Miss Craven was sitting alone in the library at the Towers. She had been
reading, but the book had failed to hold her attention and lay unheeded
on her lap while she was plunged in a profound reverie.
She sat very still, her usually serene face clouded, and once or twice a
heavy sigh escaped her.
The short November day was drawing in and though still early afternoon
it was already growing dark. The declining light was more noticeable in
the library than elsewhere in the house--a sombre room once the morning
sun had passed; long and narrow and panelled in oak to a height of
about twelve feet, above which ran a gallery reached by a hammered iron
stairway, it housed a collection of calf and vellum bound books which
clothed the walls from the floor of the gallery to within a few feet of
the lofty ceiling. On the fourth side of the room, whither the gallery
did not extend, three tall narrow windows overlooked the drive. The
furniture was scanty and severely Jacobean, having for more than two
hundred years remained practically intact; a ponderous writing table,
a couple of long low cabinets, and half a dozen cavernous armchairs
recushioned to suit modern requirements of ease. Some fine old bronzes
stood against the panelled walls. There was about the room a settled
peacefulness. The old furniture had a stately air of permanence.
The polished panels, and, above, the orderly ranks of ancient books
suggested durability; they remained--while generations of men came and
passed, transient figures reflected in the shining oak, handling for a
few brief years the printed treasures that would still be read centuries
after they had returned to their dust.
The spirit of the house seemed embodied in this big silent room that was
spacious and yet intimate, formal and yet friendly.
It was Miss Craven's favourite retreat. The atmosphere was sympathetic.
Here she seemed more particularly in touch with the subtle influence of
family that seemed to pervade the whole house. In most of the rooms it
was perceptible, but in the library it was forceful.
The house and the family--they were bound up inseparably.
For hundreds of years, in an unbroken line, from father to son ...
from father to son.... Miss Craven sat bolt upright to the sound of an
unmistakable sob. She looked with amazement at two tears blistering the
page of the open book on her knee. She had not knowingly cried since
childhood. It was a good thing that she was alone she thought, with a
startled glance round the empty room. She would have to keep a firmer
hold over herself than that. She laughed a little shakily, choked, blew
her nose vigorously, and walked to the middle window. Outside was stark
November. The wind swept round the house in fierce gusts before which
the big bare-branched trees in the park swayed and bowed, and trains
of late fallen leaves caught in a whirlwind eddied skyward to scatter
widely down again.
Rain lashed the window panes. Yet even when storm-tossed the scene had
its own peculiar charm. At all seasons it was lovely.
Miss Craven looked at the massive trees, beautiful in their clean
nakedness, and wondered how often she would see them bud again.
Frowning, she smothered a rising sigh and pressing closer to the window
peered out more attentively. Eastward and westward stretched long
avenues that curved and receded soon from sight. The gravelled space
before the house was wide; from it two shorter avenues encircling a
large oval paddock led to the stables, built at some distance facing the
house, but hidden by a belt of firs.
For some time Miss Craven watched, but only a game-keeper passed, a
drenched setter at his heels, and with a little shiver she turned back
to the room. She moved about restlessly, lifting books to lay them down
immediately, ransacking the cabinets for prints that at a second glance
failed to interest, and examining the bronzes that she had known from
childhood with lengthy intentness as if she saw them now for the first
time.
A footman came and silently replenished the fire. Her thoughts,
interrupted, swung into a new channel. She sat down at the writing table
and drawing toward her a sheet of paper slowly wrote the date. Beyond
that she did not get. The ink dried on the pen as she stared at the
blank sheet, unable to express as she wished the letter she had intended
to write.
She laid the silver holder down at last with a hopeless gesture and her
eyes turned to a bronze figure that served as a paper weight. It was a
piece of her own work and she handled it lovingly with a curiously sad
smile until a second hard sob broke from her and pushing it away she
covered her face with her hands.
“Not for myself, God knows it's not for myself,” she whispered, as if
in extenuation. And mastering herself with an effort she made a second
attempt to write but at the end of half a dozen words rose impatiently,
crumpled the paper in her hand and walking to the fireplace threw it
among the blazing logs.
She watched it curl and discolour, the writing blackly distinct,
and crumble into ashes. Then from force of habit she searched for
a cigarette in a box on the mantelpiece, but as she lit it a sudden
thought arrested her and after a moment's hesitation the cigarette
followed the half--written letter into the fire.
With an impatient shrug she went back to an arm chair and again tried to
read, but though her eyes mechanically followed the words on the printed
page she did not notice what she was reading and laying the book down
she gave up all further endeavour to distract her wandering thoughts.
They were not pleasant and when, a little later, the door opened she
turned her head expectantly with a sigh of relief. Peters came in
briskly.
“I've come to inquire,” he said laughing, “the family pew held me in
solitary state this morning. Time was when I never minded, but this
last year has spoiled me. I was booked for lunch but I came as soon as I
could. Nobody ill, I hope?”
Miss Craven looked at him for a moment before answering as he stood with
his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him, his face ruddy with
the wind and rain, his keen blue eyes on hers, reliable, unchanging.
It was a curious chance that had brought him--just at that moment. The
temptation to make an unusual confidence rose strongly. She had known
him and trusted him for more years than she cared to remember. How much
to say? Indecision held her.
“You are always thoughtful, Peter,” she temporised. “I am afraid there
is no excuse,” with a little smile; “Barry rode off somewhere quite
early this morning and Gillian went yesterday to the Horringfords.
I expect her back to-day in time for tea. For myself, I had gout or
rheumatism or the black dog on my back, I forget which! Anyhow, I
stayed at home.” She laughed and pointed to the cigarettes. He took one,
tapping it on his thumbnail.
“You were alone. Why didn't you 'phone? I should have been glad
to escape the Australians. They are enormously kind, but
somewhat--er--overwhelming,” he added with a quick laugh.
“My dear man, be thankful I never thought of it. I've been like a bear
with a sore head all day.” She looked past him into the fire, and struck
by a new note in her voice he refrained from comment, smoking slowly and
luxuriating in the warmth after a cold wet drive in an open motor. He
never used a closed car. But some words she had used struck him. “Barry
is riding--?” with a glance at the storm raging outside.
