm through his and forced a little laugh. “Mouston is
becoming rather incorrigible, I'm afraid I've spoiled him hopelessly.
I'll tell him you inquired, it will cheer him up, poor darling. He's
doing penance with a bone upstairs. Shall we go in--I'm famished.”

But as dinner progressed she did not appear to be famished, for she ate
scarcely anything, but talked fitfully with jerky nervousness. Craven,
too, was at first almost entirely silent, and on Peters fell the main
burden of conversation, until by a direct question he managed to start
his host on a topic that was of interest to both and lasted until
Gillian left them.

In the drawing room, after she had finished her coffee, she opened the
piano and then subsided wearily on to the big sofa. The emotions of the
day and the effort of appearing at dinner had exhausted her, and in
her despondency the future had never seemed so black, so beset with
difficulties. While she was immeasurably thankful for Peters' presence
to-night she knew it was impossible for him to act continually as a
buffer between them. But from the problem of to-morrow, and innumerable
to-morrows, she turned with a fixed determination to live for the
moment. _A chaque jour suffit sa peine_.

She lay with relaxed muscles and closed eyes. It seemed a long
while before the men joined her. She wondered what they were talking
about--whether to Peters would be imparted the information that had been
withheld from her. For the feeling of a nearly impending calamity was
strong within her. When at last they came she looked with covert anxiety
from one to the other, but their faces told her nothing. For a few
minutes Peters lingered beside her chatting and then gravitated toward
the piano, as she had hoped he would. Arranging the heaped up cushions
more comfortably around her she gave herself up to the delight of his
music and it seemed to her that she had never heard him play so well.

Near her Craven was standing before the fern-filled fireplace, leaning
against the mantel, a cigarette drooping between his lips. From where
she lay she could watch him unperceived, for his own gaze was directed
through the open French window out on to the terrace, and she studied
his set handsome face with sorrowful attention. He appeared to be
thinking deeply, and, from his detached manner, heedless of the harmony
of sound that filled the room. But her supposition was soon rudely
shaken. Peters had paused in his playing. When a few moments later the
plaintive melody of an operatic air stole through the room she saw her
husband start violently, and the terrible pallor she had witnessed once
before sweep across his face. She clenched her teeth on her lip to keep
back the cry that rose, and breathlessly watched him stride across the
room and drop an arresting hand on Peters' shoulder. “For God's sake
don't play that damned thing!” she heard him say in a voice that was
almost unrecognisable. And then he passed out swiftly, into the garden.

A spasm of jealous agony shook her from head to foot. With quick
intuition she guessed that the air that was unknown to her must be
connected in some way with the sorrow that darkened his life, and the
spectre of the past she tried to forget seemed to rise and grin at her
triumphantly. She shivered. Would its power last until life ended? Would
it stand between them always, rivalling her, thwarting her every effort?

For a long time she dared not look at Peters, who had responded without
hesitation to Craven's unceremonious request, but when at length
she summoned courage to glance at him it seemed as if he had already
forgotten the interruption. His face wore the absent, almost spiritual
look that was usual when he was at the piano and his playing gave no
indication of either annoyance or surprise. She breathed a quick sigh of
relief and, slightly altering her position, lay where she could see the
solitary figure on the terrace. Erect by the stone ballustrade, his arms
folded across his chest, staring intently into the night as if his
gaze went far beyond the confines of the great park, he seemed to her a
symbol of incarnate loneliness, and her heart contracted at the thought
of the suffering and solitude she might not share. If he would only turn
to her! If she had only the right to go to him and plead her love, beg
the confidence she craved, and stand beside him in his sorrow! But he
stood alone, beyond her reach, even unaware of her longing.

The slow tears gathered thick in her eyes.

For long after the keyboard became an indistinguishable blur Peters
played on untiringly. But at last he rose, closed the piano and turned
on an electric lamp that stood near.

“Eleven o'clock,” he exclaimed contritely. “Bless my soul, why didn't
you stop me! I forget the time when I'm playing. I've tired you out. Go
to bed, you pale child. I'm walking home, I'll see Barry on the terrace
as I pass.”

She slid from the sofa and took his outstretched hands.

“Your playing never tires me!” she answered, with a little upward
glance. “You've magic at the ends of your fingers, David dear.”

She went to the open window to watch him go, and presently saw him
reappear round the angle of the house and join Craven on the terrace.
They stood talking for a few minutes and then together descended the
long flight of stone steps to the rose garden, from which, by a short
cut through a little copse, could be reached the path that crossing the
park led to the Hermitage. It was the habit of Peters when he had been
dining at the big house to walk home thus and, as to-night, Craven
almost always accompanied him.

Gillian had long known her husband's propensity for night rambling and
she knew it might be hours before he returned. Was he angry with her
still that he had omitted the punctilious good-night he had never before
forgotten? Her lips quivered like a disappointed child's as she turned
back slowly into the room. But as she passed through the hall and
climbed the long stairs she knew in her heart that she had misjudged
him. He was not capable of petty retaliation. He had only forgotten--why
indeed should he remember? It was a small matter to him, he could not
know what it meant to her. In her bedroom she dismissed her maid
and went to an open window. She was very tired, but restless, and
disinclined for bed. Dropping down on the low seat she stared out over
the moonlit landscape. The repentant Mouston, abject at her continued
neglect, crawled from his basket and crept tentatively to her, and as
absently her hand went out to him gained courage and climbed up beside
her. Inch by inch he sidled nearer, and unrepulsed grew bolder until
he finally subsided with his head across her knees, whining his
satisfaction. Mechanically she caressed him until his shivering starting
body lay quiet under her soothing touch. The night was close and very
silent. No breath of wind came to stir the heavily leafed trees, no
sound broke the stillness. She listened vainly for the cry of an owl,
for the sharp alarm note of a pheasant to pierce the brooding hush that
seemed to have fallen even over nature. A coppery moon hung like a ball
of fire in the sky. At the far end of the terrace a group of tall trees
cast inky black shadows across the short smooth lawn and the white
tracery of the stone balustrade. The faint scent of jasmine drifted
in through the open window and she leaned forward eagerly to catch the
sweet intermittent perfume that brought back memories of the peaceful
courtyard of the convent school. A night of intense beauty, mysterious,
disturbing, called her compellingly. The restlessness that had assailed
her grew suddenly intolerable, and she glanced back into the spacious
room with a feeling of suffocation.

The four walls seemed closing in about her. She knew that the big white
bed would bring no rest, that she would toss in feverish misery until
the morning, and she turned with dread from the thought of the long
weary hours. Night after night she lay awake in loneliness and longing
until exhaustion brought fitful sleep that, dream-haunted, gave no
refreshment.

Sleep was impossible--the room that witnessed her nightly vigil a prison
house of dark sad thoughts. Her head throbbed with the heat; she craved
the space, the freshness of the moonlit garden.

Rousing the slumbering dog she went out on to the gallery and down the
staircase she had climbed so wearily an hour before. By the solitary
light still burning in the hall she knew that Craven had not yet
returned. Through the darkness of the drawing room she groped her way
until her outstretched hands touched shutters. Slipping the bar softly
and unlatching the window she passed out. For a moment she stood still,
breathing deeply, drinking in the beauty of the scene, exhilarated
with the sudden feeling of freedom that came to her. The silent garden,
beautiful always but more beautiful still in the mystery of the night,
appealed to her as never before. It was the same, yet wonderfully,
curiously unlike. A glamour hung over it, a certain settled peace that
soothed the tumult of her mind and calmed her nerves. Surrendering to
the charm of its almost unearthly loveliness she slowly paced the long
length of the terrace, the wondering Mouston pressing close beside her.

Then when her tired limbs could go no further she halted by the steps
and leant her arms on the coping of the balustrade. Cupping her chin in
her hands she looked down at the rose garden beneath her and smiled at
its quaint formality. Running parallel with the terrace on the one side
the three remaining sides were enclosed by a high yew hedge through
which a door, facing the terrace steps, led to a path that gave access
to the copse that was Peters' short cut. The shadow of the high dense
yew stretched far across the garden and she gazed dreamily into its
dusky depths, conjuring up the past, peopling the solitude about her
with forgotten ghosts who in the silks and satins of a bygone age had
walked those same flagged paths and talked and laughed and wept among
the roses. Poor lonely ghosts--were they lonelier than she?

The silence broke at last. Far off from the trees in the park an owl
called softly to its mate and the swift answering note seemed to mock
her desolation. Her whole being shuddered into one great soundless cry
of utter longing: “Barry! Oh, Barry, Barry!”

And as if in answer to her prayer she heard a sound that sent the quick
blood leaping to her heart.

In the deep shadow of the yew hedge the door that had opened shut with
a sudden clang. Her hands crept to her breast as she strained her eyes
into the darkness. Then the echo of a firm tread, and Craven's tall
figure emerged from the surrounding gloom. With fluttering breath she
watched him slowly cross the bright strip of moonlight lying athwart the
rose garden and mount the steps. Only when he reached the terrace did
he seem aware of her presence, and joined her with an exclamation of
surprise, “You--Gillian?”

“I couldn't sleep--it was so hot--the garden tempted me,” she faltered,
in sudden fear lest he might think she spied on him. But the fascination
of the night was to Craven too natural to evoke comment. He lit a
cigarette and smoked in a silence she did not know how to break, and a
cold wave of chill foreboding passed over her as she waited with nervous
constraint for him to speak. He turned to her at last with a certain
deliberation and spoke with blunt directness.

“I have been asked to lead an expedition in Central Africa. It is partly
a hunting trip, partly a scientific mission. They have approached me
because I know the country, and because I am interested in tropical
diseases and am willing to defray a proportion of the expense which will
be necessarily heavy--I should gladly have done so in any case whether
I went with the party or not. The question of leading the expedition I
deferred as long as I could for obvious reasons.--I had not only myself
to consider. But I have been pressed to give a definite answer and have
agreed to go. There are plenty of other men who would do the job better
than myself but, as I said, I happen to know the locality and speak
several of the dialects, so my going may make things easier for them.
But that is not what has weighed with me most, it is you. Do you think I
don't know how completely I have failed you--how difficult your life
is? I do know. And because I know I am going. For I see no other way of
making your life even bearable for you. It has become impossible for us
to go on as we are--and the fault is mine, only mine. You have been
an angel of goodness and patience, you have done all that was humanly
possible for any woman to do, but circumstances were against us. I had
no right to ask you to make such a marriage. I cannot undo it. I cannot
give you your freedom, but I can by my absence make your life easier
than it has been. I have arranged everything with the lawyers in London
and with Peters, here to-night. If I do not return, for there are
of course risks, everything is left in your control--it is the only
satisfaction in my power. If I do return--God give me grace to be kinder
to you than I have been in the past.”

The blow she had been waiting for had fallen at last, in fulfilment of
her premonition. In her heart she had always known it would come, but
its suddenness paralysed. She had nothing to say. Silently she stood
beside him, her hands tight-locked, numbed with a desperate fear. He
would go--and he would never return. It hammered in her brain, making
her want to shriek. She felt to the full her own powerlessness, nothing
she could say would turn him from his purpose. It was the end she had
always foreseen, the end of all her dreams, the end of everything but
sorrow and pain and loneliness unspeakable. And for him--danger and
possibly death. He had admitted risk, he had set his house in order.
From Craven it meant much. She had learned his complete disregard
for danger from the men who had stayed with them in Scotland; his
recklessness in the hunting field, which was a by-word in the county,
was already known to her. He set no value on his own life--what reason
was there to suppose that, in the mysterious land of sudden and terrible
death, he would take even ordinary precautions? Was he going with a
pre-conceived determination to end a life that had become unbearable?
In agony that seemed to rive her heart she closed her eyes lest he might
see in them the anguish she knew was there. How long a time was left to
her before the parting that would leave her desolate? “When do you go?”
 The question burst from her, and Craven glanced at her keenly, trying to
read the colourless face that was like a still white mask. He fancied
he had caught a tremor in her voice, then he called himself a fool as
he noted the composure that seemed to argue indifference. Her calmness
stung while it strengthened him. Why should she care, he asked himself
bitterly. His going could mean to her only relief. And disappointment
made his own voice ring cold and distant. “Within the next few weeks.
The exact date is not yet fixed,” he said evasively. Again she was
silent while he wondered what were her thoughts. Suddenly she turned to
him, words pouring out in stammering haste, “While you are away--may I
go to France--to Paris--to work? This life of idleness is killing me!”

He looked at her in amazement, startled at her passionate utterance,
dismayed at a suggestion he had never contemplated. To think of her
at the Towers, in the position he would have her fill, watched over by
Peters, was the only comfort he could take away with him. For a second
he meditated a refusal that seemed within his right, arbitrary though it
might be. But the promise he had made to leave her free stayed him. He
could not break that promise now. “As you please,” he said, with forced
unconcern, “you are your own mistress. You can do whatever you wish.”
 And with a slight shrug he turned toward the house. She walked beside
him in a tumult of emotion. He would now never know the love she bore
him, the aching passion that throbbed like a living thing within her.
She could not speak, the gulf between them was too wide to bridge, and
he would leave her, thinking her indifferent, callous! Tears blinded her
as she stumbled through the dark drawing room. In the dimly lit hall,
standing at the foot of the staircase with his hand clenched on the
oaken rail, Craven watched with tortured eyes the slender drooping
figure move slowly upward, battling with himself, praying for strength
to let her go--for he knew that if she even turned her head his
self-control would shatter. It was weakening now and the sweat broke out
in heavy drops on his forehead as he strove to crush an insidious inward
voice that bade him forget the past and take what was his. “Only one
life,” it seemed to shout in mocking derision, “live while you can, take
what you can! What is done, is done; only the present matters. Of
what use is regret, of what use an abstinence that mortifies yet feeds
desire? Fool, fool to set aside the chance of happiness!”

With a deep breath that was almost a groan he sprang forward. Then, in
deadly fear, he checked himself, and wrenching his eyes away from the
woman he craved fled out into the night.




CHAPTER VIII


In a little tent pitched in the midst of an Arab camp in the extreme
south of Southern Algeria Craven sat writing. A day of intense heat had
been succeeded by a night airless and suffocating, and he was wet with
perspiration that dripped from his forehead and formed in sticky pools
under his hand, making writing laborious and difficult, impossible
indeed except for the sheet of blotting paper on which his fingers
rested. His thin silk shirt, widely open at the throat, the sleeves
rolled up above his elbows, clung limply to his broad shoulders. A
multitude of tiny flies attracted by the light circled round the lamp
eddying in the heat of the flame, immolating themselves, and falling
thickly on the closely written sheets of paper that strewed the camp
table, smeared the still wet ink and clogged his pen. He swept them away
impatiently from time to time. Squatting on his heels in a corner,
his inscrutable yellow face damp and glistening, Yoshio was cleaning a
revolver with his usual thoroughness and precision. A ragged square of
canvas beside him held the implements necessary to his work, set out in
methodical order, and as he cleaned, and oiled and polished assiduously
without raising his eyes his deft fingers selected unerringly the tool
he required. The weapon appeared already speckless, but for some time he
continued to rub vigorously, handling it with almost affectionate care
as if loth to put it down; at last with a grunt of demur he reluctantly
laid aside the cloth he was using and wrapping the revolver in a silk
handkerchief slid it slowly into a leathern holster which his care had
kept soft and pliable. Placing it noiselessly on the ground before him
he turned his oblique gaze on Craven and watched him for a moment or two
intently. Assured at length that his master was too absorbed in his own
task to notice the doings of his servant he reached his hand behind him
and produced a second revolver, which he began to clean more hurriedly,
more superficially than the first, keeping the while a wary eye on
the stooping figure at the table. When that too was finished to his
satisfaction and restored to his hip pocket, a flicker of almost
childlike amusement crossed his usually immobile features and he started
operations with an air of fine unconsciousness upon one of a couple of
rifles that stood propped against the tent wall near him. Two years of
hardships and danger had left no mark upon him, the deadly climate of
the region through which he had passed had not impaired his powerful
physique, and disease that had ravaged the scientific mission had left
him, like Craven, unscathed. With no care beyond his master's comfort,
indifferent to fatigue and perils, the months spent in Central Africa
had been far more to his taste than the dull monotony of the life at
Craven Towers. But with his face turned, though indirectly, toward
home--the home of his adoption--Yoshio was still cheerful. For him life
held only one incentive--the man who had years before saved his life in
California. Where Craven was Yoshio was content.

Outside, the Arab camp was in an uproar. Groups of tribesmen passed
the tent continually, conversing eagerly, their raucous voices rising
shrill, shouting, arguing, in noisy excitement. The neighing of horses
came from near by and once a screaming stallion backed heavily against
the canvas wall where Yoshio was sitting, rousing the phlegmatic
Japanese to an unwonted ejaculation of wrath as he ducked and grabbed
into safety the remaining rifle before the animal was hauled clear with
a wealth of detailed Arabic expletives, and he grinned broadly when
an authoritative voice broke into the Arabs' clamour and a subsequent
sudden silence fell in the vicinity of the stranger's tent.

Regardless of the disturbance resounding from all quarters of the camp
Craven wrote on steadily for some time longer. Then with a short sigh
he shuffled the scattered sheets together, brushed clear the clinging
accumulation of scorched wings and tiny shrivelled bodies, and without
re-reading the closely written pages stuffed them into an envelope,
and having closed and directed it, leaned back with an exclamation of
relief.

The letter to Peters was finished but there remained still the more
difficult letter he had yet to address to his wife--a letter he dreaded
and yet longed to write. A letter which, reaching her after the death he
confidently expected and earnestly prayed for, would reveal to her fully
the secret of his past and the passion that had driven him, unworthy,
from her. For never during the two years of adventure and peril had
death seemed more imminent than now, and before he died he would give
himself this one satisfaction--he would break the silence of years that
had eaten like a canker into his soul. At last she would know all he
had never dared to tell her, all his hopeless love, all his remorse and
shame, all his passionate desire for her happiness.

Scores of times during the last two years he had attempted to write
such a letter and had as often refrained, but to-night his need was
imperative. It was his last chance. In the early hours of the dawn he
would ride with his Arab hosts on a punitive expedition from which he
had no intention of returning alive. Death that he had courted openly
since leaving England would surely be easy to find amid the warring
tribes with whom he had thrown in his lot. A curious smile lit his
face for an instant, then passed abruptly at the doubt that shook his
confidence. Would fate again refuse him release from a life that had
become more than ever intolerable?

Haunted as he was with the memory of O Hara San, tortured with longing
for the woman he had made his wife, the double burden had become
too heavy to bear. He had grasped at the opportunity offered by the
scientific mission. The dangerous nature of the country, the fever that
saturated its swamps and forests, was known to him and he had gone to
Africa courting a death that would free him and yet leave no stain on
the name borne by his wife. And the death that would free him would free
her too! The bitter justice of it made him set his teeth. For he had
left her his fortune and his great possessions unrestrictedly to deal
with as she would. Young, rich and free! Who would claim what he had
surrendered? Even now, after months of mental struggle, the thought was
torment.

But death that had laid a heavy toll on his companions had turned away
from him. Disease and disaster had dogged the mission from the outset.
The medical and scientific researches had proved satisfactory beyond
expectation, but the attendant loss of life had been terrible, and
himself utterly reckless and heedless of all precautions Craven had
watched tragedy after tragedy with envy he had been hardly able to
hide. Immune from the sudden and deadly fevers that had swept the camps
periodically with fatal results he had worked fearlessly and untiringly
among the stricken members of the mission and the fast dwindling army of
demoralised porters who had succumbed with alarming rapidity. With the
stolid Japanese always beside him he had wrestled entire nights and
days to save the expedition from extermination. And in the intervals of
nursing, and shepherding the unwilling carriers, he had ranged far and
wide in search of fresh food to supply the wants of the camp. The danger
he deliberately sought, with a rashness that had provoked open comment,
had miraculously evaded him. He had borne a charmed life. He had
snatched at every hazardous enterprise, he had exposed himself
consistently to risk until one evening shortly before the expedition
was due to start on the return march to civilization, when a chance word
spoken by the camp fire had brought home to him abruptly the dependence
of the remnant of the mission on him to bring them to the coast
in safety. By some strange dealing of fate it had been among the
non-scientific members of the expedition that mortality had ranged
highest; the big game hunters, though hardier and physically better
equipped than the students of the party for hardship and endurance had,
with the exception of Craven himself, been wiped out to a man. It had
been an unpremeditated remark uttered in all good faith with no ulterior
motive by a shuddering fever-stricken scientist writing up his notes
and diary by the light of the fire with trembling fingers that could
scarcely hold the fountain pen that moved laboriously driven by an
indomitable will. A grim jest, horrible in its significance, had
followed the startling utterance and Craven had looked with perplexity
at the shivering figure with its drawn yellow face from which a pair
of glittering eyes burned with an almost uncanny brilliance until the
meaning of the man's words slowly penetrated. But the true importance of
the suggestion once realised had aroused in him a full understanding
of the duty he owed to the men he had undertaken to lead. Of those
who could have convoyed the expedition on its homeward march only
he remained. Without him the survivors of the once large party might
eventually reach safety but it was made clear to him that night how
completely his companions relied on him for a quick return and for the
management of the train of porters whose frequent mutinies only Craven
seemed able to quell. He had sat far into the night, staring gloomily
into the blazing fire, smoking pipe after pipe, listening to the
multifarious noises of the forest--the sudden distant crash of falling
trees, the incessant hum of insect life, the long-drawn howl of beasts
of prey hovering on the outskirts of the camp, the soft whoo-whoo of
an owl whose cry brought vividly to his mind the cool fragrance of the
garden at Craven Towers and the nearer more ominous sounds of muffled
agony that came from a tent close beside him where yet another victim of
science was gasping his life away.

