December had brought a complete change of weather. It was within a few
days of Christmas, a typical old-fashioned Yuletide with a firm white
mantle of snow lying thick over the country.
Underneath the ground was iron and for two weeks all hunting had been
stopped.
Craven was returning to the Towers after an absence of ten days.
The motor crawled through the park for in places the frozen road was
slippery as glass and the chauffeur was a cautious North-countryman
whose faith in the chains locked round the wheels was not unlimited; he
was driving carefully, with a wary eye for the worst patches noted on
the outward run, and, beside him, equally alert, sat Yoshio muffled to
the ears in an immense overcoat, a shapeless bundle.
It was early afternoon, calm and clear, and in the air the intense
stillness that succeeds a heavy snowfall. The pale sun, that earlier
in the day had iridised the snow, was now too low to affect the dead
whiteness of the scene against which the trees showed magnified and
sharply black. Here and there across the smooth surface stretching on
either side of the road lay the curiously differing tracks of animals.
From the back seat of the car where he sat alone Craven marked them
mechanically. He knew every separate spoor and could have named the
owner of each; ordinarily they would have claimed from him a certain
interest but today he passed them without a second thought. He did not
resent the slow progress of the car, he was in no hurry to reach the
Towers. He had come to a momentous decision but shrank from the action
that must necessarily follow; once at the house he knew that he would
permit himself no further delay, he would put his purpose into effect
at the earliest opportunity--today if possible; here there was still
time--vaguely he wondered for what? Not for reflection, that was
done with. He had striven with all his strength to arrive at a right
determination; he had thought until reasoning became a mere repetition
of fixed ideas moving in a circle and arriving always at an unvaried
starting point. There seemed no consequence that he had not weighed in
his mind, no issue that he had not considered. To ponder afresh would be
to cover again uselessly ground that he had gone over a hundred times.
Three days ago he had made his choice, he had no intention of departing
from it. For good or ill the thing must go forward now. And, after all,
the ultimate decision did not lie with him. Admitting it his thoughts
became introspective. Throughout his deliberations he had put self on
one side, there had been no question of his own wishes; now for the
first time he allowed personal considerations to rise unchecked. For
what did he hope? He knew the reason of his reluctance to reach the
house--he desired success and yet he feared it, feared the consequences
that might result, feared the strength of his own will to persevere in
the course he had chosen. For him there was no other way but, merciful
God, it would be hard! He set his teeth and stared at the frozen
landscape with unseeing eyes. Since her outburst four weeks ago Miss
Craven had not spoken again of the wish that was nearest her heart, but
he knew that she was waiting for an answer, knew that that answer must
be given. One way or the other. Day had succeeded day in torturing
indecision. He had lived, slept with the problem, at no time was it
out of his mind. In the course of the long rides that had become more
frequent, obtruding during the monotonous hours spent in the estate
office, the problem persisted. In the sleepless hours of the night he
wrestled with it. If it had been a matter of personal inclination, if
the past had not risen between them there would have been no hesitation.
He would have gone to her months ago, would have begged the priceless
gift that she alone could give. He wanted her, almost above the hope
of salvation, and the inducement to ignore the past had been all
but overpowering. He loved and desired with all the strength of the
passionate nature he had inherited. He craved for her with an intensity
that was anguish, that set him wondering how far the power of endurance
reached, how much a man could bear. He was torn with the fierce
promptings of primeval forces. To take her, willing or unwilling,
despite honour, despite all that stood between them, to make her his and
hold her in the face of all the world--at times the temptation had been
maddening. There had been days when he had not dared to look on her,
when he had drawn himself more than ever apart from the common life,
fearful of himself, fearful of circumstances that seemed beyond his
ordering. And the thought that another could take what he might not
had engendered an insensate jealousy that was beyond reason. He did not
recognise himself, he had not known the depths of his own nature. If
there had been no bar, if she could have come to him willingly, if there
could indeed have been for him the full ties of home--the thought was
agony. Miss Craven's words had been a sword turning in an open wound. To
the burden he already carried had been added this.
The future of his ward had been his problem as well as Miss Craven's.
Only a little while ago a way had seemed clear, not a way to his own
happiness--by his own act he had put himself beyond all possibility of
that--but a way that would mean security and happiness for her who had
come to mean more than life to him. For her safety he would have given
his soul. The term of his guardianship was drawing to an end, in a
few months his legal control over her terminated. Miss Craven who had
surrendered her independence for two years would be returning to her own
home, to her old life; it had seemed a foregone conclusion that Gillian
would accompany her.
But the double shock in the revelation of Miss Craven's precarious state
and Gillian's delicacy had been staggering. He had not been prepared for
a contingency that seemed to cut the ground from under his feet. With
all the will in the world his aunt was powerless to further the plan he
proposed, any day might bring the Great Summons. And Gillian! The little
persistent cough rang in his ears always. Gillian and poverty--by day it
haunted him, he woke in the night sweating at the very thought. It was
intolerable. And yet there appeared no means of escaping it--save one.
For a moment, with a fierce joy, he saw fate aiding him, forcing into
his hands what he yearned to gather to himself, then he recoiled from
even the thought of her purity linked with the stain of his past. He
had racked his brain to discover an alternative. To force upon her an
adequate income that would put her beyond want and the necessity of work
would be easy. To induce her to use the money thus provided he divined
would be impossible, he seemed to know intuitively that her will would
not give way to his. During these last weeks he had looked at her
with new understanding, it seemed incredible that he had never before
recognised the determination that underlay her shy gentleness.