“Yes. He had breakfast at an unearthly hour and went off early. Weather
seems to make no difference to him, but he will be soaked to the skin.”
“He's tough,” replied Peters shortly. “I thought he must be out. As I
came in just now Yoshio was hanging about the hall, watching the drive.
Waiting for him, I suppose,” he added, flicking a curl of ash into the
fire. “He's a treasure of a valet,” he supplemented conversationally.
But Miss Craven let the observation pass. She was still staring into the
leaping flames, drumming with her fingers on the arms of the chair.
Once she tried to speak but no words came. Peters waited. He felt
unaccountably but definitely that she wished him to wait, that what was
evidently on her mind would come with no prompting from him. He felt in
her attitude a tension that was unusual--to-day she was totally unlike
herself. Once or twice only in the course of a lifelong friendship she
had shown him her serious side. She had turned to him for help then--he
seemed presciently aware that she was turning to him for help now.
He prided himself that he knew her as well as she knew herself and he
understood the effort it would cost her to speak. That he guessed the
cause of her trouble was no short cut to getting that trouble uttered.
She would take her own time, he could not go half-way to meet her. He
must stand by and wait. When had he ever done anything else at Craven
Towers? His eyes glistened curiously in the firelight, and he rammed his
hands down into his jacket pockets with abrupt jerkiness. Suddenly Miss
Craven broke the silence.
“Peter--I'm horribly worried about Barry,” the words came with a rush.
He understood her too well to cavil.
“Dear lady, so am I,” he replied with a promptness that did not console.
“Peter, what is it?” she went on breathlessly. “Barry is utterly
changed. You see it as well as I. I don't understand--I'm all at sea--I
want your help. I couldn't discuss him with anybody else, but you--you
are one of us, you've always been one of us. Fair weather or foul,
you've stood by us. What we should have done without you God only knows.
You care for Barry, he's as dear to you as he is to me, can't you do
something? The suffering in his face--the tragedy in his eyes--I wake
up in the night seeing them! Peter, can't you _do_ something?” She was
beside him, clutching at the mantel-shelf, shaking with emotion. The
sight of her unnerved, almost incoherent, shocked him. He realised the
depth of the impression that had been made upon her--deep indeed to
produce such a result. But what she asked was impossible. He made a
little negative gesture and shook his head.
“Dear lady, I can't do anything. And I wonder whether you know how it
hurts to have to say so? No son could be dearer to me than Barry--for
the sake of his mother--” his voice faltered momentarily, “but the fact
remains--he is not my son. I am only his agent. There are certain things
I cannot do and say, no matter how great the wish,” he added with a
twisted smile.
Miss Craven seemed scarcely to be listening. “It happened in Japan,” she
asserted in fierce low tones. “Japan! Japan!” she continued vehemently,
“how much more sorrow is that country to bring to our family! It
happened in Japan and whatever it was--Yoshio knows! You spoke of him
just now. You said he was hanging about--waiting--watching. Peter, he's
doing it all the time! He watches continually. Barry never has to send
for him--he's always there, waiting to be called. When Barry goes out
the man is restless until he comes in again--haunting the hall--it
gets on my nerves. Yet there is nothing I can actually complain of. He
doesn't intrude, he is as noiseless as a cat and vanishes if he
sees you, but you know that just out of sight he's still
there--waiting--listening. Peter, what is he waiting for? I don't think
that it is apparent to the rest of the household, I didn't notice it
myself at first. But a few months ago something happened and since then
I don't seem able to get away from it. It was in the night, about two
o'clock; I was wakeful and couldn't sleep. I thought if I read I might
read myself sleepy. I hadn't a book in my room that pleased me and I
remembered a half-finished novel I had left in the library. I didn't
take a light--I know every turn in the Towers blindfold. As you know,
to reach the staircase from my room I have to pass Barry's door, and at
Barry's door I fell over something in the darkness--something with hands
of steel that saved me from an awkward tumble and hurried me down the
passage and into the moonlit gallery before I could find a word of
expostulation. Yoshio of course. I was naturally startled and angry
in consequence. I demanded an explanation and after a great deal of
hesitation he muttered something about Barry wanting him--which is
ridiculous on the face of it. If Barry had really wanted him he would
have been inside the room, not crouched outside on the door mat. He
seemed very upset and kept begging me to say nothing about it. I don't
remember how he put it but he certainly conveyed the impression that it
would not be good for Barry to know. I don't understand it--Barry trusts
him implicitly--and yet this.... I'm afraid, and I've never been afraid
in my life before.” The little break in her voice hurt him. He felt
curiously unable to cope with the situation. Her story disturbed him
more than he cared to let her see in her present condition of unwonted
agitation. Twice in the past they had stood shoulder to shoulder through
a crisis of sufficient magnitude and she had showed then a cautious
judgment, a reliability of purpose that had been purely masculine in
its strength and sanity. She had been wholly matter-of-fact and
unimaginative, unswayed by petty trivialities and broad in her decision.
She had displayed a levelness of mind which had almost excluded
feeling and which had enabled him to deal with her as with another man,
confident of her understanding and the unlikelihood of her succumbing
unexpectedly to ordinary womanly weaknesses. He had thought that he
knew her thoroughly, that no circumstance that might arise could alter
characteristics so set and inherent. But to-day her present emotion
which had come perilously near hysteria, showed her in a new light
that made her almost a stranger. He was a little bewildered with the
discovery. It was incredible after all these years, just as if an
edifice that he had thought strongly built of stone had tumbled about
his ears like a pack of cards. He could hardly grasp it. He felt that
there was something behind it all--something more than she admitted.
He was tempted to ask definitely but second reflection brought the
conviction that it would be a mistake, that it would be taking an unfair
advantage. Sufficient unto the day--his present concern was to help her
regain a normal mental poise. And to do that he must ignore half of what
her suggestions seemed to imply. He felt her breakdown acutely, he must
say nothing that would add to her distress of mind. It was better to
appear obtuse than to concur too heartily in fears, a recollection of
which in a saner moment he knew would be distasteful to her. She would
never forgive herself--the less she had to forget the better. She
trusted him or she would never have spoken at all. That he knew and he
was honoured by her confidence. They had always been friends, but in her
weakness he felt nearer to her than ever before. She was waiting for him
to speak. He chose the line that seemed the least open to argument.