Hour after hour he sat thinking. There was no getting away from it--it
was only despicable that he had not himself recognised it earlier. The
narrow path of duty lay before him from which he might not turn aside to
ease the burden of a private grief. He was bound to the men who
trusted him. Honour demanded that he should forego the project he
had formed--until his obligation had been discharged. Loyalty to his
companions must come before every selfish consideration. After all it
was only a postponement, he reflected with a kind of grim satisfaction.
The residue of the mission once safely conducted to the coast his
responsibility would end and he would be free to pursue the course that
would liberate the woman he loved.

In the chill silence of the hour that precedes the dawn he had risen
cramped and shivering from his seat by the dying fire and too late then
to take the rest he had neglected, had roused Yoshio and started on the
usual foraging expedition that was his daily occupation. And from that
time he had been careful of a life which, though valueless to him, was
invaluable to his companions. From that time, too, the ill-luck that had
pursued them ceased. There had been no more deaths, no more desertions
from the already depleted train of carriers. The work had gone forward
with continuing success and, six months ago, after a hazardous march
through a hostile country, Craven had led the remnant of the expedition
safely to the coast. He had waited for some weeks at the African port
after the mission had returned to England, and then embarking on a small
trading steamer, had made his way northward to an obscure station on the
Moroccan seaboard, when by a leisurely and indirect route he had slowly
crossed the desert to the district where he now was and which he had
reached only a week ago. Twice before he had visited the tribe as the
guest of the Sheik Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's younger son, an officer of
Spahis whom he had met in Paris, and the warm hospitality shown him had
left a deep impression. A sudden unaccountable impulse had led him to
revisit a locality where he had spent some of the happiest months of his
life. He had conceived an intense admiration and liking for the stern
old Arab Chief and his two utterly dissimilar sons; the elder a grave
habitually silent man, who clung to the old traditions with the
rigid tenacity of the orthodox Mohammedan, disdainful of the French
jurisdiction under which he was compelled to live, and occupied solely
with the affairs of the tribe and his beautiful and adored wife who
reigned alone in his harem, despite the fact that she had given him
no child; the younger in total contrast to his brother, a dashing
ultra-modern young Arab as deeply imbued with French tendencies as the
conservative Omar was opposed to them. The wealthy and powerful old
Sheik, whose friendship had been assiduously sought by the French
Administration to ensure the co-operation of a tribe that with its far
reaching influence might have proved a dangerous element in an unsettled
district, shared in his inmost heart the sentiments of his heir, but
with a larger and more discriminating wisdom saw the desirability
of associating at least one of his family with the Government he was
obliged, though grudgingly and half contemptuously, to acknowledge. He
had hovered long between prejudice and policy before he reluctantly gave
his consent for Saïd to be placed on the roll of the regiment of Spahis.
And the unusual love existing between the two brothers had survived a
test that might have proved too strong for its continuance; Omar, bowing
to the decision of the autocratic old Chief, had refrained even from
comment, and Saïd, despite his enthusiasm, had carefully avoided
inflaming his brother's deeply rooted hatred of the nation the younger
man was proud to serve. His easy-going nature adapted itself readily to
the two wholly separate lives he lived, and though secretly preferring
the months spent with his regiment he contrived to extract every
possible enjoyment from the periods of leave for which he returned to
the tribe where, laying aside the picturesque uniform his ardent
soul rejoiced in and scrupulously suppressing every indication of his
Francophile inclinations he resumed with consummate tact the somewhat
invidious position of younger son of the house.

The meeting of the young Spahi with Craven in Paris had led to the
discovery of similar tastes and ultimately to an intimate friendship.
Together in Algeria they had shot panther and Barbary sheep and
eventually Craven had been induced to visit the tribe, where he had seen
the true life of the desert that appealed strongly to his unconventional
wandering disposition. The heartiness of his reception had been
unqualified, even the taciturn Omar had unbent to the representative of
a nation he felt he could respect with no loss of prestige. To Craven
the weeks passed in the Arab camp had been a time of uninterrupted
enjoyment and a second visit had strengthened mutual esteem. Situated
on the extreme fringe of the Algerian frontier, in the heart of a
perpetually disturbed country, the element of danger prevailing in the
district was to Craven not the least of its attractions. It had been a
source of keen disappointment that during both his visits there had been
a cessation of the intertribal warfare that was carried on in spite of
the Government's endeavours to preserve peace among the great desert
families. For generations the tribe of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah had been at
feud with another powerful tribe which, living further to the south and
virtually beyond the suzerainty of the nominal rulers of the country,
harried the border continually. But, aware of the growing power and
resources of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, for many years the marauders had
avoided collision with him and confined their attention to less
dangerous adversaries. The apparent neglect of his hereditary
enemies had not, however, lessened the old Sheik's precautions. With
characteristic oriental distrust he maintained a continual watch upon
them and a well organized system of espionage kept him conversant with
all their movements. Often during his visits Craven had listened to the
stories of past encounters and in the fierce eager faces around him
he had read the deep longing for renewed hostilities that animated the
younger members of the tribe in particular and had wondered what spark
would eventually set ablaze the smouldering fires of hatred and rivalry
that had so long lain dormant. And it had been really a subconscious
presage of such an outbreak that had brought him back to the camp of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah. His presentiment, the outcome of earnest desire,
had been fulfilled, and in its fulfilment attended with horrible details
which, had it not been already his intention, would have driven him to
beg a place in the ranks of the punitive force that was preparing to
avenge an outrage that involved the honour of the tribe. A week ago
he had arrived to find the camp seething with an infuriated and
passion-swayed people who bore no kind of resemblance to the orderly
well-disciplined tribesmen he had seen on his former visits, and the
daily arrival of reinforcements from outlying districts had kept the
tension strained and swelled the excitement that rioted day and night.

In the barbaric sumptuousness of his big tent and with a calm dignity
that even tragedy could not shake the old Sheik had received him alone,
for the unhappy Omar was hidden in the desolate solitude of his ravished
harem. To the Englishman, before whom he could speak openly the old man
had revealed the whole terrible story with vivid dramatic force and all
the flowery eloquence of which he was master. It was a tale of misplaced
confidence and faithlessness that, detected and punished with oriental
severity, had led to swift and dastardly revenge. A headman of the tribe
whom both the Sheik and his elder son trusted implicitly had proved
guilty of grave indiscretion that undetected might have seriously
impaired the prestige of the ruling house. Deposed from his headmanship,
and deserted with characteristic vacillation by the adherents on whom
he counted, the delinquent had fled to the camp of the rival tribe, with
whom he had already been in secret negotiation. This much Mukair
Ibn Zarrarah's spies had ascertained, but not in time to prevent the
catastrophe that followed. Plans thought to be known only to the Sheik
and his son had been disclosed to the marauding Chief, who had long
sought an opportunity of aiming an effectual blow at his hated rival,
and on one of Omar's periodical tours of inspection to the more remote
encampments of the large and scattered tribe, the little caravan
had been surrounded by an overwhelmingly superior force led by the
hereditary enemy and the renegade tribesman. Hemmed in around the litter
of the dearly loved young wife, from whom he rarely parted, Omar and
his small bodyguard had fought desperately, but the outcome had been
inevitable from the first. Outnumbered they had fallen one by one under
the vigorous onslaughts of the attacking party who, victorious, had
retired southward as quickly as they had come, carrying with them the
beautiful Safiya--the price of the traitor's treachery. Covered with
wounds and left for dead under a heap of dying followers Omar and two
others had alone survived, and with death in his heart the young man had
lived only for the hour when he might avenge his honour. Animated by the
one fierce desire that sustained him he had struggled back to life
to superintend the preparations for retaliation that should be both
decisive and final. To old injuries had been added this crowning insult,
and the tribe of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, roused to the highest pitch of
fury, were resolved to a man to exterminate or be exterminated. The
preparations had been almost completed when Craven arrived at the camp,
and tonight, for the first time, at a final war council of all the
principal headmen held in the Sheik's tent, he had seen the stricken man
and had hardly recognized in the gaunt attenuated figure that only an
inflexible will seemed to keep upright, the handsome stalwart Arab who
of all the tribe had most nearly approached his own powerful physique.
The frenzied despair in the dark flashing eyes that met his struck an
answering chord in his own heart and the silent handclasp that passed
between them seemed to ratify a common desire. Here, too, was a man who
for love of a woman sought death that he might escape a life of terrible
memory. A sudden sympathy born of tacit understanding seemed to leap
from one to the other, an affinity of purpose that drew them strangely
close together and brought to Craven an odd sense of kinship that
dispelled the difference he had felt and enabled him to enter reservedly
into the discussions that followed. After this meeting he had gone back
to his tent to make his own final preparations with a feeling almost
of exhilaration. To Yoshio, more than usually stolid, he had given all
necessary instructions for the conveyance of his belongings to England.

Remained only the letter to his wife--a letter that seemed curiously
hard to begin. Pushing the writing materials from him he leant back
further in his chair, and searching in his pockets found and filled a
pipe with slow almost meticulous deliberation. Another search failed to
produce the match he required, and rising with a prolonged stretch he
bent over the table and lit his pipe at the lamp. Crossing the tent he
stood for a few moments in the doorway, but movements did not seem to
produce inspiration, and with an impatient shrug he returned to his seat
and sat staring gloomily at the blank sheet of paper before him. The
flaring light of the lamp illuminated his deeply tanned face and lean
muscular figure. In perfect physical condition and bronzed with the
African sun, he looked younger than when he had left England. At that
moment death and Barry Craven seemed very widely separated--and yet in a
few hours, he reflected with a curiosity that was oddly impersonal, the
vultures might be congregating round the body that was now so strong and
virile. “Handsome Barry Craven.” He had heard a woman say it in Lagos
with a feeling of contemptuous amusement--a cynical smile crossed his
face as the remark recurred to him and he pictured the loathing that
would succeed admiration in the same woman's eyes if she could see what
would remain of him after the scavengers of the desert had done their
work. The thought gave him personally no feeling of disgust. He had
lived always too near to Nature to shrink from contemplation of her
merciless laws.

He filled another pipe and strove to collect his wandering thoughts, but
the power of definite expression seemed beyond him as there rose in
him with almost overwhelming force the terrible longing that never left
him--the craving to see her, to hear her voice. Of his own free will he
was putting away all that life could mean or hold for him, and in the
flood of natural reaction that set in he called himself a fool and
revolted at his self-imposed sentence. The old struggle recommenced, the
old temptation gripped him in all its bitterness, and never so bitterly
as to-night. In the revulsion of feeling that beset him it was not death
he shrank from but the thought of eternity--alone. Neither in this world
nor in the life everlasting would she be his, and in an agony of longing
his soul cried out in anguished loneliness. The yearning for her grew
intolerable, a burning physical ache that was torture; but stronger far
rose the finer nobler desire for the perfect spiritual companionship
that he would never know. By his own act it would be denied him. By his
own act he had made this hell in which he lived, of his own making would
be the hell of the hereafter. Always he had recognised the justice of
it, he did not attempt to deny the justice of it now. But if it had been
otherwise--if he had been free to woo her, free to win her to his arms!
It was not the least of his punishment that, deep down in his heart,
he had the firm conviction that despite her assertions to the contrary,
love was lying dormant in her. And that love might have been his, would
have been his, for the strength and tenderness of his own passion would
have compelled it. She must have turned to him at last and in his
love found happiness. And to him her love would have been the crown
of life--a life of exquisite joy and beauty, a union of perfect and
undivided sympathy. Together they might have made the Towers a paradise
on earth; together they might have broken the curse of Craven; together
they might have brought happiness into the lives of many. And in the
dream of what might have been there came to him for the first time the
longing for parenthood, the desire for a child born of the woman he
adored, a child who joining in his tiny personality the essentials of
each would be a tangible proof of their mutual love, a child who would
perpetuate the race he sprang from. Craven's breath came fast with a new
and tremendous emotion. Then with terrible suddenness came a lightning
flash of recollection, a stabbing remembrance that laid his dream in
pieces at his feet. He heard again the low soft sobbing voice, “Are you
not glad?” He saw again O Hara San's pleading tear-filled eyes, felt
again her slender sorrow-shaken body trembling in his arms, and he bowed
his head on his hands in shuddering horror....

Numbed with the pain of memory and self-loathing he was unaware of the
renewal of noisy demonstration in the camp that to Yoshio's attentive
and interested ears pointed to the arrival of yet another adherent of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, an adherent of some special standing, judging from
the warmth of his reception. Moved by curiosity the Jap rose noiselessly
and passing unnoticed by his master vanished silently into the night.

Some little while later the sound of a clear tenor voice calling to him
loudly by name sent Craven stumbling to his feet. He turned quickly
with outstretched hands to meet the tall young Arab, who burst
unceremoniously into the tent and flung himself upon him in boisterous
greeting. Gripped by a pair of muscular arms Craven submitted with
an Englishman's diffidence to the fervid oriental embrace that was
succeeded to his greater liking by a hearty and prolonged English
handshake and a storm of welcoming excited and almost incoherent speech.
“_C'est bien toi, mon vieux_! You are more welcome than you have ever
been--though I could wish you a thousand miles away, _mon ami_, but of
that, more, later. _Dame_, but I have ridden! As though the hosts of
Eblis were behind me. I was on leave when the messenger came for me--he
seems to have been peremptory in his demands, that same Selim.
Telegrams despatched to every likely place--one caught me fortunately
at Marseilles. Yes, I had been in Paris. I hastened to headquarters and
asked for long and indefinite leave on urgent private affairs, all the
lies I thought _mon colonel_ would swallow, but no word of war, _bien
entendu_! Praise be to _Allah_ they put no obstacle in my way and I left
at once. Since then I have ridden almost without stopping, night and
day. Two horses I have killed, the last lies dead of a broken heart
before my father's tent--you remember her?--my little Mimi, a chestnut
with a white star on her forehead, dear to me as the core of my heart.
For none but Omar would I have driven so, for I loved her, look you,
_mon ami_, as I could never love a woman. A woman! Bah! No woman in
the world was worth a toss of my Mimi's head. And I killed her, Craven.
Killed her who loved and trusted me, who never failed me. My little
Mimi! For the love of _Allah_ give me a whisky.” And laughing and crying
together he collapsed with a groan on to Craven's bed but sat up again
immediately to gulp down the prohibited drink that was almost the last
in a nearly depleted flask.

“The Prophet never tasted whisky or he would not have forbidden it to
the true believer,” he said with a boyish grin, as he handed back the
empty cup.

“Which you are not,” commented Craven with a faint smile. “In the
sense you mean, no,” replied Saïd, swinging his heels to the ground and
searching in the folds of his burnous for a cigarette, which he lit and
smoked for a few minutes thoughtfully. Then with all trace of his former
excitement gone he began to discuss soberly the exigency of the
moment, revealing a sound judgment and levelness of mind that appeared
incompatible with his seemingly careless and easy-going disposition.
It was a deeper studiously hidden side of his character that Craven had
guessed very early in their acquaintance.

He talked now with unconcealed seriousness of the gravity of the
situation. In the short time he had been with his father before seeking
his friend he had mastered the particulars of the projected expedition
and, with his European knowledge, had suggested and even--with a
force of personality he had never before displayed in the old Sheik's
presence--insisted on certain alterations which he detailed now for
Craven's benefit, who concurred heartily, for they were identical with
suggestions put forward by himself which had been rejected as impossible
innovations by the conservative headmen, and conscious of his position
as guest he had not pressed them. Then with a sudden change of tone the
young Arab turned to Craven in frowning inquiry.

“But you, mon cher, what are you doing in this affair? It was that I
meant when I said I wished you a thousand miles away. You are my friend,
the friend of all of us, but friendship does not demand that you ride
with us to-night. That you would offer--yes--it was only to be expected.
But that we should accept your offer--no! a hundred times no! you are an
Englishman, a big man in your own country, what have you to do with the
tribal warfare of minor Arab Chiefs--voyez vous, I have my moments of
modesty! If anything should happen--as happen it very likely will--what
will your paternal British Government say? It will only add to my
father's difficulties with our own over-lords.” There was a laugh in his
eyes though his voice was serious. Craven brushed his objection aside
with an indifferent hand.

“The British Government will not distress itself about me,” he said
dryly. “I am not of sufficient importance.”

For a few moments the Arab sat silent, smoking rapidly, then he raised
his dark eyes tentatively to Craven's face.

“In Paris they told me you were married,” he said slowly, and the remark
was in itself ample indication of his European tendencies.

Craven turned away with an abrupt movement and bent over the lamp to
light his pipe. “They told you the truth,” he said, with a certain
reluctance, his face hidden by a cloud of smoke. “_Pourtant_, I ride
with you to-night.” There was a note of brusque finality in his voice
that Saïd recognised, and he shrugged acquiescence as he lit another
cigarette. “It is almost certain death,” he said, with nonchalant
oriental calm. But Craven did not answer and Saïd relapsed into a
silence that was protracted. From the midst of the blue haze surrounding
him, his earnest scrutiny hidden by the thick lashes that curved
downwards to his swarthy cheek, he gazed intently through half-closed
eyes at the friend whose presence he found for the first time
embarrassing. Fatalist though he was in all things that concerned
himself, western influence had bitten deep enough to make him realise
that the same doctrine did not extend to Craven. He recognised that
self-determination came more largely into the Englishman's creed than
into his own. Whether he himself lived or died was a matter of no great
moment. But with Craven it was otherwise and he had no liking for the
thought that should the morrow's venture go against them his friend's
blood would, virtually, be upon his hands! So far had his Francophile
tendencies taken him. And the more he dwelt upon the uncomfortable fact
the less he liked it. He turned his attention more directly upon the man
himself and he noted changes that surprised and disturbed him. The stern
weary looking face was not the careless smiling one he remembered. The
man he had known had been vividly alive, care-free and animated; one who
had jested alike at life and death with an indifferent laugh, but one
who though careless of danger even to the extent of foolhardiness had
never given any indication of a desire to quit a life that was obviously
easy and attractive. But this man was different, grave and abrupt of
speech, with an air of tired suffering, and a grim purposefulness in his
determination to ignore his friend's warning that conveyed an impression
of underlying sinister intent that set the Arab wondering what sting had
poisoned his life even to the desire to sacrifice it. For the look on
Craven's face was not new to him, he had seen it before--on the face of
a French officer in Algiers who had subsequently taken his own life,
and again this very evening on the face of his brother Omar. The
personalities of the three men were widely different, but the expression
of each was identical. The deduction was simple and yet to him wholly
inexplicable. A woman--without doubt a woman! In the first two cases it
was certainly so, he seemed to know instinctively that here, too, he was
not mistaken in his supposition. A puzzled look crept into his fine
dark eyes and a cynical smile hovered round his mouth as he viewed
these three dissimilar men from the height of his own contemptuous
indifference towards any and every woman. It was a weakness he did not
understand, a phase of life that held no meaning for him at all. He
had never bestowed a second glance on any woman of his own race, the
attentions of European women in Paris and Algiers had been met with cold
scorn that he masked with racial gravity of demeanour or frank insolence
according to circumstances. For him women did not exist; he lived for
his horses, for his regiment and for sport. To his strangely cold
nature the influence that women exercised over other men was a thing
inconceivable--the houris of the paradise of his fathers' creed were to
him no incentive to enter the realms of the blessed. A character apart,
incomprehensible alike to the warm-blooded Frenchmen with whom he
associated and to his own passionate countrymen, he maintained his
peculiarity tranquilly, undisturbed by the banter of his friends and
the admonitions of his father, who in view of his heir's childlessness
regarded his younger son's temperament with growing uneasiness as the
years advanced.