Character shone in the frank brown eyes, there was a firmness that was
unmistakable in the arched lips that were the only patch of colour in
her delicate face. From his wealth she would accept nothing. Would she
accept him--all that he dared offer? It was no new idea, the thought had
been in his mind often but always he resolutely put it from him with a
feeling of abhorrence. It was an insult to her womanhood, an expedient
that nothing could justify. And yet step by step he was forced back
upon it--there seemed no other way to save her from herself. Days of
harrassing indecision, his only thought she, brought him no nearer to
a conclusion. And time was passing. He had reached a point when further
deliberation was beyond his power; when all his strength seemed to turn
into hopeless longing that, to the exclusion of all else, craved even
the mockery of possession; when days were torment and nights a sleepless
horror. Then change of scene had aided final determination. The factor
of the Scotch estate had written of a sudden and unexpected difficulty
for which he asked personal advice. A telegram had stopped his proposed
visit to the Towers and Craven had himself gone instead to Scotland. And
in the solitude of his northern home he had decided on the only course
that seemed open to him. He would go to her with his poor offer, the
poorest surely that ever a man made to a woman, and the rest would lie
with her. But how would she receive it? He had a vision of the soft
brown eyes blazing with scorn, of the slender figure he ached to hold
in his arms turning from him in cold disgust, and he clenched his hands
until the nails bit deep into his wet palms.
A bad skid that slewed the car half round broke his thoughts and in a
few minutes they were at the house.
Forbes, the elderly butler who had been an under footman when Peters
first came to the Towers, was waiting for him in the hall, informative
with the garrulousness of an old and privileged servant. A late
luncheon was waiting--he sighed patiently on hearing that it was not
required--Miss Craven had gone to the Vicarage for tea; Mr. Peters was
expected to dinner that night and he had telephoned in the morning to
tell Mr. Craven--Craven cut him short. Peter's message could wait, only
one thing seemed to matter just now.
“Where is Miss Locke?” he asked curtly. “In the studio, sir,” replied
Forbes with resignation. If Mr. Barry didn't want to hear what Mr.
Peters had got to say he, for one, was not going to press the matter.
Mr. Barry had had his own way of doing things since the days when he sat
on the pantry table kicking his heels and flourishing stolen jam under
Forbes' very nose--a masterful one always, he was. And if it was a case
of Miss Gillian--Forbes retired with an armful of ulster and rugs into
the cloakroom to hide a sympathetic grin.
Craven crossed the hall and went into the study. He looked without
interest through an accumulation of letters lying on the writing table,
then threw them down indifferently. Walking to the fireplace he lit a
cigarette and stood staring at the cheerful blaze. At last he raised
his head and gazed with deliberation at himself in the glass over the
mantle. He scowled at the stern worn face reflected in the mirror,
looking curiously at its deep cut lines, at the silver patches in the
thick brown hair. Then with a violent exclamation he swung abruptly on
his heel, flung the cigarette into the fire and left the room. He went
upstairs slowly, surprised at the feeling of apathy that had come over
him. In the face of direct action the high tension of the last few
weeks had snapped, leaving him dull, almost inert, and reluctance to
go forward grew with every step. But at the head of the stairs his mood
changed suddenly. All that the coming interview meant to him revealed
itself with startling clearness. With a deep breath he caught at the
rail, for he was shaking uncontrollably, and covered his face with his
hand.
“God!” he whispered, and again: “God!”
Then he gripped himself and went quickly across the gallery, turning
down the corridor that led to the west wing. He followed the oddly
twisting passage, contorted at the whim of succeeding generations where
rooms had been enlarged or abolished, passing rows of closed doors and
another staircase. The corridor terminated in the room he was seeking.
It had been the old playroom; at the extreme end of the wing it faced
northward and westward and was well suited for the studio into which it
had been converted. It was Gillian's own domain and he had never asked
to visit it. As he reached the door he heard from within the shrill
treble of a boy's mirth and then a low soft laugh that made his
heart beat quicker. He tapped and went in and for a moment stared in
amazement. He did not recognise the room, it was a totally unexpected
French _atelier_ tucked away in the corner of a typically English house.
The polished rug-laid floor, the fluted folds of _toile-de-genes_
clothing the walls, the litter of sketches and pictures, casts and
easels, the familiar lay-figure grotesquely attitudinising in a corner,
above all the atmosphere carried him straight to Paris. It was the
room of an artist, and a French artist. His eyes leaped to her. She was
standing before a big easel looking wonderingly over her shoulder at the
opening door, the brush she was using poised in her hand, her eyes wide
with astonishment, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks.
In the picturesque painter's blouse, her brown hair loosely framing her
face, she seemed altogether different. He could not define wherein lay
the change, he had no time to discriminate, he only knew that seen thus
she was a thousand times more desirable than she had ever been and that
his heart cried out for her more fiercely than before. He looked at her
with hungry longing, then quickly--lest his eyes should betray him--from
her to her model. A boy of ten with an intelligent small brown face, a
mop of black curls, and red lips parted in a mischievous smile, he stood
on the raised platform with the easy assurance of a professional.
Craven shut the door behind him and came forward. She turned to meet
him and the colour rushed in a crimson wave to the roots of her hair.
“_Monsieur ... vous etes de retour ... mais, soyez le bienvenu_!” she
stammered, with surprise unconsciously lapsing into the language of
childhood. Then she caught herself up with a little laugh of confusion
and hurried on in English: “I am so sorry ... there is nobody in but me.
Will you have some tea? It is only three o'clock,” with a glance at her
wrist, “but I expect you lunched early.”
“I don't want any tea,” he said bluntly. “I came to see you.” He spoke
in French, mindful of two sharp ears on the platform. The colour in her
face deepened painfully and her eyes fell under his steady gaze. She
moved slowly back to the easel.
“If you could wait a few moments----” she murmured.
“I don't want to interrupt,” he said hastily. “Please finish your work.
You don't mind if I stay? I haven't been here since I was a boy; you
have changed the room incredibly. May I look round?”
She nodded assent over a tube of colour, and returned to her study.
Left to himself he wandered leisurely round the room, examining the
pictures and sketches that were heaped indiscriminately. He had never
before displayed any interest in her work, and was now amazed at what he
saw. There was power in it that surprised him, that made him wonder what
intuition had given the convent-bred girl the knowledge she exhibited.
The tardy recognition of her talent strengthened his stranger feeling
toward her. He went thoughtfully to the fireplace, and, from the
rug, surveyed the room and its occupants. The atmosphere recalled old
memories--he had studied in Paris after leaving Oxford--only one thing
seemed lacking.
“May I smoke?” he asked abruptly.
Gillian turned with a quick smile.
“But, of course. What need to ask? After Aunt Caro has been here for an
hour the room is blue.”
