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.