The action of the French officer in Algiers had provoked in Saïd only
intolerant contempt but, as he realised tonight, contempt was not
possible in the cases of Craven and his brother. He pondered it with a
curious feeling of irritation. What was it after all, this emotion of
which he was ignorant--this compelling impulse that entered into a
man driving him beyond the power of endurance? It was past his
comprehension. And he wondered suddenly for the first time why he had
been made so different to the generality of men. But introspection
was foreign to him, he had not been in the habit of dissecting his own
personality and his thoughts turned quickly with greater interest to the
man who sat near him plunged like himself into silent reverie. And as
he looked he scowled with angry irritation. The Frenchman in Algiers had
not mattered, but Omar and Craven mattered very much. He resented the
suffering he did not understand--the termination of a friendship he
valued, for it was almost inevitable should Craven persist in his
decision and the loss of a brother who was dearer to him than he would
admit and whose death would mean a greater change in his own life than
he cared to contemplate. That through a woman this should be possible!
With hearty thoroughness and picturesque attention to detail he silently
cursed all women in general and two women in particular. For the
seriousness of the venture lay, at the moment, heavily upon him. He
was tired and his enthusiasm temporarily damped by the unexpected and
incomprehensible attitude of the two men by whom alone he permitted
himself to be influenced. But gradually his natural buoyancy reasserted
itself, and abandoning as insoluble the perplexing problem, he spoke
again eagerly of the impending meeting with his hereditary foes. For
half an hour they talked earnestly and then Saïd rose, announcing his
intention of getting a few hours sleep before the early start. But he
deferred his going, making one pretext after another for remaining,
walking about the little tent in undecided hesitation, plainly
embarrassed. Finally he swung toward Craven with a characteristic
gesture of his long arms.

“Can I say nothing to deter you from this expedition?”

“Nothing,” replied Craven; “you always promised me a fight some day--do
you want to do me out of it now, you selfish devil?” he added with a
laugh, to which Saïd did not respond. With an inarticulate grunt
he moved toward the door, pausing as he went out to fling over his
shoulder: “I'll send you a burnous and the rest of the kit.”

“A burnous--what for?”

“What for?” echoed Saïd, coming back into the tent, his eyes wide with
astonishment. “_Allah_! to wear, of course, _mon cher_. You can't go as
you are.”

“Why not?”

The Arab rolled his eyes heavenward and waved his hands in protest as
he burst out vehemently: “Because they will take you for a Frenchman,
a spy, an agent of the Government, and they will finish you off even
before they turn their attention to us. They hate us, by the Koran! but
they hate a Frenchman worse. You wouldn't have the shadow of a chance.”

Craven looked at him curiously for a few moments, and then he smiled.
“You're a good fellow, Saïd,” he said quietly, taking the cigarette the
other offered, “but I'll go as I am, all the same. I'm not used to your
picturesque togs, they would only hamper me.”

For a little while longer Saïd remained arguing and entreating by turns
and then went away suddenly in the middle of a sentence, and for a few
minutes Craven stood in the door of the tent watching his retreating
figure by the light of the newly risen moon with a smile that softened
his face incredibly.

Then he turned back into the tent and once more drew toward him the
writing materials.

The difficulty he had before felt had passed away. It seemed suddenly
quite easy to write and he wondered why it had appeared so impossible
earlier in the evening. Words, phrases, leaped to his mind, sentences
seemed to form themselves, and, with rapidly moving pen, he wrote
without faltering for the best part of an hour--all he had never dared
to say, more almost than he had ever dared to think. He did not spare
himself. The tragic history of O Hara San he gave in all its pitifulness
without attempting to extenuate or shield himself in any way; he
sketched frankly the girl's loneliness and childish ignorance, his own
casual and selfish acceptance of the sacrifice she made and the terrible
catastrophe that had brought him to abrupt and horrible conviction of
himself, and his subsequent determination to end the life he had marred
and wasted. He wrote of the coming of John Locke's letter at the moment
of his deepest abasement, and of the chance it had seemed to offer; of
her own entry into his life and the love for her that almost from the
first moment had sprung up within him.

In its entirety he laid bare the burning hopeless passion that consumed
him, the torturing longing that possessed him, and the knowledge of his
own unworthiness that had driven him from her that she might be free
with a freedom that would be at last absolute. But even in this letter
which tore down so completely the barrier between them he did not admit
to her the true reason of his marriage, he preferred to leave it obscure
as it had always been, even should the motive she might attribute to him
be the wrong one. He must chance that and the impression it might leave
with her. Her future life he alluded to very briefly not caring to dwell
on business that was already cut and dried, but referring her to Peters
who was fully instructed and on whose advice and help she could
count. He expressed no wish with regard to Craven Towers and his
other properties, leaving her free to dispose of or retain them as she
pleased. He shrank from suggesting in any way that she benefited by his
death.

He saw her before him as he wrote. It seemed almost as if the ardent
passionate wards were spoken to present listening ears, and as with
Peters' letter he did not reread the many closely written sheets. What
use? He did not wish to alter or amend anything he had said. He had
done, and a deeper peace came to him than he had known since those far
away days in Japan.

He called to Yoshio. Almost before the words had left his lips the man
was beside him. And as the Jap listened to the minute instructions given
him the light that had sprung to his eyes died out of them and his face
became if possible more than usually stolid and inscrutable.

“You quite understand?” said Craven in conclusion. “You will wait here
until it becomes evident that further waiting is useless. Then you are
to go straight back to England and give those letters into Mrs. Craven's
own hand.”

With marked reluctance Yoshio slowly took up the two heavy packets and
fingered them for a time silently. Then with a sudden exclamation in his
own language he shook his head and pushed them back across the table.
“Going with master,” he announced phlegmatically, and raised his eyes
with a glance that was at once provocative and stubborn. Craven met his
direct stare with a feeling of surprise. Only once before had the docile
Japanese asserted himself definitely and the memory of it made anger now
impossible. He pointed to the letters lying on the table between them.
“You have your orders,” he said quietly, and cut short further protests
with a quick gesture of authority. “Do as you're told, you obstinate
little devil,” he added, with a short laugh. And like a chidden child
Yoshio pocketed the letters sullenly. Stifling a yawn Craven kicked off
his boots and moved over to the bed with a glance at his watch. He flung
himself down, dressed as he was.

“Two hours, Yoshio--not a minute longer,” he murmured drowsily, and
slept almost before his head touched the pillow.

For an hour or more, squatting motionless on his heels in the middle
of the tent, Yoshio watched him, his mask-like face expressionless, his
eyes fixed in an unwavering stare. Then he rose cautiously and glided
from the tent.

During the last two years Craven had become accustomed to snatching
a few hours of sleep when and how he could. He slept now deeply and
dreamlessly. And when the two hours were passed and Yoshio woke him he
sprang up, wide awake on the instant, refreshed by the short rest. In
silence that was no longer sullen the valet indicated a complete Arab
outfit he had brought back with him to the tent, but Craven waved it
aside with a smile at the thought of Saïd's pertinacity and finished his
dressing quickly. As he concluded his hasty preparations he found time
to wonder at his own frame of mind. He had an odd feeling of aloofness
that precluded even excitement. It was as if his spirit, already freed,
looked down from some immeasurable height with scant interest upon the
doings of a being who wore the earthly semblance of himself but who
mattered not at all. He seemed to be above and beyond actualities. He
heard himself repeating the instructions he had given earlier to Yoshio,
he found himself taking leave of the faithful little Jap and wondering
slightly at the man's apparent unconcern. But outside the little tent
the strange feeling left him suddenly as it had come. The cool wind that
an hour later would usher in the dawn blew about his face dispelling the
visionary sensation that had taken hold of him. He drew a deep breath
looking eagerly at the beauty of the moon-lit night, feeling himself
once more keenly alive, keenly excited at the prospect of the coming
venture.

Excitement was rife also in the camp and he made his way with difficulty
through the jostling throng of men and horses towards the rallying point
before the old Sheik's tent. The noise was deafening, and trampling
screaming horses wheeled and backed among the crowd pressing around
them. With shouts of acclamation a way was made for the Englishman and
he passed through the dense ranks to the open space where Mukair Ibn
Zarrarah with his two sons and a little group of headmen were standing.
They welcomed him with characteristic gravity and Saïd proffered the
inevitable cigarette with a reproachful glance at his khaki clothing.
For a few moments they conversed and then the Sheik stepped forward with
uplifted hand. The clamour of the people gave way to a deep silence. In
a short impassioned speech the old man bade his tribe go forward in the
name of the one God, Merciful and Beneficent. And as his arm dropped
to his side again a mighty shout broke from the assembled multitude.
_Allah! Allah!_ the fierce exultant cry rose in a swelling volume of
sound as the fighting men leaped to their maddened horses dragging them
back into orderly ranks from among the press of onlookers and tossing
their long guns in the air in frenzied excitement. A magnificent black
stallion was led up to Craven, and the Sheik soothed the beautiful
quivering creature, caressing his shapely head with trembling nervy
fingers. “He is my favourite, he will carry you well,” he murmured with
a proud smile as he watched Craven handling the spirited animal. Mounted
Craven bent down and wrung Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's hand and in another
moment he found himself riding between Omar and Saïd at the head of the
troop as it moved off followed by the ringing shouts of those who
were left behind. He had a last momentary glimpse of the old Sheik, a
solitary upright figure of pathetic dignity, standing before his tent,
and then the camp seemed to slide away behind them as the pace increased
and they reached the edge of the oasis and emerged on to the open
desert. A few minutes more and the fretting horses settled down into
a steady gallop. The dense ranks of tribesmen were silent at last, and
only the rythmical thud of hoofs sounded with a muffled beat against the
soft shifting sand.

Craven felt himself in strange accordance with the men with whom he
rode. The love of hazardous adventure that was in his blood leaped into
activity and a keen fierce pleasure swept him at the thought of the
coming conflict. The death he sought was the death he had always hoped
for--the crashing clamour of the battlefield, the wild tumultuous impact
of contending forces, with the whining scream of flying bullets in his
ears. To die--and, dying, to atone!

    “_Come to Me all ye who ... are heavy laden
     and I will give you rest_.”

Might that ineffable rest that was promised be even for him? Would his
deep repentance, the agony of spirit he had endured, be payment enough?
Eternal death--the everlasting hell of the Jehovah of the ancients! Not
that, merciful God, but the compassion of Christ:

    “_He that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out_.”

On that terrible day in Yokohama that seemed so many weary years ago
Craven had laid his sin-stained soul in all sincerity and humbleness
at the feet of the Divine Redeemer, but with no thought or hope of
forgiveness. Always the necessity of personal atonement had remained
with him, without which by his reasoning there could be no salvation.
That offered, but not until then, he would trust in the compassion that
passed man's understanding. And to-night--to-day--he seemed nearer than
he had ever been to the fulfilment of his desire. The mental burden that
had lain like an actual crushing weight upon him seemed to slip away
into nothingness. A long deep sigh of wonderful relief escaped him and
he drew himself straighter in the saddle, a new peace dawning in his
eyes as he raised them to the starlit sky. Out of the past there flashed
into his mind the picture--forgotten since the days of childhood--of
Christian freed of his burden at the foot of the Cross, as represented
in the old copy of the “Pilgrim's Progress” over which he had pored as
a boy, enthralled by the quaint text which he had known nearly by heart
and fascinated by the curious illustrations that had appealed to his
young imagination.

The years rolled back, he saw himself again a little lad stretched on
the rug before the fire in the library at Craven Towers, the big book
propped open before him, studying with a child's love of the grotesque
the grisly picture of Apollyon whose hideous black-winged form had to
his boyish mind been the actual image of the devil, a tangible demon
whom he had longed to conquer like Christian armed with sword and
shield. The childish idea, a bodily adversary to contend with--it would
have been simpler. But the devil in a man's own heart, the insidious
inward prompting to sin that unrepelled grows imperceptibly stronger
and greater until the realisation of sin committed comes with horrible
suddenness! To Craven, as to many others, came the futile longing to
have his life to live again, to start afresh from the days of innocency
when he had hung, enraptured, over the woodcuts of the “Pilgrim's
Progress.” He forced his thoughts back to the present. Death, not life,
lay before him. Instinctively he glanced at the man who rode at his
right hand. In the cold white moonlight the Arab's face was like a piece
of beautiful carved bronze, still and terrible in its fixed intentness.
Sitting his horse with evident difficulty, animated by mere strength of
will, his wasted frame rigidly upright, his sombre tragic eyes peering
steadfastly ahead, he seemed in his grim purposefulness the very
incarnation of avenging justice. And as Craven looked at him covertly he
wondered what lay hidden behind those set features, what of hope, what
of fear, what of despair was seething in the fierce heart of the desert
man. Of the dearly loved wife who had been ravished from him there had
come no further word, her fate was unknown. Had she died, or did she
still live--in shameful captivity, the slave of the renegade who had
made her the price of his treachery? What additional horror still
awaited the unhappy husband who rode to avenge her? With a slight
shudder Craven turned from the contemplation of a sorrow that seemed to
him even greater than his own and sought his left hand neighbour. With a
quick smile Saïd's eyes met his. With an easy swing of his graceful body
he drew his horse nearer to the spirited stallion Craven was riding
but did not speak. The ready flow of conversation that was habitual had
apparently forsaken him.

The young Arab's silence was welcome, Craven had himself no desire to
speak. The dawn wind was blowing cool against his forehead, soothing
him. The easy gallop of the horse between his knees, tractable and
steady now he was allowed free rein, was to him the height of physical
enjoyment. He would get from it what he could, he thought with a swift
smile of self mockery--the flesh still urged in contradiction to his
firm resolve. It was a blind country through which they were riding,
though seemingly level the ground rose and fell in a succession of long
undulating sweeps that made a wide outlook impossible. A regiment could
lie hidden in the hollows among the twisting deviating sandy hillocks
and be passed unnoticed. And as he topped each rise at the head of the
Arab troop Craven looked forward eagerly with unfailing interest. He
hardly knew for what he looked for their destination lay many miles
further southward and the possibility of unexpected attack had been
foreseen by Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, whose scouts had ranged the district
for weeks past, but the impression once aroused of an impending
something lingered persistently and fixed his attention.

From time to time the waiting scouts joined them, solitary horsemen
riding with reckless speed over the broken ground or slipping silently
from the shadow of a side track to make a brief report and then take
their place among the ranks of tribesmen. So far they told no more than
was already known. The wind blew keener as the dawn approached. Far in
the east the first faint pinky streaks were spreading across the
sky, overhead the twinkling stars paled one by one and vanished. The
atmosphere grew suddenly chill. The surrounding desert had before been
strangely silent, not so much as the wailing cry of a jackal had broken
the intense stillness, but now an even deeper hush, mysterious and
pregnant, closed down over the land. For the time all nature seemed to
hang in suspense, waiting, watching. To Craven the wonder of the dawn
was not new, he had seen if often in many countries, but it was a marvel
of which he never tired. And there was about this sunrise a significance
that had been attached to no other he had ever witnessed. Eagerly he
watched the faint flush brighten and intensify, the pale streaks spread
and widen into far flung bars of flaming gold and crimson. Daylight came
with startling suddenness and as the glowing disc of the sun rose
red above the horizon a horseman broke from the galloping ranks, and
spurring in advance of the troop, wheeled his horse and dragged him to
an abrupt standstill. Rising in his stirrups he flung his arms in fervid
ecstasy toward the heavens. Craven recognised in him a young Mullah of
fanatical tendencies who had been particularly active in the camp during
the preceding week. That the opposing tribe was of a different sect,
abhorred by the followers of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, had been an original
cause of dissent between them, and the priests had made good use of the
opportunity of fanning religious zeal.

The cavalcade came to a sudden halt, and as Craven with difficulty
reined in his own horse the sustained and penetrating cry of the muezzin
rose weirdly high and clear on the morning air, “_al-ilah-ilah_.” The
arresting and solemn invocation had always had for Craven a peculiar
fascination, and as the last lingering notes died away it was not purely
from a motive of expediency that he followed the common impulse and
knelt among the prostrate Arabs. His creed differed from theirs but he
worshipped the same God as they, and in his heart he respected their
overt profession of faith.

As he rose from his knees he caught Saïd's eyes bent on him with a
curious look in them of interrogation that was at once faintly mocking
and yet sad. But the expression passed quickly into a boyish grin as he
waved an unlit cigarette toward the fiery young priest who had seized
the chance to embark on a passionate harangue.

“When prayer is ended disperse yourselves through the land as ye list,”
 he murmured, with a flippant laugh at the perverted quotation. “The holy
man will preach till our tongues blacken with thirst.” And he turned to
his brother to urge him to give the order to remount. Omar was leaning
against his horse, his tall figure sagging with fatigue. He started
violently as Saïd spoke to him, and, staggering, would have fallen but
for the strong arm slipped round him. And, watching Craven saw with
dismay a dark stain mar the whiteness of his robes where a wound had
broken out afresh, and he wondered whether the weakened body would
be able to respond to the urging of the resolute will that drove it
mercilessly, or, when almost within view, the fiercely longed for
revenge would yet be snatched from him.

But with an effort the Arab pulled himself together and, mounting,
painfully cut short the Mullah's eloquence and gave in a firm tone the
desired order.

The swift gallop southward was resumed.

The breeze dropped gradually and finally died away, but for an hour or
more the refreshing coolness lingered. Then as the sun rose higher and
gained in strength the air grew steadily warmer until the heat became
intense and Craven began to look eagerly for the oasis that was to be
their first halting place. In full daylight the landscape that by night
had seemed to possess an eerie charm developed a dull monotony. The
successive rise and fall of the land, always with its limited outlook,
became tedious, and the labyrinthine hillocks with their intricate
windings seemed to enclose them inextricably. But on reaching the summit
of a longer steeper incline that had perceptibly slowed the galloping
horses, he saw spread out before him a level tract of country stretching
far into the distance, with a faint blue smudge beyond of the chain
of hills that Saïd told him marked the boundary of the territory that
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah regarded as his own, the boundary, too, of French
jurisdiction. Through a defile in the hills lay the enemy country.

The change was welcome to men and horses alike, the latter--aware
with unerring instinct of the nearness of water--of their own accord
increased their pace and thundering down the last long shifting slope
pressed forward eagerly toward the oasis that Craven judged to be
between two and three miles away. In the clear deceptive atmosphere it
appeared much nearer, and yet as they raced onward it seemed to come
no closer but rather to recede as though some malevolent demon of
the desert in wanton sport was conjuring it tantalizingly further and
further from them. The tall feathery palms, seen through the shimmering
heat haze, took an exaggerated height towering fantastically above the
scrub of bushy thorn trees.

Craven had even a moment's doubt whether the mirage-like oasis actually
existed or was merely a delusion bred of fancy and desire. But the
absurdity of the doubt came home to him as he looked again at the
outline of the distant hills--too conspicuous a landmark to allow of any
error on the part of his companions to whom the country was familiar.

The prospect of the welcome shade made him more sensitive to the
scorching strength of the sun that up till now he had endured without
more than a passing sensation of discomfort. He was inured to heat, but
to-day's heat was extraordinary, and even the Arabs were beginning to
show signs of distress. It was many hours since they started and the
pace had been killing. His mouth was parched and his eyeballs smarted
with the blinding glare. With the thirst that increased each moment the
last half mile seemed longer than all the preceding ride, and when the
oasis was at length reached he slipped from his sweating horse with an
exclamation of relief.

The Arabs crowded round the well and in a moment the little peaceful
spot was the scene of noisy confusion; men shouting, scrambling and
gesticulating, horses squealing, and above all the creaking whine of the
tackling over the well droning mournfully as the bucket rose and fell.
Saïd swung himself easily to the ground and held his brother's plunging
horse while he dismounted. For a few moments they conversed together in
a rapid undertone, and then the younger man turned to Craven, a cloud on
his handsome face. “Our communication has broken down. Two scouts should
have met us here,” he said, with a hint of anxiety in his voice. “It
disconcerts our scheme for we counted on their report. They may be
late--it is hardly likely. They had ample time. More probably they have
been ambushed--the country is filled with spies--in which event the
advantage lies with the other side. They will know that we have started,
while we shall have no further information. The two men who are missing
were the only ones operating beyond the border. The last scout who
reported himself was in touch with them last night. From them he learned
that two days ago the enemy were forty miles south of the hills yonder.
We had hoped to catch them unawares, but they may have got wind of our
intentions and be nearer than we expect. The curse of _Allah_ on them!”
 he added impatiently.

“What are you going to do?” asked Craven with a backward glance at the
dismounted tribesmen clustering round the well and busily employed in
making preparations for rest and food. Saïd beckoned to a passing Arab
and dispatched him with a hurried order. Then he turned again to Craven.
“The horses must rest though the men would go forward at a word. I
am sending two scouts to reconnoitre the defile and bring back what
information they can,” he said. And as he spoke the two men he had
sent for appeared with disciplined promptness and reined in beside him.
Having received their brief instructions they started off in a cloud of
dust and sand at the usual headlong gallop. Saïd turned away immediately
and disappeared among the jostling crowd, but Craven lingered at the
edge of the oasis looking after the fast receding horsemen who, crouched
low in their saddles, their long white cloaks swelling round them,
were very literally carrying out their orders to ride “swift as the
messengers of Azrael.” He had known them both on his previous visits,
though he had not recognised them in the dark hours of the dawn when
they joined the troop, and remembered them as two of the most dare-devil
and intrepid of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's followers. A moment since they had
grinned at him in cheery greeting, exhibiting almost childlike pleasure
when he had called them by name, and had set off with an obeisance as
deep to him as to their leader.

