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.