He spoke at last, evenly, unwilling alike to seem incredulous or
overanxious, his big steady hand closing warmly over her twitching
fingers.
“I don't think there is any cause--any reason to doubt Yoshio's
fidelity. The man is devoted to Barry. His behaviour certainly
sounds--curious, but can be attributed I am convinced to
over-zealousness. He is an alien in a strange land, cut off from his
own natural distractions and amusements, and with time on his hands his
devotion to his master takes a more noticeable form than is usual with
an ordinary English man-servant. That he designs any harm I cannot
believe. He has been with Barry a long time--on the several occasions
when he stayed with him at your house in London did you notice anything
in his behaviour then similar to the attitude you have observed
recently? No? Then I take it that it is due to the same anxiety that we
ourselves have felt since Barry's return. Only in Yoshio's case it is
probably based on definite knowledge, whereas ours is pure conjecture.
Barry has undoubtedly been up against something--momentous. Between
ourselves we can admit the fact frankly. It is a different man who has
come back to us--and we can only carry on and notice nothing. He is
trying to forget something. He has worked like a nigger since he came
home, slogging away down at the estate office as if he had his bread to
earn. He does the work of two men--and he hates it. I see him sometimes,
forgetful of his surroundings, staring out of the window, and the look
on his face brings a confounded lump into my throat. Thank God he's
young--perhaps in time--” he shrugged and broke off inconclusively,
conscious of the futility of platitudes. And they were all he had to
offer. There was no suggestion he could make, nothing he could do. It
was repetition of history, again he had to stand by and watch suffering
he was powerless to aid, powerless to relieve. The mother first and now
the son--it would seem almost as if he had failed both. The sense of
helplessness was bitter and his face was drawn with pain as he stared
dumbly at the window against which the storm was beating with renewed
violence. The sight of the angry elements brought almost a feeling of
relief; it would be something that he could contend with and overcome,
something that would go towards mitigating the galling sense of
impotence that chafed him. He felt the room suddenly stifling, he wanted
the cold sting of the rain against his face, the roar of the wind in the
trees above his head. Abruptly he buttoned his jacket in preparation
for departure. Miss Craven pulled herself together. She laid a detaining
hand on his arm. “Peter,” she said slowly, “do you think that Barry's
trouble has any connection with--my brother? The change of pictures in
the dining-room--it was so strange. He said it was a reparation. Do you
think Barry--found out something in Japan?”
Peter shook his head. “God knows,” he said gruffly. For a moment there
was silence, then with a sigh Miss Craven moved towards a bell.
“You'll stay for tea?”
“Thanks, no. I've got a man coming over, I'll have to go. Give my love
to Gillian and tell her I shall not, forgive her soon for deserting me
this morning. Has she lost that nasty cough yet?”
“Almost. I didn't want her to go to the Horringfords, but she promised
to be careful.” Miss Craven paused, then:
“What did we do without Gillian, Peter?” she said with an odd little
laugh.
“'You've got me guessing,' as Atherton says. She's a witch, bless her!”
he replied, holding out his hands. Miss Craven took them and held them
for a moment.
“You're the best pal I ever had, Peter,” she said unsteadily, “and
you've given all your life to us Cravens.”
The sudden gripping of his hands was painful, then he bent his head and
unexpectedly put his lips to the fingers he held so closely.
“I'm always here--when you want me,” he said huskily, and was gone.
Miss Craven stood still looking after him with a curious smile.
“Thank God for Peter,” she said fervently, and went back to her station
by the window. It was considerably darker than before, but for some
distance the double avenue leading to the stables was visible. As she
watched, playing absently with the blind-cord, her mind dwelt on the
long connection between Peter Peters and her family. Thirty years--the
best of his life. And in exchange sorrow and an undying memory. The
woman he loved had chosen not him but handsome inconsequent Barry Craven
and, for her choice, had reaped misery and loneliness. And because
he had known that inevitably a day would come when she would need
assistance and support he had sunk his own feelings and retained his
post. Her brief happiness had been hard to watch--the subsequent long
years of her desertion a protracted torture. He had raged at his own
helplessness. And ignorant of his love and the motive that kept him at
Craven Towers she had come to lean on him and refer all to him. But for
his care the Craven properties would have been ruined, and the Craven
interests neglected beyond repair.
For some time before her sister-in-law's death Miss Craven had known, as
only a woman can know, but now for the first time she had heard from
his lips a half-confession of the love that he had guarded jealously for
thirty years.
The unusual tears that to-day seemed so curiously near the surface rose
despite her and she blinked the moisture from her eyes with a feeling of
irritated shame.
Then a figure, almost indistinguishable in the gloom, coming from the
stables, caught her eye and she gave a sharp sigh of relief.
He was walking slowly, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders
hunched against the storm of wind and rain that beat on his broad back.
His movements suggested intense weariness, yet nearing the house his
step lagged even more as if, despite physical fatigue and the inclement
weather, he was rather forcing himself to return than showing a natural
desire for shelter.
There was in his tread a heaviness that contrasted forcibly with the
elasticity that had formerly been characteristic. As he passed close by
the window where Miss Craven was standing she saw that he was splashed
from head to foot. She thought with sudden compassion of the horse that
he had ridden. She had been in the stables only a few weeks before when
he had handed over another jaded mud-caked brute trembling in every
limb and showing signs of merciless riding to the old head groom who
had maintained a stony silence as was his duty but whose grim face
was eloquent of all he might not say. It was so unlike Barry to
be inconsiderate, toward animals he had been always peculiarly
tender-hearted.
She hurried out to the hall, almost cannoning with a little dark-clad
figure who gave way with a deep Oriental reverence. “Master very wet,”
he murmured, and vanished.