Incidents of those earlier visits flashed through his mind as he watched
them speeding across the glaring plain and a feeling almost of regret
came to him that it should be these two particular men who had been
selected for the hazardous mission. For he guessed that their chance of
return was slight. And yet hardly slighter than for the rest of them!
With a shrug he moved away slowly and sought the shadow of a camel
thorn. He lay on his back in the welcome patch of shade, his helmet
tilted over his eyes, drawing vigorously at a cigarette in the vain
hope of lessening the attentions of the swarms of tormenting flies that
buzzed about him, and waiting patiently for the desired water before
he swallowed the dark brown unsavoury mass of crushed dates which, warm
from his pocket and gritty with the sand that penetrated everything, was
the only food available. Saïd was still busy among the throng of men and
horses, but near him Omar sat plunged in gloomy silence, his melancholy
eyes fixed on the distant hills. He had re-adjusted his robes, screening
the ominous stain that revealed what he wished to hide. His hands,
which alone might have betrayed the emotion surging under his outward
passivity, were concealed in the folds of his enveloping burnous. When
the immediate wants of men and horses were assuaged the prevailing
clamour gave place to sudden quiet as the Arabs lay down and, muffling
their heads in their cloaks, seemed to fall instantly asleep. His
supervision ended, Saïd reappeared, and following the example of his
men was soon snoring peacefully. Craven rolled over on his side, and
lighting another cigarette settled himself more comfortably on the warm
ground. For a time he watched the solitary sentinel sitting motionless
on his horse at no great distance from the oasis. Then a vulture winging
its slow heavy way across the heavens claimed his attention and he
followed it with his eyes until it passed beyond his vision. He was
too lazy and too comfortable to turn his head. He lay listening to the
shrill hum of countless insect life, smoking cigarette after cigarette
till the ground around him was littered with stubs and match ends. The
hours passed slowly. When he looked at the guard again the Arab was
varying the monotony by walking his horse to and fro, but he had not
moved further into the desert. And suddenly as Craven watched him he
wheeled and galloped back toward the camp. Craven started up on his arm,
screening his eyes from the sun and staring intently in the direction of
the hills. But there was nothing to be seen in the wide empty plain, and
he sank down again with a smile at his own impatience as the reason of
the man's return occurred to him. Reaching the oasis the Arab led his
horse among the prostrate sleepers and kicked a comrade into wakefulness
to take his place. From time to time the intense stillness was broken
by a movement among the horses, and once or twice a vicious scream came
from a stallion resenting the attentions of a restless neighbour. The
slumbering Arabs lay like sheeted figures of the dead save when some
uneasy dreamer rolled over with a smothered grunt into a different
position. Craven had begun to wonder how much longer the siesta would be
protracted when Omar rose stiffly, and going to his brother's side awoke
him with a hand on his shoulder. Saïd sat up blinking sleepily and then
leaped alertly to his feet. In a few minutes the oasis was once more
filled with noisy activity. But this time there was no confusion. The
men mounted quickly and the troop was reformed with the utmost dispatch.
The horses broke almost immediately into the long swinging gallop that
seemed to eat up the miles under their feet.

The fiercest heat of the day was passed. The haze that had hung
shimmering over the plain had cleared away and the hills they were
steadily nearing grew more clearly defined. Soon the conformation of
the range was easily discernible, the rocky surface breaking up into
innumerable gullies and ravines, the jagged ridges standing out clean
against the deep blue of the sky. Another mile and Saïd turned to him
with outstretched hand, pointing eagerly. “See, to the right, there,
by that shaft of rock that looks like a minaret, is the entrance to the
defile. It is well masked. It comes upon one suddenly. A stranger would
hardly find the opening until he was close upon it. In the dawn when
the shadows are black I have ridden past it myself once or twice and had
to--_Allah_! Selim--and alone!” he cried suddenly, and shot ahead of
his companions. The troop halted at Omar's shouted command, but Craven
galloped after his friend. He had caught sight of the horseman emerging
from the pass a moment after Saïd had seen him and the same thought had
leaped to the mind of each--the news on which so much depended might
still never reach them. The spy came on toward them slowly, his horse
reeling under him, and man and beast alike were nearly shot to pieces.
As Saïd drew alongside of them the wounded horse collapsed and the dying
man fell with him, unable to extricate himself. In a flash the Arab
Chief was on his feet, and with a tremendous effort pulled the dead
animal clear of his follower's crushed and quivering limbs. Slipping an
arm about him he raised him gently, and bending low to catch the faint
words he could scarcely hear, held him until the fluttering whisper
trailed into silence, and with a convulsive shudder the man died in his
arms.

Laying the corpse back on the sand he wiped his blood-stained hands on
the folds of his cloak, then swung into the saddle again and turned to
Craven, his eyes blazing with anger and excitement. “They were trapped
in the defile--ten against two--but Selim got through somehow to make
his reconnaissance, and they finished him off on the way back--though
I don't think he left many behind him! Either our plans have been
betrayed--or it may be merely a coincidence. Whichever it is they are
waiting for us yonder, on the other side of the hills. They have saved
us a day's journey--at the very least,” he added with a short laugh that
was full of eager anticipation.

They waited until Omar and the troop joined them, and after a short
consultation with the headmen it was decided to press forward without
delay. Aware that but few hours of daylight remained, Craven deemed it
a foolhardy decision, but Omar was deeply stirred at the nearness of
the man who had wronged him--for Selim had managed to extract that
information from one of his opponents before killing him--and the
tribesmen were eager for immediate action. The horses, too, were fresh
enough, thanks to the mid-day rest. The troop moved on again, a guard of
fifty picked men slightly in advance of the main body.

At the foot of the hills they drew rein to reform for the defile only
admitted of three horses walking abreast, and as Craven waited for his
own turn to come to enter the narrow pass he looked curiously at the
bare rock face that rose almost perpendicularly out of the sand and
towered starkly above him. But he had no time for a lengthy inspection,
and in a few minutes, with Omar and Saïd on either hand, he guided his
horse round the jutting spur of rock that masked the opening and rode
into the sombre shade of the defile. The change was startling, and he
shivered with the sudden chill that seemed so much cooler by contrast
with the heat of the plain. Hemmed in by sheer sinister looking cliffs,
which were broken at intervals by lateral ravines, the tortuous track
led over rough slippery ground sprinkled with huge boulders that made
any pace beyond a walk impossible. The horses stumbled continually and
the necessity of keeping a sharp look-out for each succeeding obstacle
drove from Craven's mind everything but the matter in hand. He forgot
to wonder how near or how far from the other side of the hills lay the
opposing force, or whether they would have time to reform before being
attacked or be picked off by waiting marksmen as they emerged from
the pass without any possibility of putting up a fight. For himself it
didn't after all very much matter one way or the other, but it would be
hard luck, he reflected, if Omar did not get a chance at the renegade
and Saïd was shot before the encounter he was aching for--and broke off
to swear at his horse, which had stumbled badly for the sixth time.

Omar was riding a pace or two in advance, bending forward in the saddle
and occasionally swaying as if from weakness, his burning eyes filled
with an almost mystical light as if he saw some vision that, hidden from
the others, was revealed to him alone. The dark stain on his robe had
spread beyond concealment and he had not spoken since they entered
the defile. To Craven, who had never before traversed it, the pass was
baffling. He did not know its extent and he had no idea of the depth of
the hills. But soon a growing excitement on the part of Saïd made him
aware that the exit must be near and the continued silence argued that
the vanguard had got through unmolested. He slipped the button of his
holster and freed his revolver from the silk handkerchief in which
Yoshio had wrapped it.

A sharp turn to the right revealed the scene of the ambuscade, where in
one of the lateral openings Selim and his companion had been trapped.
The bodies of men and horses had been pulled clear of the track by the
advance guard as they went by a few minutes earlier. The old sheik's
horse showed the utmost repugnance to the grim pile of corpses, snorting
and rearing dangerously, and Craven wrestled with him for some moments
before he bounded suddenly past them with a clatter of hoofs that sent
the loose stones flying in all directions.

Another turn to the right, an equally sharp bend to the left, where
the track widened considerably, and they debouched abruptly into open
desert.

The vanguard was drawn up in order and their leader spurred to Omar's
side in eager haste to communicate what was patent to the eyes of all. A
little ripple of excitement went through Craven as he saw the dense body
of horsemen, still about two miles away, who were galloping steadily
towards them. It had come then. With a curious smile he bent forward and
patted the neck of his fretting horse, which was fidgeting badly. The
opposing force appeared to outnumber them considerably, but he knew
from Saïd that Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's men were better equipped and better
trained. It would be skill against brute force, though it yet remained
to be seen how far Omar's men would respond to their training when
put to the test. Would they be able to control their own headstrong
inclinations or would their zeal carry them away in defiance of
carefully rehearsed orders?

Word of the near presence of the enemy had been sent back to those who
were still moving up the pass, and so far discipline was holding good.
The men were pouring out from the yawning mouth of the file in a steady
stream, the horses crowded together as closely as possible, and as each
detachment arrived it reformed smartly under its own headman.

Watching the rapid approach of the hostile tribe, Craven wondered
whether there would be time for their own force to reassemble to enable
them to carry out the agreed tactics.

Already they were within half a mile. He had reined back to speak to
Omar, when a shout of exultation from Saïd, taken up by his followers
till the rocks above them echoed with the ringing cry, heralded the
arrival of the last party. There was no time to recapitulate orders or
to urge steadiness among the men. With almost no sign from Omar, or
so it seemed to Craven, with another deafening shout that drowned the
yelling of the enemy the whole force leaped forward simultaneously.
Craven's teeth clenched on his lip in sudden fear for Omar's plan of
attack, but a quick glance assured him that the madly galloping horses
were being kept in good formation, and that fast as was the pace the
right and left wing were, according to instructions, steadily opening
out and drawing forward in an extended line. The feeling of excitement
had left him, and, revolver in hand, he sat down firmer in the saddle
with no more emotion than if he were in the hunting field at home.

They were now close enough to distinguish faces--it would be an almighty
crash when it did come! It was surprising that up till now there had
been no shooting. Accustomed to the Arabs' usually reckless expenditure
of ammunition he had been prepared minutes ago for a hail of bullets.
And with the thought came a solitary whining scream past his ear,
and Saïd, close on his left, flung him a look of reproach and shouted
something of which he only caught the words, “Frenchman ... burnous.”

But there was no time left to reply. Following rapidly on the single
shot a volley was poured in among them, but the shooting was inaccurate
and did very little damage. That it had been intended to break the
charge and cause confusion in the orderly ranks was apparent from the
further repeated volleys that, nearer, did more deadly execution than
the first one. But, bending low in their saddles, Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's
men swept on in obedience to Omar's command. His purpose was, by the
sheer strength of his onset, to cut through the opposing force with his
centre while the wings closed in on either side. To effect this he had
bidden his men ride as they had never ridden before and reserve their
fire till the last moment, when it would be most effectual. And the
swift silent onslaught seemed to be other than the enemy had expected,
for there were among them signs of hesitation, their advance was
checked, and the firing became wilder and more erratic. Omar and his
immediate companions appeared to bear charmed lives, bullets sang past
them, over and around them, and though here and there a man fell
from the saddle or a horse dropped suddenly, the main body raced on
unscathed, or with wounds they did not heed in the frenzy of the moment.

The pace was terrific, and when at last Omar gave the signal for which
his men were waiting, the crackling reverberation of their rifles had
not died away when the impact came. But the shattering crash that Craven
had expected did not occur. Giving way before them and scattering to
right and left a break came in the ranks of the opposing force,
through which they drove like a living wedge. Then with fierce yells of
execration the enemy rallied and the next moment Craven found himself
in the midst of a confused mêlée where friends and foes were almost
indistinguishable. The thundering of horses' hoofs, the raucous shouting
of the Arabs, the rattle of musketry, combined in deafening uproar.
The air was dense with clouds of sand and smoke, heavy with the reek of
powder. He had lost sight of Omar, he tried to keep near to Saïd, but in
the throng of struggling men he was carried away, cut off from his own
party, hemmed in on every side, fighting alone. He had forgotten
his desire for death, his heart was leaping with a kind of delirious
happiness that found nothing but fierce enjoyment in the scene around
him. The stench in his nostrils of blood and sulphur seemed to awaken
memories of another existence when he had fought for his life as he was
doing now, unafraid, and caring little for the outcome. He was shooting
steadily, exulting in his markmanship with no thought in his mind
but the passionate wish to kill and kill, and he laughed with almost
horrible pleasure as he emptied his revolver at the raving Arabs who
surrounded him. Drunk with the blood lust of an unremembered past for
the moment he was only a savage like them. And to the superstitious
desert men he seemed possessed, and with sudden awe they had begun to
draw away from him when a further party galloped up to reinforce them.
Craven swung his horse to meet the new-comers and at the same moment
realised that he had no cartridges left. With another reckless laugh he
dashed his empty revolver in the face of the nearest Arab and, wheeling,
spurred forward in an attempt to break through the circle round him. But
he found retreat cut off. Three men bore down upon him simultaneously
with levelled rifles. He saw them fire, felt a sharp searing as of a red
hot wire through his side, and, reeling in the saddle, heard dimly their
howl of triumph as they raced toward him--heard also another yell that
rose above the Arabs' clamour, a piercing yell that sounded strangely
different to the Arabic intonation ringing in his ears. And as he
gripped himself and raised his head he had a vision of another horseman
mounted on a frenzied trampling roan that, apparently out of control
and mad with excitement, was charging down upon them, a horseman whose
fluttering close-drawn headgear shaded features that were curiously
Mongolian--and then he went down in a welter of men and horses. A flying
hoof touched the back of his head and consciousness ceased.




CHAPTER IX


Craven woke to a burning pain in his side, a racking headache and an
intolerable thirst. It was not a sudden waking but a gradual dawning
consciousness in which time and place as yet meant nothing, and only
bodily suffering obtruded on a still partially clouded mind. Fragmentary
waves of thought, disconnected and transitory, passed through his brain,
leaving no permanent impression, and he made no effort to unravel them.
Effort of any kind, mental or physical, seemed for the moment beyond
him. He was too tired even to open his eyes, and lay with them closed,
wondering feebly at the pain and discomfort of his whole body. He had
the sensation of having been battered, he felt bruised from head to
foot. Suffering was new to him. He had never been ill in his life, and
in all his years of travel and hazardous adventure he had sustained only
trivial injuries which had healed readily and been regarded as merely
part of the day's work.

But now, as his mind grew clearer, he realised that some accident must
have occurred to induce this pain and lassitude that made him lie like
a log with throbbing head and powerless limbs. He pondered it, trying
to pierce the fog that dulled his intellect. He had a subconscious
impression of some strenuous adventure through which he had passed, but
knowledge still hovered on the borderland of fancy and actuality. He
had no recollection of the fight or of events preceding it. That he was
Barry Craven he knew; but of where he had no idea--nor what his life had
been. Of his personality there remained only his name, he was quite sure
about that. And out of the past emerged only one clear memory--a woman's
face. And yet as he dwelt on it the image of another woman's face rose
beside it, mingling with and absorbing it until the two faces seemed
strangely merged the one into the other, alike and yet wholly different.
And the effort to disentangle them and keep them separate was greater
than his tired brain could achieve, and made his head ache more
violently. Confused, and with a sudden feeling of aversion, he stirred
impatiently, and the sharp pain that shot through him brought him
abruptly to a sense of his physical state and forced utterance of his
greatest need. It had not hitherto occurred to him to wonder whether
he were alone, or even where he was. But as he spoke an arm was slipped
under him raising him slightly and a cup held to his lips. He drank
eagerly and, as he was again lowered gently to the pillow, raised his
eyes to the face of the man who bent over him, a puckered yellow face
whose imperturbability for once had given place to patent anxiety.
Craven stared at it for a few moments in perplexity. Where had he
seen it before? Struggling to recall what had happened prior to
this curiously obscured awakening there dawned a dim recollection of
shattering noise and tumult, of blood and death and fierce unbridled
human passion, of a horde of wild-eyed dark-skinned men who surged and
struggled round him--and of a yelling Arab on a fiery roan. Memory
came in a flash. He gave a weak little croaking laugh. “You damned
insubordinate little devil,” he murmured, and drifted once more into
unconsciousness. When he woke again it was with complete remembrance of
everything that had passed. He felt ridiculously weak, but his head did
not ache so badly and his mind was perfectly clear. Only of the time
that had elapsed between the moment when he had gone down under
the Arabs' charge and his awakening a little while ago he had no
recollection. How long had he been unconscious? He found himself mildly
puzzled, but without any great interest as yet. Plenty of time to find
out about that and what had befallen Omar and Saïd. It was not that he
did not care, but that, for the moment, he was too tired and listless to
do more than lie still and endure his own discomfort. His side throbbed
painfully and there was something curious about his left arm, a dead
feeling of numbness that made him wonder whether it was there at all.
He glanced down at it with sudden apprehension--he had no fancy for a
maimed existence--and was relieved to find it still in place but bent
stiffly across his chest wrapped in a multitude of bandages--broken,
presumably. His eyes wandered with growing interest round the little
tent where he lay. It was his own, from which he inferred that the fight
must have gone in favour of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's forces or he would
never have been brought back here to it. He glanced from one familiar
object to another with a drowsy feeling of contentment.

Presently he became aware that somebody had entered and turning his head
he found Yoshio beside him eyeing him with a look in which solicitude,
satisfaction, and a faint diffidence struggled for supremacy. Craven
guessed the reason of his embarrassment, but he had no mind to refer to
an order given, and disobeyed through overzealousness. That, too, could
wait--or be forgotten. He contented himself with a single question. “How
long?” he asked laconically. With equal brevity the Jap replied:
“Two days,” and postponed further inquiries by slipping a clinical
thermometer into his master's mouth. He had always been useful in
attending on minor camp accidents, and during the last two years in
Central Africa he had picked up a certain amount of rough surgical
knowledge which now stood him in good stead, and which he proceeded to
put into practice with a gravity of demeanour that made Craven, in
his weakened state, want to giggle hysterically. But he suppressed the
inclination and held on to the thermometer until Yoshio solemnly removed
it, studied it intently, and nodded approval. With the exact attention
to detail that was his ruling passion he carefully rinsed the tiny glass
instrument and returned it to its case before leaving the tent. He was
back again in a few minutes with a bowl of steaming soup, and handling
Craven as if he were a child, fed him with the gentleness of a woman.
Then he busied himself about the room, tidying it and reducing its
confusion to order.

Craven watched him at first idly and then with a more definite desire
to know what had occurred. But to the questions he put Yoshio returned
evasive answers, and, resuming his professional manner, spoke gravely
of the loss of blood Craven had sustained, of the kick on the head from
which he had lain two days insensible, and his consequent need of rest
and sleep, finally departing as if to remove temptation from him. Craven
chafed at the little Jap's caution and swore at his obstinacy, but
a pleasant drowsiness was stealing over him and he surrendered to it
without further struggle.

It was more than twelve hours before he opened his eyes again, to find
the morning sunlight streaming into the tent.

Yoshio hovered about him, deft-handed and noiseless of tread, feeding
him and redressing the wounds in his side where the bullet had entered
and passed out. After which he relaxed the faintly superior tone he had
adopted and condescended to consult with his patient as to which of the
scanty drugs in the tiny medicine chest would be the best to administer.
He was disappointed but acquiescent in Craven's decision to trust to his
own hardy constitution as long as the wounds appeared healthy and leave
nature to do her own work. And again recommending sleep he glided away.

But Craven had no desire or even inclination to sleep. He was
tremendously wide awake, his whole being in revolt, facing once more the
problem he had thought done with for ever. Again fate had intervened to
thwart his determination. For the third time death, for which he longed,
had been withheld, and life that was so bitter, so valueless, restored.
To what end? Why had the peace he craved for been torn from him--why had
he been forced to begin again an existence of hideous struggle? Had he
not repented, suffered as few men suffer, and striven to atone? What
more was required of him, he wondered bitterly. A galling sense
of impotence swept him and he raged at his own nothingness.
Self-determination seemed to have been taken from him and with fierce
resentment he saw himself as merely a pawn in the game of life; a puppet
to fulfil, not his own will, but the will of a greater power than his.
In the black despair that came over him he cursed that greater power
until, shuddering, he realised his own blasphemy, and a broken prayer
burst from his lips. He had come to the end of all things, he was
fighting through abysmal darkness. His need was overwhelming--alone he
could not go forward, and desperately, he turned to the Divine Mercy and
prayed for strength and guidance.