For another ten minutes he watched her in silence, free to look as he
would, for her back was toward him and in his position before the fire
he was beyond the range of the little model's inquisitive black eyes.
Then she laid palette and brushes on a near table and stepped back,
frowning at what she had done until a smile came slowly to chase the
creases from her forehead. She spoke without moving, still looking at
the canvas: “That is all for to-day, Danny. The light has gone.”
The small boy stretched himself luxuriously, and descending from the
platform, joined her and gazed with evident interest at his portrait.
He peered in unconscious but faithful imitation of her own critical
attitude, his head slanted at the same angle as hers. “It's coming on,”
he announced solemnly, and Craven guessed from the girl's laugh that it
was a repetition of some remark heard and stored up for future use. The
boy grinned in response, and slipping behind her went to the table where
she had laid her tools. “Can I clean palut?” he asked hopefully, his
hand already half-way to the coveted mass of colour.
“Not to-day, thanks, Danny.”
“Shall I fetch th' dog, Miss?” more hopefully. Gillian turned to him
quickly.
“He bit you last time.”
Danny wriggled his feet and his small white teeth flashed in a wide
smile. “He won't bite I again,” he said confidently. “Mammy said 'twas
'cos he loved you and hated to have folks near you. She said I was to
whisper in his ear I loved you too, 'cos then he wouldn't touch me. Dad
he says 'tis a damned black devil,” he added with candid relish and a
sidelong glance of mischief at his employer.
Gillian laughed and gave his shoulder a little pat.
“I'm afraid he is,” she admitted ruefully. The boy threw his head back.
“I ain't afeard o' he,” he said stoutly. “_Shall_ I fetch 'im?”
“I think we'll leave him where he is, Danny,” she said gravely, as if
in confidence. “He's probably very happy. Now run away and come again on
Saturday.” She waved a paint-stained rag at him and turned again to
the picture. Obediently he started towards the door, then hesitated,
glancing irresolutely at Craven, and tip-toed back to the easel.
“Them things in the drawer,” he muttered sepulchrally, in a voice not
intended to reach the ears of the rather awe-inspiring personage on the
hearthrug. Gillian whipped round contritely. “Danny, I forgot them!” she
apologised, and tweaking a black curl went to a bureau and produced a
square cardboard box. Danny tucked it under his arm with murmured thanks
and a duck of the head, and crossing the room noiselessly went out,
closing the door behind him softly. Craven came slowly to her. She moved
to give him place before the easel. Craven looked at the small alert
brown face, the odd black eyes dancing with almost unearthly merriment,
the red lips curving upward to an enigmatical smile, and his wonder and
admiration grew.
“Who is he?” he asked curiously, puzzled by a likeness he seemed to
recognise dimly and yet was unable to place.
“Danny Major--the son of one of your gamekeepers,” said Gillian; “his
mother has gipsy blood in her.”
Craven whistled. “I remember,” he said, interested. “Old Major was
head-keeper. Young Major lost his heart to a gipsy lass and his father
kicked him out of doors. Peters, as usual, smoothed things over and kept
the fellow on at his job, in spite of a great deal of opposition--he had
seen the girl and formed his own opinion. I asked once or twice and he
said that it had turned out satisfactorily. So this is the son--he's a
rum-looking little beggar.”
Gillian was cleaning brushes at the side table. “He's the terror of the
neighbourhood,” she said smiling, “but for some reason he is a perfect
angel when he comes here. It isn't the chocolates,” she added hastily
as she saw a fleeting smile on his face, “he just likes coming. And
he tells me the most wonderful things about the woods and the wood
beasties.”
“He would,” said Craven significantly, “it's in the blood. What's this?”
he asked, pointing to a smaller board propped face inward against the
big canvas. For a moment she did not answer and the colour flamed into
her face again. She put the brushes away, and wiping her fingers on a
cloth, lifted the board and gave it into his hands.
“It's Danny as I see him,” she said in an odd voice. And, looking at
it, Craven realised that the cleverness of the painted head on the large
canvas paled to mediocrity beside the brilliance of the sepia sketch he
held. It was the same head--but marvellously different--set on the body
of a faun. The dancing limbs were pulsing with life, the tiny hoofs
stamping the flower-strewn earth in an ecstasy of movement; the head was
thrown forward, bent as though to catch a distant echo, and among the
tossing curls showed two small curving horns; to the enigmatical smile
of the original had been added a subtle touch of mockery, and the wide
eyes held a look of mystical knowledge that was uncanny. Craven held
it silently, it seemed an incredible piece of work for the girl to have
conceived. And, beside him, she waited nervously for his verdict, with
close-locked twitching fingers. He had never come before, had never
shown any interest in the work that meant so much to her. She was hungry
for his praise, fearful of his censure. If he saw nothing in it now
but the immature efforts of an amateur! Her heart tightened. She drew a
little nearer to him, her eyes fixed apprehensively on his intent face,
her breath coming quickly. At length he replaced the sketch carefully.
“You have a wonderful talent,” he said slowly. A little gasp of relief
escaped her and her lips trembled in spite of all efforts to keep them
steady. “You like it?” she whispered eagerly, and was terrified at the
awful pallor that overspread his face. For a moment he could not speak.
The words, the intonation! He was back again in Japan, looking at
the painting of a lonely fir tree clinging to a jutting sea-washed
cliff--the faintest scent of oriental perfume seemed stealing through
the air. He drew his hand across his eyes. “Merciful God ... not here
... not now!” he prayed in silent agony. Then with a desperate effort he
mastered himself and turned to the frightened girl with a forced smile.
“Forgive me--I've a beastly headache--the room went spinning round for
a minute,” he said jerkily, wiping the moisture from his forehead. She
looked at him gravely. “I think you are very tired, and I don't believe
you had any lunch,” she said with quiet decision. “I'm going to make
some coffee. Aunt Caro says my coffee drinking is more vicious than her
smoking,” she went on, purposely giving him time to recover himself, and
crossing the room she collected little cups and a small brass pot.
“Any how it's the real article, and in spite of what she says Aunt Caro
doesn't scorn it. She comes regularly to drink my _cafe noir_ with her
after-lunch cigarette.”