“There's some sense in him,” she muttered grudgingly. And quite suddenly
a wholly unexpected sympathy dawned for the inscrutable Japanese
whom she had hitherto disliked. But she had no time to dwell on her
unaccountable change of feeling for through the glass of the inner door
she saw Craven in the vestibule struggling stiffly to rid himself of a
dripping mackintosh. It had been no protection for the driving rain
had penetrated freely, and as he fumbled at the buttons with slow cold
fingers the water ran off him in little trickling streams on to the mat.
She had no wish to convey the impression that she had been waiting for
him. She met him as if by accident, hailing him with surprise that rang
genuine.
“Hallo, Barry, just in time for tea! I know you don't usually indulge,
but you can do an act of grace on this one occasion by cheering my
solitude. Peter looked in for ten minutes but had to hurry away for an
engagement, and Gillian is not yet back.”
His face was haggard but he smiled in reply, “All right. In the library?
Then in five minutes--I'm a little wet.”
In an incredibly short time he joined her, changed and immaculate. She
looked up from the tea urn she was manipulating, her eyes resting on him
with the pleasure his physical appearance always gave her. “You've been
quick!”
“Yoshio,” he replied laconically, handing her buttered toast.
He ate little himself but drank two cups of tea, smoking the while
innumerable cigarettes. Miss Craven chatted easily until the tea table
was taken away and Craven had withdrawn to his usual position on the
hearthrug, lounging against the mantelshelf.
Then she fell silent, looking at him furtively from time to time, her
hands restless in her lap, nerving herself to speak. What she had to say
was even more difficult to formulate than her confidence to Peters. But
it had to be spoken and she might never find a more favourable moment.
She took her courage in both hands.
“I want to speak to you of Gillian,” she said hesitatingly.
He looked up sharply. “What of Gillian?” The question was abrupt, an
accent almost of suspicion in his voice and she moved uneasily.
“Bless the boy, don't jump down my throat,” she parried, with a nervous
little laugh; “nothing of Gillian but what is sweet and good and dear
... and yet that's not all the truth--it's more than that. I find it
hard to say. It's something serious, Barry, about Gillian's future,” she
paused, hoping that he would volunteer some remark that would make her
task easier. But he volunteered nothing and, stealing a glance at him
she saw on his face an expression of peculiar stoniness to which she had
lately become accustomed. The new taciturnity, which she still found so
strange, seemed to have fallen on him suddenly. She stifled a sigh and
hurried on:
“I wonder if the matter of Gillian's future has ever occurred to you? It
has been in my mind often and lately I have had to give it more serious
attention. Time has run away so quickly. It is incredible that nearly
two years have passed since she became your ward. She will be twenty-one
in March--of age, and her own mistress. The question is--what is she to
do?”
“Do? There is no question of her _doing_ anything,” he replied shortly.
“You mean that her coming of age will make no difference--that things
will go on as they are?” Miss Craven eyed him curiously.
“Yes. Why not?”
“You know less of Gillian than I thought you did.” The old caustic tone
was sharp in her voice.
He looked surprised. “Isn't she happy here?”
“Happy!” Miss Craven laughed oddly. “It's a little word to mean so much.
Yes, she is happy--happy as the day is long--but that won't keep her.
She loves the Towers, she is adored on the estate, she has a corner in
that great heart of hers for all who live here--but still that won't
keep her. In her way of thinking she has a debt to pay, and all these
months, studying, working, hoping, she has been striving to that end.
She is determined to make her own way in the world, to repay what has
been expended on her----”
“That's dam' nonsense,” he interrupted hotly.
“It's not nonsense from Gillian's point of view,” Miss Craven answered
quickly, “it's just common honesty. We have argued the matter, she and
I, scores of times. I have told her repeatedly that in view of your
guardianship you stand _in loco parentis_ and, therefore, as long as she
is your ward her maintenance and artistic education are merely her just
due, that there can be no question of repayment. She does not see it in
that light. Personally--though I would not for the world have her know
it--I understand and sympathize with her entirely. Her independence, her
pride, are out of all proportion to her strength. I cannot condemn, I
can only admire--though I take good care to hide my admiration ...
and if you could persuade her to let the past rest, there is still the
question of her future.”
“That I can provide for.”
Miss Craven shook her head.
“That you can not provide for,” she said gravely.
The flat contradiction stirred him. He jerked upright from his former
lounging attitude and stood erect, scowling down at her from his great
height. “Why not?” he demanded haughtily.
Miss Craven shrugged. “What would you propose to do?” He caught the
challenge in her tone and for a moment was disconcerted. “There would be
ways--” he said, rather vaguely. “Something could be arranged--”
“You would offer her--charity?” suggested Miss Craven, wilfully dense.
“Charity be damned.”
“Charity generally is damnable to those who have to suffer it. No,
Barry, that won't do.”
He jingled the keys in his pocket and the scowl on his face deepened.
“I could settle something on her, something that would be adequate, and
it could be represented that some old investment of her father's had
turned up trumps unexpectedly.”
But Miss Craven shook her head again. “Clever, Barry, but not clever
enough. Gillian is no fool. She knows her father had no money, that he
existed on a pittance doled out to him by exasperated relatives which
ceased with his death. He told her plainly in his last letter that there
was nothing in the world for her--except your charity. Think of what
Gillian is, Barry, and think what she must have suffered--waiting for
your coming from Japan, and, to a less extent, in the dependence of
these last years.”
He moved uncomfortably, as if he resented the plainness of his aunt's
words, and having found a cigarette lit it slowly. Then he walked to the
window, which was still unshuttered, and looked out into the darkness,
his back turned uncompromisingly to the room. His inattentive attitude
seemed almost to suggest that the matter was not of vital interest to
him.
Miss Craven's face grew graver and she waited long before she spoke
again. “There is also another reason why I have strenuously opposed
Gillian's desire to make her own way in the world, a reason of which she
is ignorant. She is not physically strong enough to attempt to earn her
own living, to endure the hard work, the privations it would entail. You
remember how bronchitis pulled her down last year; I am anxious about
her this winter. She is constitutionally delicate, she may grow out
of it--or she may not. Heaven knows what seeds of mischief she has
inherited from such parents as hers. She needs the greatest care,
everything in the way of comfort--she is not fitted for a rough and
tumble life. And, Barry, I can't tell her. It would break her heart.”