Too weary in spirit to mark the slow passing of the hours he fought his
last fight. And gradually he grew calmer, calm enough to accept--if not
to understand--the inscrutable rulings of Providence. He had arrogated
to himself the disposal of his life, but it was made clear to him that
a higher wisdom had decreed otherwise. He did not attempt to seek the
purpose of his preservation, enough that for some unfathomable reason it
was once more plainly indicated that there was to be no shirking. He had
to live, and to do what was possible with the life left him. Gillian!
the thought of her was torment. He had tried to free her, and she was
still bound. It would be part of his punishment that, suffering, he
would have to watch her suffer too. With a groan he flung his uninjured
arm across his eyes and lay very still. The day wore on. He roused
himself to take the food that Yoshio brought at regular intervals but
feigned a drowsiness he did not feel to secure the solitude his mood
demanded. And Yoshio, enjoying to the full his state of temporary
authority, sat outside the door of the tent and kept away inquirers.
Listlessly Craven watched the evening shadows deepen and darken. For
hours he had thought, not of himself but of the woman he loved, until
his bruised head ached intolerably. And all his deliberation had taken
him no further than where he had begun. He was to take up anew the
difficult life he had fled from--for that was what it amounted to. He
had deserted her who had in all the world no one but him. It had an ugly
sound and he flinched from the naked truth of it, but he had done with
subterfuges and evasions. He had made her his wife and he had left
her--nothing could alter the fact or mitigate the shame. Past experience
had taught him nothing; once again he had left a woman in her need to
fend for herself. She was his wife, his to shield and to protect, doubly
so in her equivocal position that subjected her to much that would not
affect one happily married. During the few months they had lived at
Craven Towers after their marriage she had shown by every means in her
power her desire to be to him the comrade he had asked her to be. And
he had repelled her. He had feared himself and the strength of his
resolution. Now, as he thought of it with bitter self-reproach, he
realised how much more he could have done to make her life easier, to
smooth the difficulties of their relationship. Instead he had added to
them, and under the strain he had broken down, not she. The egoism
he had thought conquered had triumphed over him again to his undoing.
Crushing shame filled him, but regrets were useless. The past was
past--what of the future? He was going back to her. He was to have the
torturing happiness of seeing her again--but what would his re-entry
into her life mean to her? What had these two years of which he knew
nothing done for her? There had been an accumulated mail waiting for him
at Lagos. She had written regularly--but she had told him nothing. Her
short letters had been filled with inquiries for the mission,
references to Peters' occasional visits to Paris, trivialities of the
weather--stilted laborious communications in which he read effort and
constraint. How would she receive him--would she even receive him
at all? It seemed incredible that she should. He knew her innate
gentleness, the selflessness of her disposition, but he knew also that
there was a limit to all things. Would she not see in his return the
reappearance of a master, a jailer who would curb even that small
measure of freedom that had been hers? For bound to him the freedom he
had promised her was a mockery. And how was he to explain his prolonged
absence? She could not have failed to see some mention of the return of
the medical mission, to have wondered why he still lingered in Africa.
The letter he had written and entrusted to Yoshio could never now be
delivered. She must not learn what he had meant her to know only after
his death. He could not explain, he must leave her to put whatever
interpretation she would upon it. And what but the most obvious could
she put? He writhed in sudden agony of mind, and the physical pain the
abrupt movement caused was easier to bear than the thought of her scorn.
It was all so hopeless, so complicated. He turned from it with a weary
sigh and fell to dreaming of the woman herself.

The tent had grown quite dark. Outside the camp noises were dying away.
The sound of subdued voices reached him occasionally, and once or twice
he heard Yoshio speak to some passer by.

Then, not far away, the mournful chant of a singer rose clearly out of
the evening stillness, penetrating and yet curiously soft--a plaintive
little desert air of haunting melancholy, vibrant with passion. It
stopped abruptly as it had begun and Craven was glad when it ended. It
chimed too intimately with his own sad thoughts and longings. He was
relieved when Yoshio came presently to light the lamp and attend to
his wants. The Jap chatted with unusual animation as he went about his
duties and Craven let him talk uninterrupted. The functions of nurse and
valet were quickly carried through and in a short time preparations for
the night were finished and Yoshio, wrapped in a blanket, asleep at
the foot of Craven's bed. He had scarcely closed his eyes since the
day before the punitive force set out, but tonight, conscious that his
vigilance might be relaxed, he slept heavily.

Craven himself could not sleep. He lay listening to his servant's even
breathing, looking at the tiny flame of the little lamp, which was small
enough not to add to the heat of the tent and too weak to illuminate it
more than partially, thinking deeply. He strove to stem the current
of his thoughts, to keep his mind a blank, or to concentrate on
trivialities--he followed with exaggerated interest the swift erratic
course of a bat that had flown in through the open door flap, counted
the familiar objects around him showing dimly in the flickering light,
counted innumerable sheep passing through the traditional gate, counted
the seconds represented in the periodical silences that punctuated a
cicada's monotonous shrilling. But always he found himself harking back
to the problem of the future that he could not banish from his mind.
His mental distress reacted on his body. He grew restless, but every
movement was still attended by pain and he compelled himself to
lie still, though his limbs twitched almost uncontrollably. He was
infinitely weary of the forced posture that was not habitual with him,
infinitely weary of himself.

The moon rose late, but when it came its clear white light filled the
tent with a cold brilliance that killed the feeble efforts of the little
lamp and intensified the shadows where its rays did not penetrate.
Craven looked at the silvery beam streaming across the room, and quite
suddenly he thought of the moonlight in Japan--the moonlight filtering
through the tall dark fir trees in the garden of enchantment; he heard
the night wind sighing softly round the tiny screen-built house; the
air became heavy with the cloying smell of pines and languorous scented
flowers, redolent with the well-remembered dreaded fragrance of the
perfume she had used. Bathed in perspiration, shuddering with terrible
prescience, he stared wild-eyed at the moonlit strip where a nebulous
form was rising and gathering into definite shape. An icy chill ran
through him. Suffocated with the rapid pounding of his heart, sick with
horror at the impending vision he knew to be inevitable, he watched
the shadowy figure slowly substantiate into the semblance of a living,
breathing body. Not intangible as she had always appeared before, but
material as she had been in life, she stood erect in the brilliant
pathway of light, facing him. He could see the outline of her slender
limbs, solid against the shimmering background; he could mark the
rise and fall of the bosom on which her delicate hands lay clasped; he
recognised the very obi that she wore--his last gift, sent from Tokio
during his three weeks' absence. The little oval face was placid and
serene, but he waited, with fearful apprehension, for the fast closed
eyes to open and reveal the agony he knew that he would see in them. He
prayed that they might open soon, that his torture might be brief, but
the terrible reality of her presence seemed to paralyse him. He could
not turn his eyes away, could not move a muscle of his throbbing,
shivering body. She seemed to sway, gently, almost imperceptibly, from
side to side--as though she waited for some sign or impellent force to
guide her. Then with horrible dread he became aware that she was coming
slowly, glidingly, toward him and the spell that had kept him motionless
broke and he shrank back among the pillows, his sound hand clenched upon
the covering over him, his parched lips moving in dumb supplication.
Nearer she came and nearer till at last she stood beside him and he
wondered, in the freezing coldness that settled round his heart, did
her coming presage death--had her soul been sent to claim his that
had brought upon her such fearful destruction? A muffled cry that was
scarcely human broke from him, his eyes dilated and the clammy sweat
poured down his face as she bent toward him and he saw the dusky lashes
tremble on her dead white cheek and knew that in a second the anguished
eyes would open to him in all their accusing awfulness. The bed shook
with the spasm that passed through him. Slowly the heavy lids were
raised and Craven looked once more into the misty depths of the great
grey eyes that were the facsimile of his own. Then a tearing sob of
wonderful and almost unbelievable relief escaped him, for the agony he
dreaded was not visible--the face so close to his was the face of the
happy girl who had loved him before the knowledge of despair had touched
her, the tender luminous eyes fixed on him were alight with trust and
adoration. Lower and lower she bent and he saw the parted lips curve
in a smile of exquisite welcome--or was it fare-well? For as he waited,
scarcely breathing and tense with a new wild hope, the definite outline
of her figure seemed to fade and tremble; a cold breath like the impress
of a ghostly kiss lay for an instant on his forehead, he seemed to hear
the faint thin echo of a whispered word--and she was gone. Had she ever
been at all? Exhausted, he had no strength to probe what had passed, he
was only conscious of a firm conviction that he would never see again
the dreaded vision that had haunted him. His rigid limbs relaxed, and
with a gasping prayer of unutterable thankfulness he turned his face to
the darkness and broke down completely, crying like a child, burying his
head in the pillow lest Yoshio should be awakened by the sound of his
terrible sobs. And, presently, worn out, he fell asleep.

It was nearly mid-day when he woke again, in less pain and feeling
stronger than the day before.

The vision of the previous night was vivid in his recollection, but he
would not let himself ponder it. It was to him a message from the dead,
an almost sacred sign that the spirit of the woman he had wronged was at
rest and had vouchsafed the forgiveness for which he had never hoped. He
would rather have it so. He shrank from brutally dissecting impressions
that might after all be only the result of remorse working on a fevered
imagination. The peace that had come to him was too precious to be
lightly let go. She had forgiven him though he could never forgive
himself.

But despite the tranquillizing sense of pardon he felt he knew that the
penalty of his fault was not yet paid, that it would never be paid. The
tragic memory of little O Kara San still rose between him and happiness.
He was still bound, still trapped in the pit he had himself dug. He was
unclean, unfit, debarred by his sin from following the dictates of his
heart. A deep sadness and an overwhelming sense of loss filled him as
he thought of the woman he had married. She was his wife, he loved her
passionately, longed for her with all the strength of his ardent nature,
but, sin-stained, he dared not claim her. In her spotless purity she was
beyond his desire. And because of him she must go through life robbed of
her woman's heritage. In marrying her he had wronged her irreparably.
He had always known it, but at the time there had seemed no other course
open to him. Yet surely there must have been some alternative if he had
set himself seriously to find it. But had he? Doggedly he argued that he
had--that personal consideration had not swayed him in his decision. But
even as he persisted in his assertion accusing conscience rose up and
stripped from him the last shred of personal deception that had blinded
him, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married her that she
might not become the wife of any other man. He had been the meanest kind
of dog in the manger. At the time he had not realised it--he had thought
himself influenced solely by her need, not his. But his selfishness
seemed very patent to him now. And what was to be the end of it? How was
he ever to compensate for the wrong done her?

Yoshio's entry put a stop to introspection that was both bitter and
painful. And when he left him an hour later Craven was in no mood to
resume speculation that was futile and led nowhere. He had touched
bedrock--he could not think worse of himself than he did. The less he
thought of himself the better. His immediate business seemed to be to
get well as quickly as possible and return to England--beyond that he
could not see. The sound of Saïd's voice outside was a welcome relief.
He appeared to be arguing with Yoshio, who was obstinately refusing him
entrance. Craven cut short the discussion.

“Let the Sheik come in, Yoshio!” he called, and laughed at the weakness
of his own voice. But it was strong enough to carry as far as the tent
door, and, with a flutter of draperies, the Arab Chief strode in. He
grasped Craven's outstretched hand and stood looking down on him for a
moment with a broad smile on his handsome face. “_Enfin, mon brave_,
I thought I should never see you! Always you were asleep, or so it was
reported to me,” he said with a laugh, dropping to his heels on the mat
and lighting a cigarette. Then he gave a quick searching glance at the
bandaged figure on the bed and laughed again.

“You ought to be dead, you know, would have been dead if it hadn't been
for that man of yours,” with a backward jerk of his head toward the
door. “You owe him your life, my friend. You know he came with us that
night, borrowed a horse and the burnous you wouldn't wear, and kept out
of sight till the last minute. He was close behind you when we charged,
lost you in the mêlée, and found you again just in the nick of time. I
was cut off from you myself for the moment, but I saw you wounded, saw
him break a way through to you and then saw you both go down. I thought
you were done for. It was just then the tide turned in our favour and
I managed to reach you, with no hope of finding you alive. I was never
more astonished in my life than when I saw that little devil of a
Japanese crawl out from under a heap of men and horses dragging you
after him. He was bruised and dazed, he didn't know friend from foe,
bu he had enough sense left to know that you were alive and he meant
to keep you so. He laid you out on the sand and he sat on you--you can
laugh, but it's true--and blazed away with his revolver at everybody who
came near, howling his national war cry till I wept with laughter. And
after it was all over he snarled like a panther when I tried to touch
you, and, refusing any assistance, carried you back here on the saddle
in front of him--and you were no light weight. A man, by _Allah_!”
 he concluded enthusiastically. Craven smiled at the Arab's graphic
description, but he found it in his heart to wish that Yoshio's zeal had
not been so forward and so successful. But there were other lives than
his that had been involved.

“Omar?” he asked anxiously. The laughter died abruptly from Saïd's eyes
and his face grew grave.

“Dead,” he said briefly; “he did not try to live. Life held nothing
for him without Safiya,” he added, with an expressive shrug that was
eloquent of his inability to understand such an attitude.

“And she--?”

“Killed herself the night she was taken. Her abductor got no pleasure
of her and Omar's honour was unsmirched--though he never knew it,
poor devil. He killed his man,” added Saïd, with a smile of grim
satisfaction. “It made no difference, he was renegade, a traitor, ripe
for death. The Chief fell to my lot. It was from him I learned about
Safiya--he talked before he died.” The short hard laugh that followed
the meaning words was pure Arab. He lit another cigarette and for some
time sat smoking silently, while Craven lay looking into space trying
not to envy the dead man who had found the rest that he himself had been
denied.

To curb the trend of his thoughts he turned again to Saïd. Animation had
vanished from the Arab's face, and he was staring gloomily at the strip
of carpet on which he squatted. His dejected bearing did not betoken the
conqueror he undoubtedly was. That his brother's death was a deep grief
to him Craven knew without telling, but he guessed that something more
than regret for Omar was at the bottom of his depression.

“It was decisive, I suppose,” he said, rather vaguely, thinking of the
action of four days ago. Saïd nodded. “It was a rout,” he said with a
hint of contempt in his voice. “Dogs who could plunder and kill when no
resistance was offered, but when it came to a fight they had no stomach
for it. Yet they were men once, and, like fools, we thought they were
men still. They had talked enough, bragged enough, by _Allah_! and it
is true there were a few who rallied round their Chief. But the rank and
file--bah!” He spat his cigarette on to the floor with an air of scorn.
“It promised well enough at first,” he grumbled. “I thought we were
going to have an opportunity of seeing what stuff my men were made of.
But they had no organisation. After the first half hour we did what we
liked with them. It was a walk over,” he added in English, about the
only words he knew.

Craven laughed at his disgusted tone.

“And you, who were spoiling for a fight! No luck, Sheik.”

Saïd looked up with a grin, but it passed quickly, leaving his face
melancholy as before. Craven made a guess at the trouble.

“It will make a difference to you--Omar's death, I mean,” he suggested.

Saïd gave a little harsh laugh.

“Difference!” he echoed bitterly. “It is the end of everything,” and he
made a violent gesture with his hands. “I must give up my regiment,” he
went on drearily, “my comrades, my racing stable in France--all I care
for and that makes life pleasant to me. For what? To rule a tribe who
have become too powerful to have enemies; to listen to interminable
tales of theft and disputed inheritances and administer justice to
people who swear by the Koran and then lie in your face; to marry a wife
and beget sons that the tribe of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah may not die out.
_Grand Dieu_, what a life!” The tragic misery of his voice left no
doubt as to his sincerity. And Craven, who knew him, was not inclined
to doubt. The expedient that had been adopted in Saïd's case was
justifiable while he remained a younger son with no immediate prospect
of succeeding to the leadership of the tribe--there had always been the
hope that Omar's wife would eventually provide an heir--but as events
had turned out it had been a mistake, totally unfitting him for the
part he was now called upon to play. His innate European tendencies,
inexplicable both to himself and to his family, had been developed and
strengthened by association with the French officers among whom he had
been thrown, and who had welcomed him primarily as the representative of
a powerful desert tribe and then, very shortly afterwards, for himself.
His personal charm had won their affections and he had very easily
become the most popular native officer in the regiment. Courted and
feted, shown off, and extolled for his liberality of mind and purse, his
own good sense had alone prevented him from becoming completely spoiled.
To the impecunious Frenchmen his wealth was a distinct asset in his
favour, for racing was the ruling passion in the regiment, and the fine
horses he was able to provide insured to them the preservation of the
inter-regimental trophy that had for some years past graced their mess
table. He had thrown himself into the life whole-heartedly, becoming
more and more influenced by western thought and culture, but
without losing his own individuality. He had assimilated the best of
civilization without acquiring its vices. But the experience was not
likely to conduce to his future happiness. Craven thought of the life
led by the Spahi in Algiers, and during periods of leave in Paris, and
contrasted it with the life that was lying before him, a changed and
very different existence. He foresaw the difficulties that would have
to be met, the problems that would arise, and above all he understood
Saïd's chief objection--the marriage from which his misogynous soul
recoiled. Like himself the Arab was facing a crisis that was momentous.
Two widely different cases but analogous nevertheless. While he was
working out his salvation in England Saïd would be doing the same in
his desert fastness. The thought strengthened his friendship for the
despondent young Arab. He would have given much to be able to help
him but his natural reserve kept him silent. He had made a sufficient
failure of his own life. He did not feel himself competent to offer
advice to another.

“It's a funny world,” he said with a half sigh, “though I suppose it
isn't the world that's at fault but the people who live in it,” and in
his abstraction he spoke in his own language.

“_Plait-il?_” Saïd's puzzled face recalled him to himself and he
translated, adding: “It's rotten luck for you, Sheik, but it's kismet.
All things are ordained,” he concluded almost shyly, feeling himself
the worst kind of Job's comforter. The Arab shrugged. “To those who
believe,” he repeated gloomily, “and I, my friend, have no beliefs. What
would you? All my life I have doubted, I have never been an orthodox
Mohammedan--though I have had to keep my ideas to myself _bien entendu_!
And the last few years I have lived among men who have no faith, no god,
no thought beyond the world and its pleasures. Islam is nothing to me.
'The will of _Allah_--the peace of _Allah_,' what are they but words,
empty meaningless words! What peace did _Allah_ give to Omar, who was a
strict believer? What peace has _Allah_ given to my father, who sits all
day in his tent mourning for his first-born? I swear myself by _Allah_
and by the Prophet, but it is from custom, not from any feeling I attach
to the terms. I have read a French translation of a life of Mohammed
written by an American. I was not impressed. It did not tend to make me
look with any more favour on his doctrine. I have my own religion--I
do not lie, I do not steal, I do not break my word. Does the devout
follower of the Prophet invariably do as much? You know, and I know,
that he does not. Wherein then is he a better man than I? And if there
be a future life, which I am quite open to admit, I am inclined to think
that my qualifications will be as good as any true son of the faith,” he
laughed unmirthfully, and swung to his feet.

“There are--other religions,” said Craven awkwardly. He had no desire to
proselytise and avoided religious discussions as much as possible, but
Saïd's confidence had touched him. He was aware that to no one else
would the Arab have spoken so frankly. But Saïd shook his head.

“I will keep my own religion. It will serve,” he said shortly. Then he
shrugged again as if throwing aside the troubles that perplexed him and
looked down on Craven with a quick laugh. “And you, my poor friend, who
had so much better have taken the burnous I offered you, you will stay
and watch the metamorphosis of the Spahi, _hein_?”

“I wish I could,” said Craven with an answering smile, “but I have
my own work waiting for me in England. I'll have to go as soon as I'm
sufficiently patched up.”

Saïd nodded gravely. He was perfectly well aware of the fact that Craven
had deliberately sought death when he had ridden with the tribe against
their enemies. That a change had come over him since the night of the
raid was plainly visible even to one less astute than the sharp-eyed
Arab, and his expressed intention of returning to England confirmed the
fact. What had caused the change did not seem to matter, enough that, to
Saïd, it marked a return to sanity. For it had been a fit of madness,
of course--in no other light could he regard it. But since it had passed
and his English friend was once more in full possession of his senses
he could only acquiesce in a decision that personally he regretted. He
would like to have kept him with him indefinitely. Craven stood for the
past, he was a link with the life the Francophile Arab was reluctantly
surrendering. But it was not the moment to argue. Craven looked suddenly
exhausted, and Yoshio who had stolen in noiselessly, was standing at
the head of the bed beyond the range of his master's eyes making urgent
signals to the visitor to go.

With a jest and a cheery word Saïd obediently removed his picturesque
person.