Craven dropped down heavily on the broad cushioned window seat, his
hands clasped over his throbbing temples, fighting to regain his shaken
nerve. And yet there was a great hope dawning. For the first time the
threatening vision had failed to materialise, and the fact gave him
courage. If a time should come when it would definitely cease to haunt
him! He could never forget, never cease to regret, but he would feel
that in the Land of Understanding the hapless victim of his crime had
forgiven the sin that had robbed her of her young life.
And as he grew calmer he began to be conscious that in the room where
he sat there was a restfulness that he had not felt in any other part
of the house since his return to Craven Towers. It was acting on him
curiously and he wondered what it portended. And as he pondered it
Gillian came to him with a cup of coffee in either hand.
_“Monsieur est servi,”_ she said with a little laugh. She seemed to have
suddenly overcome shyness as if, in her own domain, the first surprise
of his visit over, her surroundings gave her confidence. Or, perhaps,
the womanliness that had been called out to meet his passing weakness
had set her on another plane. All signs of giddiness had left him and,
with her usual intuition, she did not trouble him with questions. For
the first time she found it easy to speak to him, and talked as
she would have done to Peters. She spoke of his northern visit and,
following his lead, of her work, freely and without embarrassment. Every
moment the restraint that had been between them seemed growing less.
She marvelled that she had ever found him unapproachable and wondered,
contritely, if her shyness had been alone to blame. She had been always
constrained and silent with him--small wonder that he had avoided
her, she thought humbly. Yet how could it have been otherwise? The tie
between them, the wonderful generosity he had shown, the aloofness
he had maintained, had made it impossible for her to view him as an
ordinary human being. She owed him everything and passionate recognition
and a sense of her indebtedness had grown with equal fervour. She had
almost worshipped him. He had taken her from a life that had grown
unbearable, he had given her the opportunity to follow the career for
which she longed. She could never repay him, she found it difficult to
put into words even to herself just what she felt towards him. From the
first she had raised him to the empty pedestal vacated by that fallen
idol, her father. And out of hero-worship had grown love, at first the
exalted devotion of an immature girl, adoration that was purely sexless
and selfless--a mystical love without passion, spiritual. He had
appeared to her as a being of another sphere and, mentally, she had
knelt at his feet as to a patron saint. But with her own development
love had expanded. She realised that what she felt for him was no longer
childish adoration, but a greater, more wonderful emotion. She had grown
to a full understanding of her own heart, the divinity had become a
man for whose love she yearned. But she loved hopelessly as she
loved deeply, she had no thought that her love could be returned. His
proximity had always troubled her, and to-day as she sat on the window
seat beside him she was conscious of a greater unrest than she had ever
before felt, and her heart throbbed painfully with the vague formless
longings, inexplicable and frightening, that stirred within her until it
seemed impossible that her agitation could pass unnoticed. Shyness fell
on her again, the ready words faltered, and gradually she became silent.
Craven took the empty coffee cups and replaced them on the table by the
fire. Going back to the window he found her kneeling up on the cushioned
seat, her hands clasped before her, looking out at the white world. The
childish attitude that seemed in keeping with the artist's blouse and
tumbled hair made her look singularly young. He stood beside her, so
close that he almost touched her shoulder, and his eyes ranged hungrily
over the whole slim beauty of her, lingering on the little bent brown
head, the soft curve of her girlish bosom, until the yearning for her
grew intolerable and the restraint he put upon himself took all his
resolution. The temptation to gather her into his arms was almost more
than he could resist, he folded them tightly across his chest--he could
not trust them. He could barely trust himself. The unwonted intimacy,
the subtle torture of her nearness set his pulses leaping madly. The
blood beat in his head, his body quivered with the passionate longing,
the fierce desire that rushed over him. In the agony of the moment only
the elemental man existed, and he was sensible alone of the burning
physical need that rose above all higher purer sentiment. To hold her
crushed against his throbbing heart, to bury his face in the fragrance
of her soft hair, to kiss her lips till she should beg his mercy--there
seemed no greater joy on earth. He wanted her as he had wanted nothing
in his life before. And yet, if he gained what he had come to ask he
knew that what he suffered now would be as nothing to what he would have
to endure. To know her his wife, bound in every sense to him--and to
turn his face from the happiness that by all laws was his! Had he the
strength? Almost it seemed that he had not. He was only human--and there
was a limit to human endurance. If circumstances proved too hard....
The sound of a little smothered cough checked his thoughts abruptly. He
realised that in self-commiseration he had lost sight of the purpose of
his visit. It was only she who mattered; her health, her happiness that
must be considered. He cursed himself and searched vainly for words
to express what he must say. And the more he thought the more utterly
speech evaded him. Then chance aided. She coughed again and with a
little impatient gesture rose to her feet.
“Aunt Caro has decided to go to Cimiez for the rest of the
winter--because of my cough. She settled it while you were away. I don't
want to go, my cough is nothing. I wouldn't exchange this”--pointing to
the snow-clad park--“for all the warmth and sunshine of the Riviera.
I want to store up all the memories I can. You don't know how I have
learned to love the Towers.” It was as if the last words had escaped
unintentionally for she flushed and turned again abruptly to the
darkening window. His heart gave a sudden leap but he did not move.
“Then why leave it?” he asked brusquely.
She leaned her forehead on the frosting glass and her eyes grew misty.
“You _know_,” she said softly, and her voice trembled. “In all the world
I have only my--my talent and my self-respect. If I were to do what you
and Aunt Caro, in your wonderful generosity, propose--oh, don't stop
me, you _must_ listen--I should only have my talent left. Can't you
see, can't you understand that I must work, that I must prove my
self-respect? For all that you have done, for all that you have given
me I have tried to thank you--often. Always you have stopped me. Do you
grudge me the only way in which I can show my gratitude, the only way
in which I can prove myself worthy of your esteem?” Her voice broke in a
little sob. Then she turned to him quickly, her hands out-stretched and
quivering. “If I could only do something to repay----” she cried, with
a passionate earnestness he had never heard in her before. He caught at
the opening that offered. “You can,” he said quietly, “but it is so big
a thing--it would more than swamp the debt you think you owe me.”