Her eyes were fixed on him intently and she waited with eager
breathlessness for him to speak. But when at length he answered his
words brought a look of swift disappointment and she relaxed in her
chair with an air of weary despondency. He replied without moving.
“Can't you arrange something, Aunt Caro? You are very fond of Gillian,
you would miss her society terribly; cannot you persuade her that she
is necessary to you--that it would be possible for her to work and still
remain with you? I know that some day you will want to go back to your
own house in London, to take up your own interests again, and to travel.
I can't expect you to take pity much longer on a lonely bachelor. You
have given up much to help me--it cannot go on for ever. For what you
have done I can never thank you, it is beyond thanks, but I must not
trade on your generosity. If you put it to Gillian that you, personally,
do not want to part with her--that she is dear to you--it's true, isn't
it?” he added with sudden eagerness. And in surprise at her silence
he swung on his heel and faced her. She was leaning back in the big
armchair in a listless manner that was not usual to her.
“I am afraid you cannot count on me, Barry,” she said slowly. He stared
in sheer amazement.
“What do you mean, Aunt Caro?--you do care for her, don't you?”
“Care for her?” echoed Miss Craven, with a laugh that was curiously
like a sob, “yes, I do care for her. I care so much that I am going to
venture a great deal--for her sake. But I cannot propose that she should
live permanently with me because all future permanencies have been taken
out of my hands. I hate talking about myself, but you had to know some
day, this only accelerates it. I have not been feeling myself for some
time--a little while ago I went to London for definite information.
The man had the grace to be honest with me--he bade me put my house in
order.” Her tone left no possibility of misunderstanding. He was across
the room in a couple of hasty strides, on his knees beside her, his
hands clasped over hers.
“Aunt Caro!” The genuine and deep concern in his voice almost broke her
self-control. She turned her head, catching her lip between her teeth,
then with a little shrug she recovered herself and smiled at him.
“Dear boy, it must come some day--it has come a little sooner than
I expected, that is all. I'm not grumbling, I've had a wonderful
life--I've been able to do something with it. I have not sat altogether
idle in the market-place.”
“But are you sure? Doctors are not infallible.”
“Quite sure,” she answered steadily; “the man I went to was very kind,
very thorough. He insisted I should have other opinions. There was a
council of big-wigs and they all arrived at the same conclusion, which
was at least consoling. A diversity of opinion would have torn my nerves
to tatters. I couldn't tell you before, it would have worried me. I hate
a fuss. I don't want it mentioned again. You know--and there's an end of
it.” She squeezed his hands tightly for a moment, then got up abruptly
and went to the fireplace.
“I have only one regret--Gillian,” she said as he followed her. “You see
now that it is impossible for me to make a definite home for her, even
supposing that she were to agree to such a proposal. They gave me two or
three years at the longest--it might be any time.”
Craven stood beside her miserable and tongue-tied. Her news affected
him deeply, he was stunned with the suddenness of it and amazed at the
courage she displayed. She might almost have been discoursing on the
probable death of a stranger. And yet, he reflected, it was only in
keeping with her general character. She had been fearless all through
life, and for her death held no terrors.
He tried to speak but words failed him. And presently she spoke again,
hurriedly, disjointedly.
“I am helpless. I can do nothing for Gillian. I could have left her
money in my will, despite her pride she would have had to accept it. I
can't even do that. At my death all I have, as you know, goes back into
the estate. I have never saved anything--there never seemed any reason.
And what I made with my work I gave away. There is only you--only one
way--Barry, won't you--Barry!” She was crying undisguisedly, unconscious
even of the unaccustomed tears. “You know what I mean--you must know,”
she whispered entreatingly, struggling with emotion.
He was standing rigid, to her strained fancy he seemed almost to
have stopped breathing and there was in his attitude something that
frightened her. It came to her suddenly that, after all, he was to all
intents and purposes a stranger to her. Even the intimacy of these
last months, living in close contiguity to him in his own house had
not broken down the barrier that his sojourn in Japan had raised. She
understood him no better than on the day of his arrival in Paris. He had
been uniformly thoughtful and affectionate but had never reverted to the
old Barry whom she had known so well. He had, as it were, retired within
himself. He lived his life apart, with them but not of them, daily
carrying through the arduous work he set himself with a dogged
determination in which there was no pleasure. Yet, beyond a certain
gravity, to the casual observer there was in him no great change. He
entertained frequently and was a popular host, interesting and appearing
interested. Only Miss Craven and Peters, more intimate, saw the
effort that he made. To Miss Craven it seemed sometimes as if he were
deliberately living through a self-appointed period--she had found
herself wondering what cataclysm would end it. She was conscious of the
impression, which she tried vainly to dismiss as absurd, of living over
an active volcano. What would be the result of the upheaval when it
came? She had prayed earnestly for some counter-distraction that might
become powerful enough to surmount the tragic memory with which he
lived--a memory she was convinced and the tragedy was present in his
face. She had cherished a hope, born in the early days of their return
to Craven Towers and maintained in the face of seeming improbability of
fulfilment, that had grown to be an ardent desire. In the realization of
that hope she thought she saw his salvation. With the knowledge of her
own precarious hold on life she clung even more closely to what had
become the strongest wish she had ever known. She had never deluded
herself into imagining the consummation of her wish imminent, she
had frankly acknowledged to herself that his inscrutability was
impenetrable, and now hope seemed almost extinguished. She realized it
with a feeling of helplessness. And yet she had a curious impulse,
an inner conviction that urged with a peremptoriness that over-rode
subterfuge. She would speak plainly, be the consequences what they were.
