← catalogue

The shadow of the East

by E. M. Hull · English · Gutenberg #8143 · 583,041 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The shadow of the East
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The shadow of the East

Author: E. M. Hull


        
Release date: May 1, 2005 [eBook #8143]
                Most recently updated: March 15, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8143

Credits: Text file produced by Anne Reshnyk, Lois Gaudard, Gloria Bryant,
        Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team
        
        HTML file produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHADOW OF THE EAST ***




Produced by Anne Reshnyk, Lois Gaudard, Gloria Bryant,
Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team









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

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/8143