“Tell me,” she whispered urgently as he paused.
He turned from her eager questioning face with acute embarrassment. He
hated himself, he hated his task, only the darkness of the room seemed
to make it possible.
“Gillian,” he said, with constrained gravity. “I came to you to-day
deliberately to ask you what I believe no man has any right to ask a
woman. I have tried all the afternoon to tell you. Something you said
just now makes it easier. You say you love the Towers--do you love it
well enough to stay here as its mistress, on the only terms that I can
offer?”
The look of incredulous horror that leaped into her startled eyes made
him realise suddenly the interpretation that might be put upon his
words. He caught her hands almost roughly. “Good heavens, child, not
that!” he cried aghast. “What do you take me for? I am asking you to
marry me--but not the kind of marriage that every woman has the right to
expect. If I could offer you that, God knows how willingly I would. But
there has been that in my life which comes between me and the happiness
that other men can look forward to. For me that part of life is over.
I have only friendship to offer. I know I am asking more than it seems
possible for you to grant, more, a thousand times more than I ought to
ask you--but I do ask it, most earnestly. If you can bring yourself to
make so great a sacrifice, if you can accept a marriage that will be a
marriage only in name----”
She shuddered from him with a bitter cry. “You are offering me
_charity_!” she wailed, struggling to free her hands. But he held them
firmer. “I am asking you to take pity on a very lonely man,” he said
gently. “I am asking you to care for a very lonely house. You have
brought sunshine into the Towers, you have brought sunshine into the
lives of many people living on the estate. I am asking you to stay where
you are so much wanted--so much--loved.”
Then he let her go and she walked unsteadily to the fireplace. She
stood for a moment, her fingers working convulsively, staring into
the smouldering embers, and then sank into a chair, for her limbs were
shaking under her. He followed slowly and stooped to stir the fire to a
blaze. Covertly she looked at him as the red light illuminated his face
and scalding tears gathered in her eyes. And, curiously, it was not
wholly of herself that she was thinking. She was envying, with a feeling
of hopeless intolerable pain, that other woman whom he had loved. For
his words could only have meant one thing, and the great sorrow she had
imagined seemed all at once explained. She wondered what manner of woman
she had been, if she had died--or if she had proved unworthy. And the
last thought roused a sudden fierce resentment--how could a woman who
had won his love throw it back at his feet, unwanted! The envious tears
welled over and she brushed them furtively away. Then her thoughts
turned in compassion to him. Through death or faithlessness love had
brought no joy to him--he suffered as she was suffering now. She looked
at the silver threads gleaming in his hair, at the deep lines in his
face and the pain in her eyes gave place to a wonderful tenderness. She
had prayed for a chance to show her gratitude; if what he asked could
bring any alleviation to his life, if her presence could bring any sort
of comfort to his loneliness, was not even that more than she had ever
dared to hope? That he should turn to her was understandable. He had men
friends in plenty, but women he openly and undisguisedly avoided. He had
grown used to her presence at the Towers, a marriage such as he proposed
would call for no great alteration in the daily routine to which he had
become accustomed. If by doing this she could in any way repay....
The replenished fire was filling the room with soft flickering light,
it cast strange shadows on the curtained walls and revealed the girl's
strained white face pitilessly. Craven had risen and was standing
looking down on her. She grew aware of his scrutiny and flinched, the
hot blood rolling slowly, painfully over her face and neck. He spoke
abruptly, as if the words were forced from him:
“But I want you to realise fully what this marriage with me would mean,
for it is a very big sacrifice I am asking of you. Whatever happened,
you would be bound to me. If”--his voice faltered momentarily--“if you
were sometime to meet a man--and love him--you would be my wife, you
would not be free to follow your heart.”
She stared straight before her, her hands clasped tight around her
knees, shivering slightly. “I shall never--want to marry--in that way,”
she said in a strangled voice. He smiled sadly. “You think that now--you
are very young,” he argued, “but we have the future to think of.”
She did not answer and in the silence that ensued he wondered what had
induced him to put forward an argument that might defeat his purpose. In
any other case it would have been only the honourable thing to do, but
in this it was a risk he should not have taken. He moved impatiently.
Then suddenly he leaned forward and laid his hands on her shoulders,
drawing her gently to her feet.
“Gillian!”
Slowly she raised her head. The touch of his hands was almost more than
she could bear, but she steadied her trembling lips and met his gaze
bravely as he spoke again.
“If you will agree to this--this _mariage de convenance_, I will do
all that lies in my power to make your life happy. You will be free in
everything. I ask nothing but that you will look on me as a friend to
whom you can always come in any difficulty or any trouble. You will be
complete mistress of yourself, your time, your inclinations. I will not
interfere with you in any way.”
She searched his face, trying to read what lay behind his inscrutable
expression. His eyes were kind, but there was in them a curious
underlying gleam that she could not understand. And his voice puzzled
her. She was bewildered, torn with conflicting doubts. Sensitively she
shrank from his inexplicable suggestion, she could see no reason for his
amazing proposal save an extraordinary generosity that filled her with
gratitude and yet against which she revolted.
“You are doing this in pity!” she cried miserably.
“Before God I swear that I am not,” he said, with unexpected fierceness
that startled her, and the sudden painful gripping of the strong hands
on her shoulders made her for the first time aware of his strength. She
thought of it wonderingly. If it had been otherwise, if he had loved
her, how gladly she would have surrendered to it. It would have stood
between her and the unknown world that loomed sometimes in spite of her
confidence with a sinister horror on which she dared not dwell. In the
safety of his arms she would never have known fear, his strength would
have shielded her through life. And, in a lesser degree, his strength
might still be hers to turn to, if she would. A new conception of the
future she had planned rushed over her, the confidence she had felt fell
suddenly away, leaving fear and dread and a terror of loneliness. His
touch had destroyed her faith in herself. It had done more. In some
subtle way it seemed to her he had by his touch claimed her. And with
his hands still pressing her shoulders she felt a strange inability to
oppose him. He had sworn that it was not pity that dictated his offer.
He had said that love did not exist for him. What then could be his
motive? She could find none.