It was for the ultimate happiness of the two beings whom she loved best
on earth--for that surely she might venture something. She had never
been afraid of plain speaking, it would be strange if she let
convention deter her now. Convention! it had wrecked many a life--so
had interference, she thought with sudden racking indecision. What if
by interference she hindered now, rather than helped? What if speech
did more mischief than silence? Irresolutely she wavered, and to her
indecision there came suddenly the further disturbing thought--if Barry
acceded to her earnest wish what ground had she for pre-supposing that
it would result in his happiness? She had no definite knowledge, no
positive assurance wherewith to press her request. The inmost feelings
of both were hidden from her. Her meddling might only bring more sorrow
to him who seemed already weighed down under a crushing burden of
grief. Gratitude and an intense admiration she knew existed. But between
admiration and any deeper feeling there was a wide gulf. And yet what
might not be hidden behind the grave seriousness of those great dark
eyes that looked with apparently equal frankness at every member of the
household? Months spent in the proximity of an unusually handsome man,
the romance of the tie between them--it was an experience that any
woman, least of all an unsophisticated convent-bred girl, could hardly
pass through unscathed. It was surely enough to gamble on, she reflected
with grim humour that did not amuse. It was a great hazzard, the highest
stakes she had ever played for who had never been afraid of losing. The
thought spurred her. If it was to be the last throw then let there be
no hesitation. A reputation for courage and coolness had gone with her
through life.
She turned to him abruptly, all indecision gone, complete mistress of
herself again.
“Barry, don't you understand?” she said with slow distinctness. “I want
you to ask Gillian to marry you.”
He started as if she had stabbed him.
“Good God,” he cried violently, “you don't know what you are saying!”
And from his tortured face she averted her eyes hastily, sick at heart.
But she held her ground, aware that retreat was not now possible.
She answered gently, steadying her voice with difficulty.
“Is it so extraordinary that I should wish it, should hope for it? I
care for you both so deeply. To know that your mother's place would be
filled by one who is worthy to follow her--how worthy only I, who have
been admitted to her high ideals, appreciate; to know that there would
be the happiness of home ties here for you, to know that I leave Gillian
safe in your hands--it would make my going very easy, Barry.”
His head was down on his arms on the mantelshelf, his face hidden from
her. “Gillian--safe--in my hands--_my God_!” he groaned, and shuddered
like a man in mortal agony.
All the deep love she had for him, all the fears she entertained for him
leaped up in her with sudden strength, forcing utterance and breaking
down the reticence she had imposed upon herself. She caught his arm.
“Barry, what is it--for heaven's sake speak! Do you think I have
been blind all these months, that I have seen nothing? Can't you tell
me--anything?” her voice, quivering with emotion, was strange to him,
strange enough to recall him to himself. He straightened slowly and drew
away from her with a little shiver. “There is nothing I can tell you,”
he replied dully, “nothing that I can explain, only this--I went through
hell in Japan. I don't want any sympathy--it was my own fault, my own
doing.... Just now I made a fool of myself, I was off my guard, your
words startled me. Forget it, you can do me no good by remembering.”
He made an abrupt movement as if to leave the room but Miss Craven stood
squarely in front of him, her chin raised stubbornly. She knew now that
she was face to face with something even more terrible than she had
imagined. He had avoided a definite answer. By all reasoning she should
have accepted his rebuff but intuition, stronger than reason, impelled
her. If he went now it would be the end. She knew that positively.
The question could never be opened up again. She could not let it pass
without a final effort. It was inconceivable that this shadow could
always lie across his life. Whatever tragical event had occurred
belonged to the past--surely the future might hold some alleviation,
some happiness that might compensate for the sorrow that had lined his
face and brought the silver threads that gleamed in his thick dark hair.
Surely in the care for another life memory might be dulled and
there might dawn for him a new hope, a new peace. Despite his broken
suggestive words her trust in him was still maintained; she had no fear
for Gillian--with him her future would be assured. And there seemed no
other alternative. Her confidence in herself furthermore was not shaken,
she had a deep unalterable conviction that the wish for the union she
so desired was based upon something deeper than mere fancy. It was not
anything that she could put into words or even into concrete thought,
but the belief was strong. It was a vivid assurance that went beyond
reasoning, that made it possible for her to speak again.
“Are you going to let the past dominate the rest of your life,” she
asked slowly, “is the future to count for nothing? There are, in all
probability, many years ahead of you--cannot you, in them, obliterate
what has gone before?”
He turned from her with a hopeless gesture and a muttered word she could
not catch. But he did not go as she feared he would. He lingered in the
room, staring into the heart of the glowing fire and Miss Craven played
her last card.
“And--Gillian?” she said firmly, all the Craven obstinacy in her voice,
and waited long for his answer. When it came it was flat, monotonous.
“I cannot marry her. I cannot marry--anybody.”
“Are you married already?” The question escaped before she could bite it
back. With a quickening heartbeat she awaited an outburst, a retort
that would end everything. But he answered quietly, in the same toneless
voice: “No, I am not married.”
She caught at the loop-hole it seemed to offer. “If there is no bar----”
she began eagerly, but he cut her short. “I have done with all that sort
of thing,” he said harshly.
“Why?” she persisted, with a doggedness that matched his own. “If you
have known sorrow, does that necessarily mean that you can never again
know happiness? Must you for a--a memory, turn your back irrevocably on
any chance that may restore your peace of mind? I believe that such a
chance is waiting for you.”
He looked at her with strange intentness. “For me....” he smiled
bitterly. “If you only knew!”
“I only know that you are hesitating at what most men would jump at,”
she retorted, suddenly conscious of strained nerves and feeling as if
she were battering impotently against a granite rock-face. His hands
clenched but he did not reply and swift contrition fell on her. She
turned to him impulsively. “Forgive me, Barry. I shouldn't have said
that, but I want this thing so desperately. I am convinced that it
would mean happiness for you, for you both. And when I think of
Gillian--alone--fighting against the world----” She broke down
completely and he gripped her hands with a strength that made her wince.
“She'll never do that if I can help it,” he said swiftly.
Miss Craven looked up with sudden hope. “You will ask her?” she
whispered expectantly. He put her from him gently. “I can promise
nothing. I must think,” he said deliberately, and there was in his face
a look that held her silent.