CHAPTER X


It was nearly four months before Craven left the camp of Mukair Ibn
Zarrarah. His injuries had healed quickly and he had rapidly regained
his former strength. He was anxious to return to England without delay,
but he had yielded to Saïd's pressing entreaties to wait until they
could ride to Algiers together. There had been much for the young Sheik
to do. He was already virtual leader of the tribe. Mukair Ibn Zarrarah,
elderly when his sons had been born, had aged with startling suddenness
since the death of Omar. He had all at once become an old man, unable to
rally from the shock of his bereavement, bewailing the fate of his elder
and favourite son, and trembling for the future of his beloved tribe
left to the tender mercies of a man he now recognised to be more
Frenchman than Arab. He exaggerated every Francophile tendency he saw in
Saïd and cursed the French as heartily as ever Omar had done, forgetting
that he himself was largely responsible for the inclinations he objected
to. And his terrors were mainly imaginary. A few innovations Saïd
certainly instituted but he was too astute to make any material changes
in the management of his people. They were loyal and attached to the
ruling house and he was clever enough to leave well alone; broad-minded
enough to know that he could not run a large and scattered tribe on the
same plan as a regiment of Spahis; philosophical enough to realise that
he had turned down a page in his life's history and must be content to
follow, more or less, in the footsteps of his forebears. The fighting
men were with him solidly, even those who had been inclined to object
to his European tactics had, in view of his brilliant generalship, been
obliged to concede him the honour that was his due. For his victory had
not been altogether the walkover he had airily described to Craven. The
older men--the headmen in particular--more prejudiced still, who, like
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, had centred all their hopes on Omar, were beginning
to comprehend that their fears of Saïd's rule were unfounded and that
his long sojourn among the hated dominant race had neither impaired his
courage nor fostered practices abhorrent to them. Craven watched with
interest the gradual establishment of mutual goodwill between the young
Sheik and his petty Chiefs. Since his recovery he had attended several
of the councils called in consequence of the old Sheik's retirement
from active leadership of the tribe, and he had been struck by Saïd's
restrained and conciliatory attitude toward his headmen. He had met them
half-way, sinking his own inclinations and disarming their suspicions of
him. At the same time he had let it be clearly understood that he meant
to be absolute as his father had been. In spite of the civilisation that
had bitten so deeply he was still too much an Arab, too much the son of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, to be anything but an autocrat at heart. And his
assumption of power had been favourably looked upon by the minor Chiefs.
They were used to being ruled by an iron hand and would have despised a
weak leader. They had feared the effects of foreign influence, dreaded a
régime that might have lessened the prestige of the tribe. Their doubts
set at rest they had rallied with enthusiasm round their new Chief.

As soon as he had been able to get about again Craven had visited
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah in his darkened tent and been shocked at his changed
appearance. He could hardly believe that the bowed stricken figure who
barely heeded his entrance, but, absorbed in grief, continued to sway
monotonously to and fro murmuring passages from the Koran alternately
with the name of his dead son, was the vigorous alert old man he had
seen only a few weeks before dominating a frenzied crowd with the
strength of his personality and addressing them in tones that had
carried to the furthest extent of the listening multitude. Crushing
sorrow and the weight of years suddenly felt had changed him into a
wreck that was fast falling to pieces.

Saïd had followed him out into the sunshine.

“You see how it is with him,” he said. “I cannot leave him now. As soon
as possible I will go to Algiers to give in my resignation and smooth
matters with the Government. We shall not be in very good odour over
this affair. We have kept the peace so long in this quarter of
the country that deliberate action on our part will take a lot of
explaining. They will admit provocation but will blame our mode of
retaliation. They may blame!” he laughed and shrugged. “I shall be
called hasty, ill-advised. The Governor will haul me over the coals
unmercifully--you know him, that fat old Faidherbe? He is always
trembling for his position, seeing an organized revolt in the petty
squabbles of every little tribe, and fearful of an outbreak that might
lead to his recall. A mountain of flesh with the heart of a chicken! He
will rave and shout and talk a great deal about the beneficent French
administration and the ingratitude of Chiefs like myself who add to the
Government's difficulties. But my Colonel will back me up, unofficially
of course, and his word goes with the Governor. A very different man,
by _Allah_! It would be a good thing for this country if he were where
Faidherbe is. But he is only a soldier and no politician, so he is
likely to end his days a simple Colonel of Spahis.”

As they moved away from the tent they discussed the French methods of
administration as carried out in Algeria, and Craven learned a great
deal that astonished him and would also have considerably astonished
the Minister of the Interior sitting quietly in his office in the Place
Beauveau. Saïd had seen and heard much. His known sympathies had
made him the recipient of many confidences and even his Francophile
tendencies had not blinded him to evils that were rampant, corruption
and double dealing, bribes freely offered and accepted by highly placed
officials, fortunes amassed in crooked speculations with Government
money--the faults of individuals who had abused their official positions
and exploited the country they had been sent to administer.

As Craven listened to these frank revelations from the only honest Arab
he had ever met he wondered what effect Saïd's intimate knowledge would
have upon his life, how far it would influence him, and what were likely
to be his future relations with the masters of the country. With a Chief
less broadminded and of less innate integrity the result might easily be
disastrous. But Saïd had had larger experience than most Arab Chiefs and
his adherence to the French was due to what he had seen in France rather
than to what had been brought to his notice in Algeria.

It was early in January when they started on the long ride across the
desert. For some weeks Craven had been impatient to get away, only his
promise to Saïd kept him.

It was a large cavalcade that left the oasis, for the new Chief required
a bigger escort to support his dignity than the Captain of Spahis had
done. The days passed without incident. Despite Craven's desire to reach
England the journey was in every way enjoyable. When he had actually
started his restlessness decreased, for each successive sunrise meant
a day nearer home. And Saïd, too, had thrown off the depression and new
gravity that had come to him and talked more hopefully of the future.
As they travelled northward they reached a region of greater cultivation
and in their route passed some of the big fruit farms that were
becoming more and more a feature of the country. Spots of beauty in the
wilderness, carved out of arid desert by patience and perseverance and
threatened always by the devastating locust, though no longer subjected
to the Arab raids that had been a daily menace twenty or thirty years
before. The motley gangs of European and native workers toiling more
or less diligently in the vineyards and among the groves of fruit
trees invariably collected to watch the passing of the Sheik's troop, a
welcome break in the monotony of their existence, and once or twice Saïd
accepted the hospitality of farmers he knew.

Craven stayed only one night in Algiers. When writing home from Lagos he
had given, without expecting to make use of it, an address in Algiers
to which letters might be sent, but when he called at the office the
morning after his arrival he found that owing to the mistake of a clerk
his mail had been returned to England. The lack of news made him uneasy.
He was gripped by a sudden fear that something might have happened to
Gillian, and he wondered whether he should go first to Paris, to the
flat he had taken for her. But second thoughts decided him to adhere to
his original intention of proceeding straight to Craven--surely she must
by this time have returned to the Towers.

There was nothing to do but telegraph to Peters that he was on his
way home and make arrangements for leaving Africa at the earliest
opportunity. He found there was no steamer leaving for Marseilles for
nearly a week but he was able to secure berths for himself and Yoshio on
a coasting boat crossing that night to Gibraltar, and at sunset he was
on board waving fare-well to Saïd, who had come down to the quay to see
the last of him, and was standing a distinctive figure among the rabble
of loafers and water-side loungers of all nationalities who congregated
night and morning to watch the arrival and departure of steamers. The
tide was out and the littered fore-shore was lined with fishing-boats
drawn up in picturesque confusion, and in the shallow water out among
the rocks bare-legged native women were collecting shell fish and
seaweed into great baskets fastened to their backs, while naked children
splashed about them or stood with their knuckles to their teeth to watch
the thrashing paddle wheels of the little steamer as she churned slowly
away from the quay. Craven leant on the rail of the ship, a pipe
between his teeth--he had existed for the last four months on Saïd's
cigarettes--and waved a response to the young Sheik's final salute, then
watched him stalk through the heterogeneous crowd to where two of his
mounted followers were waiting for him holding his own impatient horse.
He saw him mount and the passers-by scatter as the three riders set off
with the usual Arab impetuosity, and then a group of buildings hid him
from sight.

The idlers by the waterside held no interest for Craven, he was too used
to them, too familiar with the riff-raff of foreign ports even to glance
at them. But he lingered for a moment to look up at the church of Notre
Dame d'Afrique that, set high above the harbour and standing out sharply
against the skyline, was glowing warmly in the golden rays of the
setting sun.

Then he went below to the stuffy little cabin where dinner was waiting.

The next four days he kicked his heels impatiently in Gibraltar waiting
to pick up a passage on a home bound Indian boat. When it came it was
half empty, as was to be expected at that time of year, and the gale
they ran into immediately drove the majority of the passengers into the
saloons, and Craven was able to tramp the deck in comparative solitude
without having to listen to the grumbles of shivering Anglo-Indians
returning home at an unpropitious season. In a borrowed oilskin he spent
hours watching the storm, looking at the white topped waves that piled
up against the ship and threatened to engulf her, then slid astern in
a welter of spray. The savage beauty of the sea fascinated him, and the
heavy lowering clouds that drove rapidly across a leaden sky, and the
stinging whip of the wind formed a welcome change after more than two
years of pitiless African sun and intense heat.

They passed up the Thames dead slow in a dense fog that grew thicker
and murkier as they neared the docks, but they berthed early enough to
enable Craven to catch a train that would bring him home in time for
dinner. It was better than wasting a night in London.

He had a compartment to himself and spent the time staring out of the
misty rain-spattered windows, a prey to violent anxiety and impatience.
The five-hour journey had never seemed so long. He had bought a number
of papers and periodicals but they lay unheeded on the seat beside
him. He was out of touch with current events, and had stopped at the
bookstall more from force of habit than from any real interest. He had
wired to Peters again from the docks. Would she be waiting for him at
the station? It was scarcely probable. Their meeting could not be other
than constrained, the platform of a wayside railway station was hardly
a suitable place. And why in heaven's name should she do him so much
honour? He had no right to expect it, no right to expect anything. That
she should be even civil to him was more than he deserved. Would she
be changed in any way? God, how he longed to see her! His heart beat
furiously even at the thought. With his coat collar turned up about his
ears and his cap pulled down over his eyes he shivered in a corner of
the cold carriage and dreamed of her as the hours drew out in maddening
slowness. Outside it was growing dusk and the window panes had become
too steamy for him to recognise familiar landmarks. The train seemed to
crawl. There had been an unaccountable wait at the last stopping place,
and they did not appear to be making up the lost time.

It was a strange homecoming, he thought suddenly. Stranger even than
when, rather more than six years ago, he had travelled down to Craven
with his aunt and the shy silent girl whom fate and John Locke had made
his ward. Was she also thinking of that time and wishing that a kinder
future had been reserved for her? Was she shrinking from his coming,
deploring the day he had ever crossed her path? It was unlikely that she
could feel otherwise toward him. He had done nothing to make her happy,
everything to make her unhappy. With a stifled groan he leant forward
and buried his face in his hands, loathing himself. How would she meet
him? Suppose she refused to resume the equivocal relationship that
had been fraught with so much misery, refused to surrender the greater
freedom she had enjoyed during his absence, claimed the right to live
her own life apart from him. It would be only natural for her to do so.
And morally he would have no right to refuse her. He had forfeited
that. And in any case it was not a question of his allowing or refusing
anything, it was a question solely of her happiness and her wishes.

Darkness had fallen when the train drew up with a jerk and he stepped
out on to the little platform. It was a cheerless night and the wind
tore at him as he peered through the gloom and the driving rain,
wondering whether anybody had come to meet him. Then he made out Peters'
sturdy familiar figure standing under the feeble light of a flickering
lamp. Craven hurried toward him with a smile softening his face. His
life had been made up of journeys, it seemed to him suddenly, and always
at the end of them was Peters waiting for him, Peters who stuck to the
job he himself shirked, Peters who stood loyally by an employer he must
in his heart despise, Peters whose boots he was not fit to clean.

The two men met quietly, as if weeks not years had elapsed since they
had parted on the same little platform.

“Beastly night,” grumbled the agent, though his indifference to bad
weather was notorious, “must feel it cold after the tropics. I brought
a man to help Yoshio with your kit. Wait a minute while I see that
it's all right.” He started off briskly, and with the uncomfortable
embarrassment he always felt when Peters chose to emphasise their
relative positions, Craven strode after him and grabbed him back with an
iron hand.

“There isn't any need,” he said gruffly. “I wish you wouldn't always
behave as if you were a kind of upper servant, Peter. It's dam'
nonsense. Yoshio is quite capable of looking after the kit, there's very
little in any case. I left the bulk of it in Algiers, it wasn't worth
bringing along. There are only the gun cases and a couple of bags. We
haven't much more than what we stand up in.”

Peters acquiesced good-temperedly and led the way to the closed car that
was waiting at the station entrance. As the motor started Craven turned
to him eagerly, with the question that had been on his lips for the last
ten minutes.

“How is Gillian?”

Peters shot a sidelong glance at him.

“Couldn't say,” he said shortly; “she didn't mention her health when she
wrote last--but then she never does.”

“When she wrote--” echoed Craven, and his voice was dull with
disappointment; “isn't she at the Towers? I missed my mail at
Algiers--some mistake of a fool of a clerk. I haven't had any home news
for nearly a year.”

“She is still in Paris,” replied Peters dryly, and to Craven his tone
sounded faintly accusing. He frowned and stared out into the darkness
for a few minutes without speaking, wondering how much Peters knew. He
had disapproved of the African expedition, stating his opinion frankly
when Craven had discussed it with him, and it was obvious that since
then his views had undergone no change. Craven understood perfectly what
those views were and in what light he must appear to him. He could not
excuse himself, could give no explanation. He doubted very much whether
Peters would understand if he did explain--his moral code was too
simple, his sense of right and wrong too fine to comprehend or to
countenance suicide. Craven also felt sure that had he been aware of the
circumstances Peters would not have hesitated to oppose his marriage.
Why hadn't he told Peters the whole beastly story when he returned from
Japan? Peters had never failed a Craven, he would not have failed him
then. He stifled a bitter sigh of useless regret and turned again to his
companion.

“Then I take it the Towers is shut up. Are you giving me a bed at the
Hermitage?” he asked quietly.

“No. I have kept the house open so that it might be ready if at any time
your wife suddenly decided to come home. I imagined that would be your
wish.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Craven hurriedly, “you did quite right.”
 Then he glanced about him and frowned again thoughtfully. “Isn't this
the Daimler Gillian took to France with her--surely that is Phillipe
driving?” he asked abruptly, peering through the window at the
chauffeur's back illuminated by the electric lamp in the roof of the
car.

“She sent it back a few months afterwards--said she had no need for it,”
 replied Peters. “I kept Phillipe on because he was a better mechanic
than the other man. There was no need for two.”

Craven refrained from comment and relapsed into silence, which was
unbroken until they reached the house.

During dinner the conversation was mainly of Africa and the scientific
success of the mission, and of local events, topics that could safely
be discussed in the hearing of Forbes and the footmen. From time to time
Craven glanced about the big room with tightened lips. It seemed chill
and empty for lack of the slight girlish figure whose presence had
brought sunshine into the great house. If she chose never to return! It
was unthinkable that he could live in it alone, it would be haunted by
memories, he would see her in every room. And yet the thought of leaving
it again hurt him. He had never known until he had gone to Africa with
no intention of returning how dear the place was to him. He had suddenly
realised that he was a Craven of Craven, and all that it meant. But
without Gillian it was valueless. A shrine without a treasure. An empty
symbol that would stand for nothing. Her personality had stamped itself
on the house, even yet her influence lingered in the huge formal dining
room where he sat. It had been her whim when they were alone to banish
the large table that seemed so preposterously big for two people and
substitute a small round one which was more intimate, and across which
it was possible to talk with greater ease. Forbes was a man of fixed
ideas and devoted to his mistress. Though absent her wishes were
faithfully carried out. Mrs. Craven had decreed that for less than
four people the family board was an archaic and cumbersome piece of
furniture, consequently tonight the little round table was there, and
brought home to Craven even more vividly the sense of her absence. It
seemed almost a desecration to see Peters sitting opposite in her place.
He grew impatient of the lengthy and ceremonious meal the old butler was
superintending with such evident enjoyment, and gradually he became
more silent and heedless, responding mechanically and often inaptly to
Peters' flow of conversation. He wished now he had obeyed the impulse
that had come to him in Algiers to go straight to Paris. By now he would
have seen her, have learned his fate, and the whole miserable business
would have been settled one way or the other. He could not wonder that
she had elected to remain abroad. He had put her in a horrible position.
By lingering in Africa after the return of the rest of the mission he
had made her an object of idle curiosity and speculation. He had left
her as the elder Barry Craven had left his mother, to the mercy of
gossip-mongers and to the pity and compassion of her friends which,
though even unexpressed, she must have felt and resented. He glanced
at the portrait of the beautiful sad woman in the panel over the
mantelpiece and a dull red crept over his face. It was well that his
mother had died before she realised how completely the idolised son was
to follow in the footsteps of the husband who had broken her heart. It
was a tradition in the family. From one motive or another the Cravens
had consistently been pitiless to their womenkind. And he, the last of
them, had gone the way of all the others. A greater shame and bitterness
than he had yet felt came to him, and a passionate longing to undo what
he had done. And what was left for him to do was so pitifully little.
But he would do it without further delay, he would start for Paris the
next day. Even the few hours of waiting seemed almost unbearable. The
thought occurred to him to motor to London that night to catch the
morning boat train from Victoria, but a glance at his watch convinced
him of the impossibility of the idea. Owing to the delay of the train
it had been nine o'clock before he reached the Towers. It was ten now.
Another hour would be wasted before Phillipe and the car would be ready
for the long run. And it was a wicked night to take a man out, the
strain of driving under such conditions at top speed through the
darkness would be tremendous. Reluctantly he abandoned the project.
There was nothing for it but to wait until the morning.

Forbes at his elbow recalled him to his duties as host. With a murmured
apology to Peters he rose to his feet.

“Coffee in the study, please,” he said, and left the room.

In the study, in chairs drawn up to the blazing fire, the two men smoked
for some time in silence. Though consumed with anxiety to hear more of
his wife Craven felt a certain diffident in mentioning her name, and
Peters volunteered nothing. After a time the agent began to speak of the
estate. “I want to give an account of my stewardship,” he said, with an
odd ring in his voice that Craven did not understand. And for the best
part of an hour he talked of farms and leases, of cottage property and
timber, of improvements and alterations carried out during Craven's
absence or in progress, of the conditions under which certain of the
bigger houses scattered about the property were let--a complete history
of the working and management of the estate extending back many years
until Craven grew more and more bewildered as to the reason of this
detailed revelation that seemed to him somewhat unnecessary and
certainly ill-timed. He did not want to be bothered with business the
very moment of his arrival. Peters was punctilious of course, always had
been, but his stewardship had never been called in question and there
was surely no need for this complicated and lengthy narrative of affairs
tonight.

“And then there are the accounts,” concluded the agent, in the dry
curiously formal voice he had adopted all the evening. Craven made a
gesture of protest. “The accounts can wait,” he said shortly. “I don't
know why on earth you want to bother about all this tonight, Peter.
There will be plenty of time later. Have I ever criticised anything you
did? I'm not such a fool. You've forgotten more than I ever knew about
the estate.”

“I should like you to see them,” persisted Peters, drawing a big bundle
of papers from his pocket and proceeding to remove and roll up with his
usual precise neatness the tape that confined them. He pushed the typed
sheets across the little table. “I don't think you will find any error.
The estate accounts are all straightforward. But there is an item in the
personal accounts that I must ask you to consider. It is a sum of eight
thousand pounds standing to your credit that I do not know what to do
with. You will remember that when you went to Africa you instructed me
to pay your wife four thousand a year during your absence. I have sent
her the money every quarter, which she has acknowledged. Three months
ago the London bank advised me that eight thousand pounds had been paid
into you account by Mrs. Craven, the total amount of her allowance, in
fact, during the time you have been away.”

There was a lengthy pause after Peters stopped speaking, and then Craven
looked up slowly.

“I don't understand,” he said thickly; “all her allowance! What has she
been living on--what the devil does it mean?”

Peters shrugged. “I don't know any more about it than you do. I am
simply telling you what is the case. It was not for me to question her
on such a matter,” he said coldly.

