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_.”