With uncertain feelings she watched him leave the room.... Inevitable
re-action set in, doubts overwhelmed her. Had she done what was best
or had she blundered irretrievably? She went unsteadily to a chair,
extraordinarily tired, exhausted in her new weakness by the emotional
strain through which she had passed. She was beginning to be a little
aghast at what she had done, at the force that she had set moving.
And yet she had been actuated by the highest motives. She believed
implicitly that the joining of the two lives whose future was all her
care would result in the ultimate happiness of both. They had grown
used to each other. A closer relationship than that of guardian and ward
seemed, in view of the comparatively slight difference in age, a natural
outcome of the intimacy into which they had been thrown. It was
not without precedent; similar events had happened before and would
doubtless happen again, she argued, striving to stifle the still
lingering doubt that whispered that she had gone beyond her prerogative.
And what she had done was in a way inexplicable even to herself. All
through she had felt that involuntary forceful impulse that had been
almost fatalistic, she had urged through the prompting of an inward
conviction. She had perhaps attached too much importance to it, her own
wish had been magnified until it assumed the appearance of fate.
Her closed eyes quivered as she leaned back in the chair.
She had done it for the best, she kept repeating mechanically to
herself, to try and bring happiness into his life; to insure the safety
of the girl who had become so dear to her. Had it been his thought too,
even before she spoke? His manner had been so strange. He had recoiled
from her suggestion but she had been left with the impression that it
was no new one to him. She had caught a fleeting look, before his face
had taken on that impenetrable mask, that had given the lie to his
emphatic words. He had seemed to be wrestling with himself, she had seen
the moisture thick on his forehead, his set face had looked as if it
could never soften again. When he had gone he had given her no definite
promise and she had no possibility of guessing what his decision would
be. But on reflection she found hope in his deferring reply. It was all
that was left to her. She had done her utmost, the rest lay with him.
She sighed deeply, she had never felt such weariness of mind and body.
As she gave way to a feeling of growing lassitude drowsiness came
over her which she was too tired to combat and for some time she slept
heavily. She awoke with a start to find Gillian, wide-eyed with concern,
kneeling beside her, the girl's slim warm fingers clasped closely round
her sleep-numbed hands. Dazed with sudden waking she looked up without
speaking at the fresh young face that bent over her. Gillian rubbed the
cold hands gently. “Aunt Caro, you were asleep! I've never caught you
napping before,” she laughed, but a hint of anxiety mingled with the
wonder in her voice. Miss Craven slowly smiled reassurance. Her weakness
seemed to have vanished with sleep, she felt herself once more strong
enough to hide from the searching affectionate eyes anything that might
give pain or cause uneasiness. She sat up straighter.
“Laziness, my dear, sheer laziness,” she said sturdily. Gillian looked
at her gravely. “Sure?” she asked, “you are sure that you are quite
well? You looked so tired--your face was quite white.”
“Quite sure--unbeliever! And you--did you have a good time; did you
remember to take your tonic, and did you keep warm?”
Gillian laughed softly and stood up, ticking off the items on her
fingers. “I did have a good time, I did remember to take my tonic, and
this heavenly coat has kept me as warm as pie--Nina Atherton taught me
that. That nice family considerably enlarged my vocabulary,” she added
with enjoyment, slipping out of a heavy fur coat and coming back to
perch on the arm of Miss Craven's chair.
“Not yours only,” was the answer, “Peter was quoting the husband this
afternoon.”
They were both silent for a moment thinking of the three charming
Americans who had spent a couple of months at the Towers the previous
summer, bringing with them an adored scrap of humanity and a host of
nurses, valets and maids.
Then Gillian drew her arm closer around Miss Craven.
“Alex pressed me to stay until to-morrow, I had the greatest trouble to
get away. But I promised to come back this afternoon, and, do you
know, Aunt Caro, I had the queerest feeling this morning. I thought
you _wanted_ me, wanted me urgently. As if you could ever want anybody
urgently, you self-reliant wonder.” She gave the shoulder she was
caressing an affectionate hug. “But it was odd, wasn't it? I nearly
telephoned, and then I concluded you would think I had taken leave of my
senses.”
Miss Craven sat very still.
“I should have,” she replied, and hoped that her voice appeared more
natural than it sounded to herself. Gillian laughed.
“Anyhow, I'm glad you had Mr. Peters to cheer your solitary tea. I hated
to think of you being alone.”
“He didn't. He left early. But Barry condescended to take pity on me.”
“Mr. Craven!” There was the slightest pause before she added: “I thought
he scorned _le five o'clock_. He's not nearly so domesticated as David.”
“As who, my dear?” asked Miss Craven, staring. Gillian gave another
little laugh.
“Oh, that's my private name for Mr. Peters--he doesn't mind--he spoils
me dreadfully--'the sweet singer in Israel'--you know. He has got the
most beautiful tenor voice I have ever listened to.”
“Peter--sing! I've never heard him sing,” said Miss Craven in wonder,
and she looked up with a new curiosity. “I've known him for thirty
years, and in less than that number of months you discover an
accomplishment of which everybody else is ignorant. How did you manage
it, child?”
“By accident, one evening in the summer. You were dining out, and
Mouston and I had gone for a ramble in the park--it's gorgeous there in
the _crepuscule_--and we were quite close to the Hermitage. I heard him
and I eaves-dropped--is there such a word? It was so lovely that I
had to clap and he came out and found an unexpected audience on the
windowsill. Wasn't it dreadful? He was so dear about it and explained
that it was a very private form of amusement, but since the cat was out
of the bag there was an end of the matter, only he positively declined
to perform in public. I bullied him into singing some more, and then he
walked home with me.”
“You twist Peter round your little finger and trade on his good nature
shamelessly,” said Miss Craven severely, but her teasing held no
terrors.