“But, Good Heavens, man,” began Craven hotly, and then checked himself.
He felt stunned by Peters' bald statement of fact, unable, quite,
for the moment, to grasp it. Heavens above, how she must hate him! To
decline to touch the money he had assured her was hers, not his! On what
or on whom had she been living? His face became suddenly congested. Then
he put the hateful thought from him. It was not possible to connect such
a thing with Gillian. Only his own foul mind could have imagined it. And
yet, if she had been other than she was, if it had been so, if in her
loneliness and misery she had found love and protection she had been
unable to withstand--the fault would be his, not hers. He would have
driven her to it. He would be responsible. For a moment the room went
black. Then, he pulled himself together. Putting the bundle of accounts
back on to the table he met steadily Peters' intent gaze. “My wife is
quite at liberty to do what she chooses with her own money,” he said
slowly, “though I admit I don't understand her action. Doubtless she
will explain it in due course. Until then the money can continue to lie
idle. It is not such a large sum that you need be in such a fierce hurry
about it. In any case I am going to Paris tomorrow. I can let you know
further when I have seen her.” His voice was harsh with the effort it
cost him to steady it. “And having seen her--what are you going to do
to her?” The question, and the manner of asking it, made Craven look
at Peters in sudden amazement. The agent's face was stern and curiously
pale, high up on his cheek a little pulse was beating visibly and his
eyes were blazing direct challenge. Craven's brows drew together slowly.

“What do you mean?”

Peters leant forward, resting one arm on his knee, and the knuckles of
his clenched hand shone white.

“I asked you in so many words what you were going to do to her,” he
said, in a voice vibrant with emotion. “You will say it is no business
of mine. But I am going to make it my business. Good God, Barry, do you
think I've seen nothing all these years? Do you think I can sit down and
watch history repeat itself and make no effort to avert it for lack of
moral courage? I can't. When you were a boy I had to stand aside and see
your mother's heart broken, and I'm damned if I'm going to keep silent
while you break Gillian's heart. I loved your mother, the light went out
for me when she died. For her sake I carried on here, hoping I might
be of use to you--because you were her son. And then Gillian came
and helped to fill the blank she had left. She honoured me with her
friendship, she brought brightness into my life until gradually she has
become as dear to me as if she were my own daughter. All I care about
is her happiness--and yours. But she comes first, poor lonely child. Why
did you marry her if it was only to leave her desolate again? Wasn't
her past history sad enough? She was happy here at first, before your
marriage. But afterwards--were you blind to the change that came over
her? Couldn't you see that she was unhappy? I could. And I tell you I
was hard put to it sometimes to hold my tongue. It wasn't my place
to interfere, it wasn't my place to see anything, but I couldn't help
seeing what was patent to the eye of anybody who was interested. You
left her, and you have come back. For what? You are her husband, in name
at any rate--oh, yes, I know all about that, I know a great deal more
than I am supposed to know, and do you think I am the only one?--legally
she is bound to you, though I do not doubt she could easily procure her
freedom if she so wished, so I ask you again--what are you going to do?
She is wholly in your power, utterly at your mercy. What more is she to
endure at your hands? I am speaking plainly because it seems to me to
be a time for plain speaking. I can't help what you think, I am afraid I
don't care. You've been like a son to me. I promised your mother on her
death-bed that I would never fail you, I could have forgiven you any
mortal thing on earth--but Gillian. It's Gillian and me, Barry. And if
it's a case of fighting for her happiness--by God, I'll fight! And
now you know why I have told you all that I have tonight, why I have
rendered an account of my stewardship. If you want me to go I shall
quite understand. I know I have exceeded my prerogative but I can't
help it. I've left everything in order, easy for anybody to take over--”
 Craven's head had sunk into his hands, now he sprang to his feet unable
to control himself any longer. “Peter--for God's sake--” he cried
chokingly, and stumbling to the window he wrenched back the curtain and
flung up the sash, lifting his face to the storm of wind and rain that
beat in about him, his chest heaving, his arms held rigid to his sides.

“Do you think I don't care?” he said at last, brokenly. “Do you think
it hasn't nearly killed me to see her unhappiness--to be able to do
nothing. You don't know--I wasn't fit to be near her, to touch her. I
hoped by going to Africa to set her free. But I couldn't die. I tried,
God knows I tried, by every means in my power short of deliberately
blowing my brains out--a suicide's widow--I couldn't brand her like
that. When men were dying around me like flies death passed me by--I
wasn't fit even for that, I suppose.” He gave a ghastly little mirthless
laugh that made Peters wince and came back slowly into the room,
heedless of the window he had left open, and walked to the fireplace
dropping his head on his arm on the mantel. “You asked me just now what
I meant to do to her--it is not a question of me at all but what Gillian
elects to do. I am going to her tomorrow. The future rests with her.
If she turns me down--and you turn me down--I shall go to the devil
the quickest way possible. It's not a threat, I'm not trying to make
bargains, it's just that I'm at the end of my tether. I've made a
damnable mess of my life, I've brought misery to the woman I love. For
I do love her, God help me. I married her because I loved her, because
I couldn't bear to lose her. I was mad with jealousy. And heaven knows
I've been punished for it. My life's been hell. But it doesn't matter
about me--it's only Gillian who matters, only Gillian who counts for
anything.” His voice sank into a whisper and a long shudder passed over
him.

The anger had died out of Peters' face and the old tenderness crept back
into his eyes as they rested on the tall bowed figure by the fireplace.
He rose and went to the window, shutting it and drawing the curtain back
neatly into position. Then he crossed the room slowly and laid his hand
for an instant on Craven's shoulder with a quick firm pressure that
conveyed more than words. “Sit down,” he said gruffly, and going back to
the little table splashed some whisky into a glass and held it under
the syphon. Craven took the drink from him mechanically but set it
down barely tasted as he dropped again into the chair he had left a few
minutes before. He lit a cigarette, and Peters, as he filled his own
pipe, noticed that his hands were shaking. He was silent for a long
time, the cigarette, neglected, smouldering between his fingers, his
face hidden by his other hand. At last he looked up, his grey eyes
filled with an almost desperate appeal.

“You'll stay, Peter--for the sake of the place?” he said unsteadily.
“You made it what it is, it would go to pieces if you went. And I can't
go without you--if you chuck me it will about finish me.”

Peters drew vigorously at his pipe and a momentary moisture dimmed his
vision. He was remembering another appeal made to him in this very room
thirty years before when, after a stormy interview with his employer,
the woman he had loved had begged him to remain and save the property
for the little son who was her only hold on life. It was the mother's
face not the son's he saw before him, the mother's voice that was
ringing in his ears.

“I'll stay, Barry--as long as you want me,” he said at length huskily
from behind a dense cloud of smoke. A look of intense relief passed over
Craven's worn face. He tried to speak and, failing, gripped Peters' hand
with a force that left the agent's fingers numb.

There was another long pause. The blaze of the cheerful fire within and
the fury of the storm beating against the house without were the only
sounds that broke the silence. Peters was the first to speak.

“You say you are going to her tomorrow--do you know where to find her?”

Craven looked up with a start.

“Has she moved?” he asked uneasily. Peters stirred uncomfortably and
made a little deprecating gesture with his hand.

“It was a tallish rent, you know. The flat you took was in the most
expensive quarter of Paris,” he said with reluctance. Craven winced and
his hands gripped the arms of his chair.

“But you--you write to her, you have been over several times to see
her,” he said, with a new trouble coming into his eyes, and Peters
turned from his steady stare.

“Her letters, by her own request, are sent to the bank. I was only once
in the flat, shortly after you left. I think she must have given it up
almost immediately. Since then when I have run over for a day--she never
seemed to want me to stay longer--we have met in the Louvre or in the
gardens of the Tuileries, according to weather,” he said hesitatingly.

Craven stiffened in his chair.

“The Louvre--the gardens of the Tuileries,” he gasped, “but what on
earth--” he broke off with a smothered word Peters did not catch, and
springing up began to pace the room with his hands plunged deep in
his pockets. His face was set and his lips compressed under the neat
moustache. His mind was in a ferment, he could hardly trust himself to
speak. He halted at last in front of Peters, his eyes narrowing as he
gazed down at him. “Do you mean to tell me that you yourself do not know
where she is?” he said fiercely. Peters shook his head. “I do not. I
wish to heaven I did. But what could I do? I couldn't question her. She
made it plain she had no wish to discuss the subject. The little I did
say she put aside. It was not for me to spy on your wife, or employ a
detective to shadow her movements, no matter how anxious I felt.”

“No, you couldn't have done that,” said Craven drearily, and turned
away. To pursue the matter further, even with Peters, seemed suddenly
to him impossible. He wanted to be alone to think out this new problem,
though at the same time he knew that no amount of thought would solve
it. He would have to wait with what patience he could until the morning
when he would be able to act instead of think.

His face was expressionless when he turned to Peters again and sat down
quietly to discuss business. Half an hour later the agent rose to go.
“I'll bring up a checque book and some money in the morning before you
start. You won't have time to go to the bank in London. Wire me your
address in Paris--and bring her back with you, Barry. The whole place
misses her,” he said with a catch in his voice, stuffing the bundle of
papers into his pocket. Craven's reply was inaudible but Peters' heart
was lighter than it had been for years as he went out into the hall to
get his coat. “Yes, I'm walking,” he replied in response to an inquiry,
“bit of rain won't hurt me, I'm too seasoned,” and he laughed for the
first time that evening.

Going back to the study Craven threw a fresh log on the fire, filled a
pipe, and drew a chair close to the hearth. It was past one but he was
disinclined for bed. Peters' revelations had staggered him. His brain
was on fire. He felt that not until he had found her and got to the
bottom of all this mystery would he be able to sleep again. And perhaps
not even then, he thought with a quickening heart-beat and a sick fear
of what his investigations in Paris might lead to.

Before leaving England he had snatched time from his African
preparations to superintend personally the arrangements for her stay
in Paris. He had himself selected the flat and installed her with every
comfort and luxury that was befitting his wife. She had demurred once or
twice on the score of extravagance, particularly in the case of the car
he had insisted on sending over for her use, but he had laughed at her
protests and she had ceased to make any further objection, accepting
his wishes with the shy gentleness that marked her usual attitude toward
him. And she must have hated it all! Why? She was his wife, what was his
was hers. He had consistently impressed that on her from the first. But
it was obvious that she had never seen it in that light. He remembered
her passionate refusal--ending in tears that had horrified him--of the
big settlement he had wished to make at the time of their marriage, her
distress in taking the allowance he had had to force upon her. Was it
only his money she hated, or was it himself as well? And to what had
her hatred driven her? A fiercer gust of wind shrieked round the house,
driving the rain in torrents against the window, and as he listened
to it splashing sharply on the glass Craven shivered. Where was she
tonight? What shelter had she found in the pitiless city of contrasts?
Fragile and alone--and penniless? His hand clenched until the stem of
the pipe he was holding snapped between his fingers and he flung the
fragments into the fire, leaning forward and staring into the dying
embers with haggard eyes--picturing, remembering. He was intimately
acquainted with Paris, with two at least of its multifarious
aspects--the brilliant Paris of the rich, and the cruel Paris of the
struggling student. And yet, after all, what did his knowledge of the
latter amount to? It had amused him for a time to live in the Latin
quarter--it was in a disreputable cabaret on the south side of the river
that he had first come across John Locke--he had mixed there with all
and sundry, rubbing shoulders with the riff-raff of nations; he had seen
its vice and destitution, had mingled with its feverish surface
gaiety and known its underlying squalor and ugliness, but always as a
disinterested spectator, a transient passer by. Always he had had money
in his pocket. He had never known the deadly ever present fear that lies
coldly at the heart of even the wildest of the greater number of its
inhabitants. He had seen but never felt starvation. He had never sold
his soul for bread. But he had witnessed such a sale, not once or twice
but many times. In his carelessness he had accepted it as inevitable.
But the recollection stabbed him now with sudden poignancy. Merciful
God, toward what were his thoughts tending! He brushed his hand across
his eyes as though to clear away some hideous vision and rose slowly to
his feet. The expiring fire fell together with a little crash, flared
for an instant and then died down in a smouldering red mass that grew
quickly grey and cold. With a deep sigh Craven turned and went heavily
from the room. He lingered for a moment in the hall, dimly lit by the
single lamp left burning above, listening to the solemn ticking of the
clock, that at that moment chimed with unnatural loudness.

Mechanically he took out his watch and wound it, and then went slowly up
the wide staircase. At the head of the stairs he paused again. The great
house had never seemed so silent, so empty, so purposeless. The rows of
closed doors opening from the gallery seemed like the portals of some
huge mausoleum, vacant and chill. A house of desolation that cried to
him to fill its emptiness with life and love. With lagging steps he
walked half way along the gallery, passing two of the closed doors
with averted head, but at the third he stopped abruptly, yielding to
an impulse that had come to him. For a moment he hesitated, as though
before some holy place he feared to desecrate, then with a quick drawn
breath he turned the handle and went in.

In the darkness his hand sought and found the electric switch by the
door, and pressing it the room was flooded with soft shaded light.
Peters had spoken only the truth when he said that the house was kept in
immediate readiness for its mistress's return. Craven had never crossed
the threshold of this room before, and seeing it thus for the first time
he could hardly believe that for two years it had been tenantless.
She might have gone from it ten minutes before. It was redolent of her
presence. The little intimate details were as she had left them. A
bowl of bronze chrysanthemums stood on the dressing table where lay the
tortoise-shell toilet articles given her by Miss Craven. A tiny clock
ticked companionably on the mantelpiece. The pain in his eyes
deepened as they swept the room with hungry eagerness to take in every
particular. Her room! The room from which his unworthiness had barred
him. All that he had forfeited rose up before him, and in overwhelming
shame and misery a wave of burning colour rolled slowly over his face.
Never had the distance between them seemed so wide. Never had her purity
and innocence been brought home to him so forcibly as in this spotless
white chamber. Its simplicity and fresh almost austere beauty seemed
the reflection of her own stainless soul and the fierce passion that was
consuming him seemed by contrast hideous and brutal. It was as if he
had violated the sanctuary of a cloistered Nun. And yet might not even
passion be beautiful if love hallowed it? His arms stretched out in
hopeless longing, her name burst from his lips in a cry of desperate
loneliness, and he fell on his knees beside the bed, burying his face
in the thick soft quilt, his strong brown hands outflung, gripping and
twisting its silken cover in his agony.

Hours later he raised his tired eyes to the pale light of the wintry
dawn filtering feebly through the close drawn curtains.

       *       *       *       *

He left that morning for Paris, alone.

It was still raining steadily and the chill depressing outlook from the
train did not tend to lighten his gloomy thoughts.

In London the rain poured down incessantly. The roads were greasy and
slippery with mud, the pavements filled with hurrying jostling crowds,
whose dripping umbrellas glistened under the flaring shop lights. Craven
peered at the cheerless prospect as he drove from one station to the
other and shivered at the gloom and wretchedness through which he was
passing. The mean streets and dreary squalid houses took on a greater
significance for him than they had ever done. The sight of a passing
woman, ill-clad and rain-drenched, sent through him a stab of horrible
pain. Paris could be as cruel, as pitiless, as this vaster, wealthier
city.

He left his bag in the cloakroom at Charing Cross and spent the hours of
waiting for the boat train tramping the streets in the vicinity of the
station. He was in no mood to go to his Club, where he would find a
host of acquaintances eager for an account of his wanderings and curious
concerning his tardy return.

The time dragged heavily. He turned into a quiet restaurant to get a
meal and ate without noticing what was put before him. At the earliest
opportunity he sought the train and buried himself in the corner of a
compartment praying that the wretched night might lessen the number of
travellers. Behind an evening paper which he did not attempt to read
he smoked in silence, which the two other men in the carriage did not
break. Foreigners both, they huddled in great coats in opposite corners
and were asleep almost before the train pulled out of the station.
Laying down the paper that had no interest for him Craven surveyed them
for a moment with a feeling of envy, and tilting his hat over his eyes,
endeavoured to emulate their good example. But, despite his weariness,
sleep would not come to him. He sat listening to the rattle of the train
and to the peaceful snoring of his companions until his mind ceased to
be diverted by immediate distractions and centred wholly on the task
before him.

At Dover the weather had not improved and the sea was breaking high over
the landing stage, drenching the few passengers as they hurried on to
the boat and dived below for shelter from the storm. Indifferent to the
weather Craven chose to stay on deck and stood throughout the crossing
under lea of the deckhouse where it was possible to keep a pipe alight.

Contrary to his expectation he managed to sleep in the train and slept
until they reached Paris. Avoiding a hotel where he was known he drove
to one of the smaller establishments, and engaging a room ordered
breakfast and sat down to think out his next move.

There were two possible sources of information, the flat, where she
might have left an address when she vacated it, and the bank where
Peters had told him she called for letters. He would try them before
resorting to the expedient of employing a detective, which he was loth
to do until all other means failed. He hated the idea, but there was no
alternative except the police, whose aid he had determined not to invoke
unless it became absolutely necessary. It was imperative that his search
should be conducted as quietly and as secretly as possible. He decided
to visit the flat first, and, having wired to Peters in accordance with
his promise, set out on foot.

It was not actually raining but the clouds hung low and threatening and
the air was raw. He walked fast, swinging along the crowded streets with
his eyes fixed straight in front of him. And his great height and deeply
tanned face made him a conspicuous figure that excited attention of
which he was ignorant.

Leaving the narrow street where was his hotel he emerged into the Place
de la Madeleine, and threading his way through the stream of traffic
turned into the Boulevard de Malesherbes, which he followed, cutting
across the Boulevard Haussmann and passing the Church of Saint Augustin,
until the trees in the Parc Monceau rose before him. How often in the
heat of Africa had he pictured her sitting in the shade of those great
spreading planes, reading or sketching the children who played about
her? He had thought of her every hour of the day and night, seeing her
in his mind moving about the flat he had taken and furnished with such
care. How utterly futile had been all his dreams about her. His lips
tightened as he passed up the steps of the house he remembered so well.

But to his inquiries the concierge, who was a new-comer, could give no
reply. He had no knowledge of any Madame Craven who had lived there, and
was plainly uninterested in a tenant who had left before his time. It
was past history with which he had nothing to do, and with which he made
it clear he did not care to be involved. He was curt and decisive
but, with an eye to Craven's powerful proportions, refrained from the
insolence that is customary among his kind. It was the first check, but
as he walked away Craven admitted to himself that he had not counted
overmuch on obtaining any information from that quarter, taking into
account the short time she had lived there. Remained the bank. He
retraced his steps, walking directly to the Place de l'Opéra. But the
bank, which was also a tourists' agency, could give him no assistance.
The lady called for her letters at infrequent intervals, they had no
idea where she might be found. Would the gentleman care to leave a card,
which would be given to her at the first opportunity? But Craven shook
his head--the chance of her calling was too vague--and passed out again
into the busy streets. There was nothing for it now but a detective
agency, and with his face grown grimmer he went without further delay to
the bureau of a firm he knew by repute. In the private room of the
_Chef de Bureau_ he detailed his requirements with national brevity and
conciseness. His knowledge of the language stood him in good stead and
the painfulness of the interview was mitigated by the businesslike and
tactful manner in which his commission was received. The keen-eyed man
who sat tapping a gold pencil case on his thumbnail in the intervals of
taking notes had a reputation to maintain which he was not unwilling to
increase; foreign clients were by no means rare, but they did not come
every day, nor were they always so apparently full of wealth as this
stern-faced Englishman, who spoke authoritatively as one accustomed to
being obeyed and yet with a turn of phrase and _politesse_ unusual in
his countrymen.

Followed two days of interminable waiting and suspense, two days that to
Craven seemed like two lifetimes. He hung about the hotel, not daring to
go far afield lest he should lose some message or report. He had no
wish either to advertise his presence in Paris, he had too many friends
there, too many acquaintances whose questions would be difficult to
parry.

But on the morning of the third day, about eleven o'clock, he was
called to the telephone. A feeling of dread ran through him and he was
conscious of a curious sensation of weakness as he lifted the receiver.
But the voice that hailed him was reassuring and complacently expressive
of a neat piece of work well done. The wife of _Monsieur_ had been
traced, they had taken time--oh, yes, but they had followed _Monsieur's_
instructions _au pied de la lettre_ and had acted with a discretion
that was above criticism. Then followed an address given minutely. For
a moment he leaned against the side of the telephone box shaking
uncontrollably. Only at this moment did he realise completely how great
his fear had been. There had been times when the recurring thought of
the Morgue and its pitiful occupants had been a foretaste of hell. The
feeling of weakness passed quickly and he went out to the entrance of
the hotel and leaped into a taxi which had just set down a fare.