“You wouldn't lie to me?” she whispered, tormented with doubt, “you wish
this--this marriage--truly?”
He looked at her steadily.
“I wish it, truly,” he said firmly.
“You would let me go on with my work?” she faltered, fighting for time.
“I have said that I would not interfere with you in any way, that you
would be free in everything,” he answered, and as if in earnest of the
freedom promised his hands slipped from her.
The fire had died down again, and the room was almost dark, he could
hardly see her where she stood. He waited, hoping she would speak, then
abruptly: “Can you give me an answer, Gillian?”
He heard the quick intake of her breath, felt her trembling beside him.
“Oh, if you would give me time,” she murmured entreatingly. “I want to
think. It means so much.”
“Take all the time you wish,” he said, and went quietly away. And his
going brought a sudden desolation. She longed to call him back,
to promise what he asked, to yield without further struggle. But
uncertainty held her. Motionless she stood staring through the darkness
at the dim outline of the door that had closed behind him, her breast
heaving tumultuously, until tears blinded her and with a gasping sob
she slipped to the floor. She had never dared to hope that he could
love her, but the truth from his own lips was bitter. And for a time the
realisation of that bitterness deadened all other feeling. Overwrought
with the emotion of the last few hours, her nerves strained to breaking
point, she was unable to check the tide of grief that shook her to the
very depths of her being. With her face hidden in the soft rug, her
outflung hands clenching convulsively, she wept in an abandonment of
sorrow.
If he had never spoken, if he had never made this strange proposal but
had maintained until the end the detached reserve that had seemed to set
so wide a gulf between them, it would have been easier to bear. He would
have passed out of her life, inscrutable as he had always been. But with
his change of attitude, in the intimacy of the few hours they had spent
alone, she had seen him with new eyes. The mysterious unapproachable
guardian had gone for ever, and in his place was a very human man
revealing characteristics she had never imagined to exist, showing an
interest and a gentleness she had never suspected. He had exhibited a
similarity of tastes and ideas that agreed extraordinarily with her
own, he had talked as to a comrade. The companionship had been very
sweet--very sorrowful. She could never think of him again as he had
been, and the new conception of him gave a poignant stab to her grief.
In the brief happiness of the afternoon she had had a fleeting vision of
what might have been “if he had loved me,” she moaned, and it seemed to
her that she had never known until now the real depth of her own love.
What she had felt before was not comparable with the overwhelming
passion that the touch of his hands had quickened. It swept her like
a raging torrent, carrying her beyond the limit of her understanding,
bringing with it strange yearnings that, half-understood, she shuddered
from, ashamed.
Torn with emotion she wept until she had no tears left, until the hard
racking sobs died away and her tired sorrow-shaken body lay still.
For the moment, exhausted, her agony of mind was dulled and time was
non-existent. She did not move or lift her head from the tear-wet rug.
A great weariness seemed to deaden all faculty. The minutes passed
unnoticed. Then some latent consciousness stirred in her brain and she
looked up startled.
It was quite dark and she realised, shivering, that the room had grown
very cold. The calm afternoon had given place to a stormy night
and heavy gusts of wind were sweeping round the angle of the house,
shrieking and whistling eerily; from the window came the soft _swish
swish_ of dry hard snow beating against the panes. She started to her
feet. She had no idea of the hour but she knew it must be late. Perhaps
the dinner gong had already sounded and, missed, somebody might come in
search of her. She shrank from being found thus. Feeling her way to a
lamp she turned the switch and the soft light flooding the room made her
wince. A glance at her watch showed that she had still a few moments in
which to gain her room unobserved.
She felt oddly lightheaded and her feet dragged wearily. The tortuous
passage had never seemed so interminable, the succession of closed doors
appeared unending. Reaching her own room she collapsed on to a sofa
that was drawn up before the fire, her head aching, her limbs shivering
uncontrollably, worn out with emotion. Exhausted in mind and body she
seemed unable even to frame a thought logically or coherently--only an
interrupted medley of unconnected ideas chased through her tired brain
until her temples throbbed agonisingly. She knew that sometime she would
have to rouse herself, that sometime a decision would have to be made,
but not now. Now she could only lie still and make no effort. She was
angry with herself, contemptuous of her weakness. She had disdained
nerves, she was humiliated now by her present lack of control. But even
self-scorn was a passing thought from which she turned wearily.
One fact only remained, clear and distinct from the confusion in her
mind--he did not love her. He did not love her. It hurt so. She hid her
face in the pillows, writhing with the shame the knowledge of her own
love brought her. The deep booming of the dinner gong awoke her to the
necessity of some kind of action. She rang the bell that hung within
reach of her hand and, by the maid who answered her summons, sent her
excuses to Miss Craven, pleading a headache for remaining upstairs.
A few minutes later Mary, grim-visaged and big-hearted, appeared with a
tray, headache remedies and multifarious messages from the dining room.
She bathed the girl's aching head, brushing the tumbled brown hair and
piling it afresh into a soft loose knot. Grumbling gently at the long
hours of work to which she attributed the unusual indisposition, she
took full advantage of the rare opportunity of rendering personal
attention and fussed to her heart's content, stripping off the stained
overall and substituting a loose velvet wrapper; and then stood over
her, a kindly martinet, until the light dinner she had brought was
eaten. Afterwards she packed pillows, made up the fire, and administered
a particularly nauseous specific emanating from a homeopathic medicine
chest that was her greatest pride, and then took herself away, still
mildly admonishing.
Gillian leaned back against the cushions with a feeling of greater
ease and restfulness. Food had given her strength and under Mary's
ministrations her mental poise had steadied. She would not let herself
dwell on the question that must before long be settled, Miss Craven
would be coming soon, and until she had been and gone no definite
settlement could be attempted.
She lay looking at the fire, endeavouring to keep her mind a blank. It
was odd to be alone, she missed the familiar black form lying on the
hearth-rug, but tonight she could not bear even Mouston's presence,
and Mary had taken a request to Yoshio, to whose room the dog had been
banished from the studio, that he would keep him until the morning.
A tap at the door and Miss Craven appeared, anxious and questioning.