“He's such a dear,” the girl repeated softly, and slipping off the arm
of the chair she went to the fire and knelt down to put back a log that
had fallen on to the hearth and was smouldering uselessly. Miss Craven
looked at her as, the log replaced, she still knelt on the rug and
held her hands mechanically to the blaze. She had an intense and wholly
futile longing to speak what was in her mind and, demanding confidence
for confidence, penetrate the secret of the heart that had confided to
her all but this one thing. Little by little through no pressure but
by mere telepathic sympathy, reserve had melted away and hopes and
aspirations had been submitted and discussed. But of this one thing
there could be no discussion. Miss Craven realised it and stifled a
regretful sigh. Even she, dear as she knew herself to be, might not
intrude so intimately. For by such an intrusion she might lose all that
she had gained. She could not forfeit the confidence that had grown
to mean so much to her, it was too high a price to pay even for the
knowledge she sought. She must have patience, she thought, as she ran
her fingers with the old gesture through her grey curls. But it was hard
to be patient when any moment might bring the summons that would put
her beyond the ken of earthly events. To go, leaving this problem still
unsolved! She set her teeth and sat rigid, gripping the oak rails of the
chair until her fingers ached, battling with herself. She looked again
at the slim kneeling figure, the pale oval face half turned to her, the
thick dark hair piled high on the small proud head glistening in the
firelight. A thing of grace and beauty--in mind and body desirable. How
could he hesitate....
“Barry was riding--all day--in this atrocious weather. He came in
soaked,” she said abruptly, almost querulously, unlike her usual
tolerant intonation. There was no immediate answer and for a moment she
thought she had not been heard. The girl had moved slightly, turning
her face away, and with a steady hand was building the dying fire into a
pyramid. She completed the operation carefully and sat back on her heels
flourishing the tiny brass tongs.
“He's tough,” she said lightly, unconsciously echoing Peters' words and
apparently heedless of the interval between Miss Craven's remark and her
own reply. She seemed more interested in the fire than in her guardian.
Laying the tongs away leisurely she came back to Miss Craven's chair
and settled down on the floor beside her, her arms crossed on the
elder woman's knee. She looked up frankly, a faint smile lightening her
serious brown eyes.
“I don't think Mr. Craven wants any sympathy, _cherie_,” she said
slowly, “I reserve all mine for Yoshio, he fusses so dreadfully when
the 'honourable master' goes for those tremendous long rides or is out
hunting. Have you noticed that he always waits in the hall, to be ready
at the first moment to rush away and get dry clothes and a hot bath and
all the other Oriental paraphernalia for checking chills and driving
the ache out of sore bones? I don't suppose Mr. Craven has ever had sore
bones--he is so splendidly strong--and Yoshio certainly seems determined
he never shall. Mary thoroughly approves of him, she's a fusser by
nature too; she deplores his heathenism but says he has more sense than
many a Christian. Soon after we came here I found him in the hall one
day staring through the window, looking the picture of misery, his funny
little yellow face all puckered up. He saw me out of the back of his
head, truly he did, for he never turned, and tried to slip away. But I
made him stay and talk to me. I sat on the stairs and he folded himself
up on the mat--I can't describe it any other way--and told me all about
Japan, and California and Algeria and all the other queer places he has
been to with Mr. Craven. He has such a quaint dramatic way of speaking
and lapses into unintelligible Japanese just at the exciting moments--so
tantalising! They seem to have been in some very--what do you
say?--tight corners. We got quite sociable. I was so interested in
listening to his description of the wonderful gardens they make in Japan
that I never heard Mr. Craven come in and did not realise that he was
standing near us until Yoshio suddenly shot up and fled, literally
vanished, and left me _planteel_! I felt so idiotic sitting on the
stairs hugging my knees and Mr. Craven, all splashed and muddy, waiting
for me to let him pass--I was dreadfully frightened of him in those
days,” the faintest colour tinged her cheeks. “I longed for an
earthquake to swallow me up,” she laughed and scrambled to her feet,
gathering the heap of furs into her arms and holding them dark and
silky against her face. “You shouldn't have encouraged in me a love
of beautiful furs, Aunt Caro,” she said inconsequently, with sudden
seriousness. “I've sense enough left to know that I shouldn't indulge
it--and I'm human enough to adore them.”
“Rubbish! furs suit you--please my sense of the artistic. I would not
encourage you if you had a face like a harvest moon and no carriage--I
can't bear sloppiness in anything,” snapped Miss Craven in quite her old
style. “When do the Horringfords start for Egypt?” she added by way of
definitely changing the subject.
Gillian rubbed her cheek against the soft sealskin with an understanding
smile. It was hopeless to try and curb Miss Craven's generosity,
hopeless to attempt to argue against it. “Next week,” she answered the
inquiry. “Tuesday, probably. They stay in Paris for a month _en route;_
Lord Horringford wants some data from the Louvre and also to arrange
some preliminaries with the French Egyptologist who is joining their
party.”
“Hum! And Alex--still interested in mummies?”
“More than ever, she is full of enthusiasm. She talks of dynasties and
tribal deities, of kings and _Kas_ and symbols until my head spins. Lord
Horringford teases her but it is easy to see that her interest pleases
him. He says she is the mascot of the expedition, that she brought luck
to the digging last year.”
“Alex has had many hobbies but never one that ran for two seasons,” said
Miss Craven thoughtfully; “I am glad she has found an interest at last
that promises to be permanent.”
Gillian gathered the furs closer in her arms and made a few steps toward
the door. “She has found more than that,” she said softly, and the
colour flamed in her sensitive face. Miss Craven nodded. “You mean
that in unearthing the buried treasure of a dead past she has found the
living treasure of a man's love? Yes, and not any too soon, poor silly
child. Men like Horringford don't bear playing with. I wonder whether
she knows how near she has been to making shipwreck of her life.”
“I think she knows--now,” said Gillian, with a little wise smile as she
left the room.
The sound of her soft contralto singing an old French nursery rhyme
echoed faintly back to the library:
“Mon père m'a donné un petit mari,
Mon Dieu, quel homme!”
And, listening, Miss Craven smiled half-sadly, for the quaint words
carried her back to the days of her own childhood. But the exigencies
of the present thrust aside past memories. She sat on, wrapped in her
thoughts until the dropping temperature of the room sent through her
a sudden chill, so she rose with a shiver and a startled glance at her
watch.
“Dry bones and love,” she said musingly, “it's a curious combination!
Peter, my man, you gave wise advice there.... But not all your wisdom
can help _my_ trouble.”