He knew well the locality toward which he was driving. Years ago he
could almost have walked to it blindfold, but today time was precious.
And as he sat forward in the jolting cab, his hands locked tightly
together, it seemed to him as if every possible hindrance had combined
to bar his progress. The traffic had never appeared so congested, the
efforts of the agents on point duty so hopelessly futile. Omnibuses and
motors, unwieldy meat carts and fiacres, inextricably jammed, met them
at every turn, until at last swinging round by the corner of the Louvre
the streets became clearer and the car turned sharply to cross the
river. As they approached the address the detective had given him Craven
was conscious of no sensation of any kind. A deadly calm seemed to have
taken possession of him. He had ceased even to speculate on what lay
before him. The house at which they stopped at last was typical of its
kind; in his student days he had rented a studio in a precisely similar
building, and the concierge to whom he applied might have been the twin
sister of the voluble amply proportioned citoyenne of long ago who had
kept a maternal eye on his socks and shirts and a soft spot in her heart
for the _bel Anglais_ who chaffed her unmercifully, but paid his rent
with commendable promptitude. A huge woman, with a shrewd not unkindly
face, she sat in a rocking chair with a diminutive kitten on her
shoulder and a mass of knitting in her lap. As she listened to Craven's
inquiry she tossed the kitten into a basket and bundled the shawl she
was making under her arm, while she rose ponderously to her feet and
favoured the stranger with a stare that was frankly and undisguisedly
inquisitive. A pair of twinkling eyes encased in rolls of fat swept him
from head to foot in leisurely survey, and he felt that there was no
detail about him that escaped attention, that even the texture of his
clothing and the very price of the boots he was wearing were gauged with
accuracy and ease. She condescended to speak at last in a voice that was
curiously soft, and warmed into something almost approaching enthusiasm.
Madame Craven? but certainly, _au quatrieme_. Monsieur was perhaps a
patron of the arts, he desired to buy a picture? It was well, painters
were many but buyers were few. Madame was assuredly at home, she was
in fact engaged at that moment with a model. A model--_Sapristi_!--he
called himself such, but for herself she would have called him _un vrai
apache_! Of a countenance, _mon Dieu_! She paused to wave her hands
in horror and jerk her head toward the staircase, continuing her
confidences in a lowered tone. The door of the studio was open, it
was wiser when such gentry presented themselves, and also did she not
herself always sit in the hall that she might be within call, one never
knew--and Madame was an angel with the heart of a child. A face to
study--and she thought of nothing else. But there were those who
thought for her, the blessed innocent. It was doubtless because she was
English--Monsieur was also English, she observed with another shrewd
glance and a wide smile. Madame would be glad to see a compatriot. If
Monsieur would do himself the trouble of ascending the stairs he could
not mistake the door, it was at the top, and, as she had said, it was
open.

She beamed on him graciously as with a murmur of thanks Craven turned
to mount the stone staircase. A feeling of relief came to him at the
thought of the warm hearted self-appointed guardian sitting in kindly
vigilance in the big armchair below. Here, too, it would appear, Gillian
had made herself beloved. As he passed quickly upward the unnatural calm
that had come over him gave place to a very different feeling. It was
brought home to him all at once that what he had longed and prayed for
was on the point of taking effect. He realised that the ghastly waiting
time was over, that in a few moments he would see her, and his heart
began to throb violently. Every second that still separated them seemed
an age and he took the last remaining flight two steps at a time. But he
stopped abruptly as he reached the level of the landing. The open door
was within a few feet of him but screened from where he stood.

It was her voice that had arrested him, speaking with an accent of
weariness he had never heard before that sent a sudden quiver to his
lips. His fingers clenched on the soft hat he held.

“But it does not do at all,” she was saying, and the racking cough that
accompanied her words struck through Craven's heart like a knife, “it is
the expression that is wrong. If you look like that I can never believe
that you are what you say you are. Think of some of the horrible things
you have told me--try and imagine that you are still tracking down that
brute who took your little Colette from you--” A husky voice interrupted
her. “No use, Madame, when I remember that I can only think of you and
the American doctor who gave her back to me, and our happiness.”

“You don't deserve her, and she hates the things you do,” came the quick
retort, and the man who had been speaking laughed.

“But not me,” he answered promptly, “and the things I do keep a roof
over our heads,” he added grimly. “But, see, I will try again--does that
satisfy Madame?”

Craven moved forward as he heard her eager assent and her injunction to
“hold that for a few minutes,” and in the silence that ensued he reached
the door. For a moment his entrance passed unobserved.

The stark bareness of the room was revealed to him in a single
comprehensive glance and the chill of it sent a sudden feeling of anger
surging through him. His face was drawn and his eyes almost menacing
with pain as they rested on the slight figure bending forward in
unconscious absorption over the easel propped in the middle of the
rugless floor. Then his gaze travelled slowly beyond her to the model
who stood on the little dais, and he understood in a flash the reason
of the old concierge's vigilance as he saw the manner of man she was
painting. The slender darkly clad youth with head thrust forward and
sunk deep on his shoulders, with close fitting peaked cap pulled
low over his eyes shading his pale sinister face was a typical
representative of the class of criminal who had come to be known in
Paris as _les apaches_; no artist's model masquerading as one of
the dreaded assassins, but the genuine article. Of that Craven was
convinced. The risk she had taken, the quick resentment he felt at the
thought of such a presence near her forced from him an exclamation.

Artist and model turned simultaneously. There was a moment of tense
silence as husband and wife stared into each other's eyes. Then the
palette and brushes she was holding dropped with a little chatter to the
floor.

“Barry,” she whispered fearfully, “Barry--”

Both men sprang forward, but it was Craven who caught her as she fell.
She lay like a featherweight in his strong clasp, and as he gazed at the
delicate face crushed against his breast a deadly fear was knocking at
his heart that he had come too late. Convulsively his arms tightened
round the pitifully light little body and he spoke abruptly to the man
who was scowling beside him. “A doctor--as quick as you can--and tell
the concierge to come up.” Anxiety roughened his voice and he turned
away without waiting to see his orders carried out. For a second the
apache glowered at him under narrowing lids, his sullen face working
strangely, then he jerked the black cap further over his eyes and
slipped away with noiseless tread.

With a broken whisper Craven caught his frail burden closer, as though
seeking by the strength and warmth of his own body to animate the
fragile limbs lying so cold and lifeless in his arms, and he bent low
over the pallid lips he craved and yet did not dare to kiss. They were
not for him to take, he reflected bitterly, and in her unconsciousness
they were sacred.

His eyes were dark with misery as he raised his head and looked about
quickly for some couch on which to lay her. But the bare studio was
devoid of any such luxury, and with his face set rigidly he carried
her across the room and pushed open a door leading to an inner sleeping
apartment. Barer it was and colder even than the studio, and its bleak
poverty formed a horrible contrast to the big white bedroom at Craven
Towers. He laid her on the narrow comfortless bed with a smothered groan
that seemed to tear his heart to pieces. And as he knelt beside
her chafing her icy hands in helpless agony there burst in on him a
tempestuous fury who raved and stormed and called on heaven to witness
the iniquity of men. “_Bete! animal!_” she raged, “what have you done
to her--you and that rat-faced devil!” and she thrust her bulky figure
between him and the bed. Then with a sudden change of manner, her voice
grown soft and caressing, she bent over the fainting girl and slipped a
plump arm under her, crooning, over her and endeavouring to restore her
to consciousness. She snapped an enquiry at Craven and he explained
as best he could, and his explanation brought down on him a wealth of
biting sarcasm. The husband of _cet ange la_! In the name of heaven! was
there no limit to the blundering stupidity of men--had he no more sense
than to present himself with such unexpectedness, after so long an
absence? Small wonder _la pauvre petite_ had fainted. What folly! And
lashing him with her tongue she renewed her fruitless efforts. But
Craven scarcely heeded her. His eyes were fixed on the little white face
on the pillow, and he was praying desperately that she might be spared
to him, that his punishment might not take so terrible a form. For the
change in her appalled him. Slight and delicate always, she was now a
mere shadow of what she had been. If she died!--he clenched his teeth to
keep silent--must he be twice a murderer? O Hara San's blood was on his
hands, would hers also--

He turned quickly as a tall, loosely made man swung into the room. The
new-comer shot a swift glance at him and moved past to the bedside,
addressing the concierge in fluent French that was marked by a
pronounced American accent. He cut short her eager communication as he
bent over the bed and made a rapid examination.

“Light a fire in the stove, bring all the blankets you can find, and
make some strong coffee. I have been waiting for this, the marvel is
it hasn't happened before,” he said brusquely. And as the woman hurried
away with surprising meekness to do his bidding he turned again to
Craven. “Friend of Mrs. Craven's?” he asked with blunt directness. “Pity
her friends haven't looked her up sooner. Guess you can wait in the
other room until I'm through here--that is if you are sufficiently
interested. It will probably be a long job and the fewer people she sees
about her when she comes to, the better.”

The blood flamed into Craven's face and an angry protest rose to his
lips, but his better judgment checked it. It was not the time for
explanations or to press the claim he had to remain in the room. And had
he a claim at all, he wondered with a dull feeling of pain. “I'll wait,”
 he said quietly, fighting an intolerable jealousy as he watched the
doctor's skilful hands busy about her. Strangers might tend her, but the
husband she had evidently never spoken of, was banished to an outer room
to wait “if sufficiently interested.” He winced and passed slowly into
the studio. And yet he had brought it on himself. She could have had
little wish to mention him situated as she was, the bare garret he was
pacing monotonously was evidence in itself that she had determined to
cut adrift from everything that was connected with the life and the man
she had obviously loathed. His surroundings left no doubt on that score.
She had plainly preferred to struggle independently for existence rather
than be beholden to him who was her natural protector. He recalled with
an aching heart the swift look of fear that had leapt into her eyes
during that long moment before she had lost consciousness, and the
memory of it went with him, searing cruelly, as he tramped up and down
in restless anxiety that would not allow him to keep still. To see that
look in her eyes again would be more than he could endure.

From time to time the concierge passed through the room bearing the
various necessaries the doctor had demanded, but her mouth was grimly
shut and he did not ask for information that she did not seem inclined
to vouchsafe. She did unbend so far at last as to light a fire in the
stove, but she let it be clearly understood that it was not for his
benefit. “It will help to warm the other room, and it has been empty
long enough,” she said, with a glance and a shrug that were full of
meaning. But as she saw the misery of his face her manner softened and
she spoke confidently of the skill of the American doctor, who from
motives of pure philanthropy had practised for some years in a quarter
that offered much experience but little pecuniary profit.

Then she left him to wait again alone.

He could not bring himself to look at the canvases propped against the
bare walls, they were witnesses of her toil, witnesses perhaps of a
failure that hurt him even more than it must have hurt her. And to
him who knew the spirit-crushing efforts of the unknown artist to win
recognition, her failure was both natural and intelligible. He guessed
at a pride that scorning patronage had not sought assistance but had
striven to succeed by merit alone, only to learn the bitter lesson that
falls to the lot of those who fight against established convention. She
had pitted her strength against a system and the system had broken her.
Her studies might be--they were--marked with genius, but genius without
advertisement had gone unrecognised and unrewarded.

But before the portrait of the strange model he had found with her he
paused for a long time. Still unfinished it was brilliantly clever. The
lower part of the face had evidently not satisfied her, for it was wiped
out, but the upper part was completed, and Craven looked at the
deep-set eyes of the apache staring back at him with almost the fire
of life--melancholy sinister eyes that haunted--and wondered again what
circumstance had brought such a man across her path. He remembered the
fragmentary conversation he had heard, remembered too that mention had
been made of the man who was even now with her in the adjoining room,
and he sighed as he realised how utterly ignorant he was of the life she
had led during his absence.

Had she meditated a complete severance from him, formed ties that would
bind her irrevocably to the life she had chosen? He turned from the
picture wearily. It was all a tangle. He could only wait, and waiting,
suffer.

He went to the window and leant his arms unseeingly on the high narrow
sill that looked out over the neighbouring housetops, straining to hear
the faintest sound from the inner room. It seemed to him that he must
have waited hours when at last the door opened and shut quietly and the
American came leisurely toward him. He faced him with swift unspoken
inquiry. The doctor nodded, moving toward the stove. “She's all right
now,” he said dryly, “but I don't mind telling you she gave me the
fright of my life. I have been wondering when this was going to happen,
I've seen it coming for a long time.” He paused, and looked at Craven
frowningly while he warmed his hands.

“May I ask if you are an intimate friend of Mrs. Craven's--if you know
her people? Can you put me in communication with them? She is not in
a fit state to be alone. She should have somebody with her--somebody
belonging to her, I mean. I gather there is a husband somewhere
abroad--though frankly I have always doubted his existence--but that is
no good. I want somebody here, on the spot, now. Mrs. Craven doesn't
see the necessity. I do. I'm not trying to shunt responsibility. I've
shouldered a good deal in my time and I'm not shirking now--but this
is a case that calls for more than a doctor. I should appreciate any
assistance you could give me.”

The fear he had felt when he held her in his arms was clutching anew at
Craven and his face grew grey under the deep tan. “What is the matter
with her?” Something in his voice made the doctor look at him more
closely.

“That, my dear sir,” he parried, “is rather a leading question.”

“I have a right to know,” interrupted Craven quickly.

“You will pardon me if I ask--what right?” was the equally quick
rejoinder.

The blood surged back hotly into Craven's face.

“The right of the man whose existence you very justly doubted,” he said
heavily. The doctor straightened himself with a jerk. “You are Mrs.
Craven's husband! Then you will forgive me if I say that you have not
come back any too soon. I am glad for your wife's sake that the myth is
a reality,” he said gravely. Craven stood rigidly still, and it seemed
to him that his heart stopped beating. “I know my wife is delicate,
that her lungs are not strong, but what is the cause of this
sudden--collapse?” he said slowly, his voice shaking painfully. For a
moment the other hesitated and shrugged in evident embarrassment.
“There are a variety of causes--I find it somewhat difficult to say--you
couldn't know, of course--”

Craven cut him short. “You needn't spare my feelings,” he said hoarsely.
“For God's sake speak plainly.

“In a word then--though I hate to have to say it--starvation.” The keen
eyes fixed on him softened into sudden compassion but Craven did not see
them. He saw nothing, for the room was spinning madly round him and he
staggered back against the window catching at the woodwork behind him.

“Oh, my God!” he whispered, and wiped the blinding moisture from his
eyes. If it had been possible for her gentle nature to contemplate
revenge she could have planned no more terrible one than this. But in
his heart he knew that it was not revenge. For a moment he could
not speak, then with an effort he mastered himself. He could give no
explanation to this stranger, that lay between him and her alone.

“There was no need,” he said at last dully, forcing the words with
difficulty; “she misunderstood--I can't explain. Only tell me what I can
do--anything that will cure her. There isn't any permanent injury, is
there--I haven't really come too late?” he gasped, with an agony of
appeal in his voice. The American shook his head. “You ran it very
fine,” he said, with a quick smile, “but I guess you've come in time,
right enough. There isn't anything here that money can't cure. Her lungs
are not over strong, her heart is temporarily strained, and her nerves
are in tatters. But if you can take her to the south--or better still,
Egypt--?” he hesitated with a look of enquiry, and as Craven nodded,
continued with more assurance, “Good! then there's no reason why she
shouldn't be a well woman in time. She's constitutionally delicate but
there's nothing organically wrong. Take her away as soon as possible,
feed her up--and keep her happy. That's all she wants. I'll look in
again this evening.” And with another reassuring smile and a firm
handclasp he was gone.

As his footsteps died away Craven turned slowly toward the adjoining
room with strangely contending emotions. “... keep her happy.” The
bitter irony of the words bit into him as he crossed to the door and,
tapping softly, went in.

She was waiting for him, lying high on the pillows that were no whiter
than her face, toying nervously with the curling ends of the thick plait
of soft brown hair that reached almost to her waist. Her eyes were fixed
on him appealingly, and as he came toward her her face quivered suddenly
and again he saw the look of fear that had tortured him before. “Oh,
Barry,” she moaned, “don't be angry with me.”

It was all that he could do to keep his hungry arms from closing round
her, to keep back the passionate torrent of love that rushed to his
lips. But he dared not give way to the weakness that was tempting him.
Controlling himself with an effort of will he sat down on the edge of
the bed and covered her twitching fingers with his lean muscular hands.

“I'm not angry, dear. God knows I've no right to be,” he said gently. “I
just don't understand. I never dreamt of anything like this. Can't you
tell me--explain--help me to understand?”

She dragged her hands from his, and covering her face gave way to bitter
weeping. Her tears crucified him and his heart was breaking as he looked
at her. “Gillian, have a little pity on me,” he pleaded. “Do you think
I'm a stone that I can bear to see you cry?”

“What can I say?” she whispered sobbingly. “You wouldn't understand. You
have never understood. How should you? You were too generous. You gave
me your name, your wealth, you sacrificed your freedom to save me from
a knowledge of the callousness and cruelty of the world. You saw further
than I did. You knew that I would fail--as I have failed. And because of
that you married me in pity. Did you think I would never guess? I
didn't at first. I was a stupid ignorant child, I didn't realise what a
marriage like ours would mean. But when I did--oh, so soon--and when
I knew that I could never repay you--I think I nearly died with shame.
When I asked you to let me come to Paris it was not to lead the life you
purposed for me but because my burden of debt had grown intolerable.
I thought that if I worked here, paid my own way, got back my lost
self-respect, that it would be easier to bear. When you took the flat
I tried to make you understand but you wouldn't listen and I couldn't
trouble you when you were going away. And then later when they told me
at the convent what you had done, when I learned how much greater was
my debt than I had ever dreamt, and when I heard of the money you gave
them--the money you still give them every year--the money they call the
Gillian Craven Fund--”

“They had no right, I made it a stipulation--”

“They didn't realise, they thought because we were married that I must
surely know. I couldn't go on living in the flat, taking the allowance
you heaped on me. All you gave,--all you did--your generosity--I
couldn't bear it! Oh, can't you see--your money _choked_ me!” she
wailed, with a paroxysm of tears that frightened him. He caught her
hands again, holding them firmly. “Your money as much as mine, Gillian.
I have always tried to make you realise it. What is mine is yours.
You're my wife--”

“I'm not, I'm not,” she sobbed wildly. “I'm only a burden thrust on
you.”

A cry burst from his lips. “A burden, my God, a burden!” he groaned. And
suddenly he reached the end of his endurance. With the agony of death in
his eyes he swept her into his arms, holding her to him with passionate
strength, his lips buried in the fragrance of her hair. “Oh, my dear, my
dear,” he murmured brokenly, “I'm not fit to touch you, but I've loved
you always, worshipped you, longed for you until the longing grew too
great to bear, and I left you because I knew that if I stayed I should
not have the strength to leave you free. I married you because I loved
you, because even this damnable mockery of a marriage was better than
losing you out of my life--I was cur enough to keep you when I knew I
might not take you. And I've wanted you, God knows how I've wanted you,
all these ghastly years. I want you now, I'd give my hope of heaven to
have your love, to hold you in my arms as my wife, to be a husband
to you not only in name--but I'm not fit. You don't know what I've
done--what I've been. I had no right to marry you, to stain your purity
with my sin, to link you with one who is fouled as I am. If you knew
you'd never look at me again.” With a terrible sob he laid her back on
the pillows and dropped on his knees beside her. Into her tear-wet eyes
there came suddenly a light that was almost divine, her quivering face
became glorious in its pitiful love. Trembling, she leant towards him,
and her slender hands went out in swift compassion, drawing the bowed
shamed head close to her tender breast.

“Tell me,” she whispered. And with her soft arms round him he told her,
waiting in despair for the moment when she would shrink from him, repel
him with the horror and disgust he dreaded. But she lay quite still
until he finished, though once or twice she shuddered and he felt the
quickened beating of her heart. And for long after his muffled voice had
died away she remained silent. Then her thin hand crept quiveringly
up to his hair, touching it shyly, and two great tears rolled down
her face. “Barry, I've been so lonely”--it was the cry of a frightened
desolate child--“if you have no pity on yourself, will you have no pity
on me?”

“Gillian!” he raised his head sharply, staring at her with desperate
unbelieving eyes, “You care?”

“Care?” she gave a tremulous little sobbing laugh. “How could I help
but care! I've loved you since the day you came to me in the convent
parlour. You're all I have, and if you leave me now”--she clung to him
suddenly--“Barry, Barry, I can't bear any more. I haven't any strength
or courage left. I'm afraid! I can't face the world alone--it's
cruel--pitiless. I love you, I want you, I can't live without you,” and
with a piteous sob she strained him to her, hiding her face against
his breast, beseeching and distraught. His lips were trembling as he
gathered the shuddering little body closely in his arms, but still he
hesitated.

“Think, dear, think,” he muttered hoarsely, “I'm not fit to stay with
you. I've done that which is unforgivable.”

“I'm your wife, I've the right to share your burden,” she cried
passionately. “You didn't know, you couldn't know when you did that
dreadful thing. And if God punishes you let Him punish me too. But God
is love, He knows how you have suffered, and for those who repent His
punishment is forgiveness.”

“But can you forgive--can you bear to come to me?” he faltered, still
only half believing.

“I love you,” she said simply, “and life without you is death,” and
lifting her face to his she gave him the lips he had not dared to take.








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