“Only a headache?--my dear, I don't believe it!” she protested, plumping
down on the side of the sofa and clutching at her hair, that sure sign
of perturbation. “You've never had a headache like this before. You've
been working too hard. You were painting all the morning and they tell
me you worked throughout the afternoon and had no tea. Gillian, dear,
when will you learn sense? I don't at all approve of you having tea sent
to the studio _only_ when you ring for it. Young people require regular
meals and as often as not neglect 'em; young artists are the worst
offenders--you needn't contradict me, I know all about it. I did it
myself.” She patted the clasped hands lying near her and scrutinised
the girl more closely. “You're as pale as a ghost and your eyes are too
bright. Did Mary take your temperature? No?--the woman must have lost
her senses. I'll telephone to Doctor Harris to come and see you in
the morning. If you looked a fraction more feverish I'd send for you
to-night, storm or no storm. Peter braved it, open car as usual. He sent
his love. Barry turned up from Scotland this afternoon. He looks very
tired--says he had a bothering time and a wretched journey--Gillian!”
she cried sharply as the girl slid from the sofa on to her knees beside
her and raised a quivering piteous face.
“Aunt Caro, I'm not ill,” the words came in tumbling haste, “there's
nothing bodily the matter with me--I'm only dreadfully unhappy. I know
Mr. Craven is back--he came to me in the studio this afternoon. He asked
me to marry him,” the troubled voice sank to a whisper, “and I--I don't
know what to do.”
“My dear.” The tenderness of Miss Craven's tone sent a strangling wave
of emotion into Gillian's throat. “Aunt Caro, did you know? Do you wish
it too?” she murmured wistfully.
Unwilling to admit a previous knowledge which would be difficult to
explain, Miss Craven temporised. “I very greatly hoped for it,” she said
guardedly; “you and Barry are all I have to care for, and you are both
so--alone. I know you think of a very different life, I know you have
dreams of making a career for yourself. But a career is not all that a
woman wants in her life; it can perhaps mean independence and fame,
it can also mean great loneliness and the loss of the full and perfect
happiness that should be every woman's. You mustn't judge all cases
by me. I have been happy in my own way but I want a greater, richer
happiness for you, dear. I want for you the best that the world can
give, and that best I believe to be the shelter and the safety of a
man's love.”
The brown head dropped on her knee. “You are thinking of me--I am
thinking of him,” came a stifled whisper.
Miss Craven stroked the soft hair tenderly. “Then why not give him what
he asks, my dear,” she said gently. “He has known sorrow and suffering.
If through you, he can forget the past in a new happiness, will you not
grant it him? Oh, Gillian, I have so hoped that you might care for each
other; that, together, you might make the Towers the perfect home it
should be, a home of mutual trust and love. You and Barry and, please
God, after you--your children.” She choked with unexpected emotion and
brushed the mist from her eyes impatiently.
And at her knee Gillian knelt motionless, her lip held fast between her
teeth to stop the bitter cry that nearly escaped her, her heart almost
bursting. The picture Miss Craven's words called up was an ideal of
happiness that might have been. The suffering that reality promised
seemed more than she could contemplate. What happiness could come
from such a travesty? The strange yearnings she had experienced seemed
suddenly crystallised into form, and the knowledge was a greater pain
than she had known. What she would have gone down to the gates of death
to give him he did not require--the unutterable joy that Miss
Craven suggested would never be hers. She searched for words, for an
explanation of her silence that must seem strange to the elder woman.
Miss Craven obviously knew nothing of the unusual conditions attached to
his proposal, her words proved it, and Gillian could not tell her. She
could not betray his confidence even if she had so wished. If she could
but speak frankly and show all her difficulty to the friend who
had never yet failed in love and sympathy----She sought refuge in
prevarication. “How can I marry him?” she cried miserably. “You
don't know anything about me. I'm not a fit person to be his wife--my
antecedents----”
“Bother your antecedents!” interrupted Miss Craven, with a somewhat
shaky laugh. “My dearest girl, Barry isn't going to marry them, he's
going to marry you. They can have been anything you like or imagine but
it does not alter the fact that their daughter is the one woman on earth
I want for Barry's wife.” She stooped and gathered the girl into her
arms.
“Gillian, can you give us, Barry and me, this great happiness?”
Gently Gillian disengaged herself and rose slowly to her feet. She made
a little helpless gesture, swaying as she stood. “What can I say?” she
said brokenly. “Do you think it means nothing to me! Don't you know that
what I already owe you and Mr. Craven is almost more than I can bear,
that I would give my life for either of you? But this--oh, you don't
understand--I can't tell you--I can't explain----” She dropped back
on the sofa and her voice came muffled and entreatingly from among the
silken cushions, “If you knew how I long to repay you for your wonderful
goodness, if you knew what your love has meant to me! Oh, dearest, I'd
give the world to please you! But I don't know what to do, I don't know
what is honest--and you can't help me, nobody can help me. I've got to
settle it myself. I've got to think----”
Miss Craven guessed the crying need for solitude conveyed in the last
faltering words and rose in obedience to the unspoken request. She stood
for a moment, looking tenderly down on the slim prostrate figure, and a
fear that grew momentarily stronger came to her that in her endeavour
to bring happiness to these two lives she had blundered fatally. She
had been a fool, rushing in. And with almost a feeling of dismay she
realised it was beyond her ability now to stay what she had put in
motion. She was as one who, having wantonly released some complex
mechanism, stands aghast and powerless at the consequence of his
rashness. And yet, despite the seeming setback to her hopes, the
conviction that had urged her to this step was still strong in her;
she still had faith in its ultimate achievement. She touched the girl's
shoulder in a quick caress. “You are worn out, child. Go to bed and rest
now, and think to-morrow,” she said soothingly.
For long after she left the room Gillian lay without moving. Then with
a long shuddering sigh she sat up. She tried to concentrate on
the decision she must make but her thoughts, ungovernable, dwelt
persistently on the unknown woman whom she had convinced herself he must
have loved, and the passionate envy she had felt before swept her again
until the pain of it sent a whispered prayer to her lips for strength to
put it from her. Huddled on the side of the sofa, her head supported on
her hands, she stared fixedly into the fire as if seeking in the leaping
flames the answer to the problem that confronted her. Then in her agony
of mind inaction became impossible and she rose and paced the room with
hurried nervous tread.
To do what was right--to do what was honourable; to conquer the
clamorous self that cried out for acceptance of this semblance of
happiness that was offered. To bear his name, to have the right to be
near him, to care for him and for his interests as far as she might.
To be his wife--even if only in name. Dear God, did he know how he had
tempted her? But she had no right. The crushing burden of debt she owed
rose like an unsurpassable mountain between her and what she longed
for. Only by repayment could she keep her self-respect. The dreams
of independence, the place she had thought to make for herself in the
world, the re-establishing of her father's name--could she forego what
she had planned? Was it not a nobler aim than the gratification of self
that urged the easier way? Yet would it be the easier way? Was she not
really in her heart shrinking from the difficulty and sadness that this
loveless marriage would bring? Was it not cowardice that prompted a
supposed nobility of thought that now appeared ignoble? She wrung her
hands in desperation. Had she no courage or steadfastness at all? Was
the weakness of purpose that had ruined her father's life to be her
curse as it had been his?
She felt suddenly very young, very inexperienced. Her early training
that had denied the exercise of individual responsibility and had
inculcated a passivity of mind that precluded self-determination had
bitten deeper than she knew. Her life since leaving the convent had been
smooth and uneventful, there had been no occasion to practise the new
liberty of thought and action that was hers. And now before a decision
that would be so irrevocable, that would involve her whole life--and not
hers alone--she felt to the full the disability of her upbringing.
Alone she must make her choice and she shrank from the burden of
responsibility that fell upon her. She had nobody to turn to for counsel
or advice. In her loneliness she longed for the solace of a mother's
tenderness, the shelter of a mother's arms, and bitterness came to her
as she thought of the parents who had each in their turn abandoned her
so callously. She had been robbed of her birthright of love and care.
She was alone in the world, alone to fight her own battles, alone in the
moment of her direst need.
Then all at once she seemed to see in the trend of her thoughts only
a supreme selfishness that had lost sight of all but personal
consideration. Was her love of so little worth that in thought
for herself she had forgotten him? He had asked her to pity his
loneliness--and she had had only pity for herself. Her lips quivered as
she whispered his name in an agony of self-condemnation.
Coming back slowly to the fireside she slipped to the floor and
leaned her head against the sofa listening to the storm that beat with
increasing violence against the house, and the roar of the tempest
without seemed in strange agreement with the tumult that was raging in
her heart. The words he had used came back to her. Did it really lie
in her power to lessen the loneliness of his life? To give him what he
asked--was not that, after all, the true way to pay her debt? With a
little sob she bowed her head on her hands.... An hour later she rose
stiffly, cramped with long sitting, and moving nearer to the fire chafed
her cold hands mechanically. Her face was very sad and her wide eyes
heavy with unshed tears. She drew a long sobbing breath. “Because I love
him,” she murmured. “If I didn't love him I couldn't do it.” A thought
that brought new hope came to her. She loved him so deeply, might not
her love, she wondered wistfully, perhaps some day be strong enough to
heal the wound he had sustained--strong enough even to compel his love?
Then doubt seized hold on her again. Would she, in the limited scope
that she would have, find opportunity--would he ever allow her to get
near enough to him?... She flung her hands out in passionate appeal.
“Oh, God! if this thing that I am doing is wrong, if it brings sorrow
and unhappiness, let me be the only one to pay!”
A sudden longing to make retraction impossible came over her. She looked
anxiously at her watch. Was it too late to go to him to-night? Only when
she had told him would she be sure of herself. Her word once given there
could be no withdrawal.
It was nearly midnight but she knew he rarely left his study until
later. Peters would be gone, he was methodical in his habits and retired
punctually at eleven o'clock with a regularity that was unvarying. She
was sure of finding him alone. She dared not wait until the morning, she
must go now while she had the courage. Delay might bring new doubts, new
uncertainty. Impulsively she started towards the door, then paused on a
sudden thought that sent the warm blood in a painful wave to her
face. Would he misunderstand, think her unwomanly, attribute her hasty
decision to a sordid desire for material gain, for the ease that would
be hers, for the position that his name would give? It was the natural
thought for him who offered so much to one who would give nothing in
return. And not for him alone--in the eyes of the world she would be
only a little adventuress who had skilfully seized the opportunity
that circumstance had given to advantage herself. But the world did not
matter, she thought with scornful curling lip, it was only in his eyes
that she desired to stand well. Then with quick shame she knew that the
sentiments she had ascribed to him were unworthy, the outcome only
of her own strained imagination, and she put them from her. She went
quickly to the gallery, dimly lit from a single lamp left alight in the
hall below--left for Craven as she knew. Silence brooded over the great
house. The storm that earlier had beat tempestuously against the dome
as if striving to shatter the massive glass plates that opposed its fury
had blown itself out and glancing upward Gillian saw the huge cupola
shrouded with snow that gleamed palely in the soft light. The stillness
oppressed her and odd thoughts chased through her mind. She looked to
right and left nervously and in a sudden inexplicable panic sped down
the wide staircase and across the shadowy hall until she reached the
study door. There she halted with wildly beating heart, panting and
breathless. It was a room which she had never before entered, and an
almost paralysing shyness made her shake from head to foot. Nerving
herself with a strong effort she tapped with trembling fingers and, at
the sound of an answering voice, went in.
Strength seemed all at once to leave her. Physically and mentally
exhausted, a feeling of unreality supervened. The strange room swam
before her eyes. As in a dream she saw him start to his feet and
come swiftly to her across a seemingly unending length of carpet that
billowed and wavered curiously, his big frame oddly magnified until he
appeared a very giant towering above her; as in a dream she felt him
take her ice-cold hands in his. But the warm strong grasp, the grave
eyes bent compellingly on her, dragged her back from the shuddering
abyss into which she was sinking. Far away, as though coming from a
great distance, she heard him speaking. And his voice, gentler than she
had ever known it, gave her courage to whisper, so low that he had to
bend his tall head to catch the fluttering words, the promise she had
come to give.