It was nearly four months before Craven left the camp of Mukair Ibn
Zarrarah. His injuries had healed quickly and he had rapidly regained
his former strength. He was anxious to return to England without delay,
but he had yielded to Saïd's pressing entreaties to wait until they
could ride to Algiers together. There had been much for the young Sheik
to do. He was already virtual leader of the tribe. Mukair Ibn Zarrarah,
elderly when his sons had been born, had aged with startling suddenness
since the death of Omar. He had all at once become an old man, unable to
rally from the shock of his bereavement, bewailing the fate of his elder
and favourite son, and trembling for the future of his beloved tribe
left to the tender mercies of a man he now recognised to be more
Frenchman than Arab. He exaggerated every Francophile tendency he saw in
Saïd and cursed the French as heartily as ever Omar had done, forgetting
that he himself was largely responsible for the inclinations he objected
to. And his terrors were mainly imaginary. A few innovations Saïd
certainly instituted but he was too astute to make any material changes
in the management of his people. They were loyal and attached to the
ruling house and he was clever enough to leave well alone; broad-minded
enough to know that he could not run a large and scattered tribe on the
same plan as a regiment of Spahis; philosophical enough to realise that
he had turned down a page in his life's history and must be content to
follow, more or less, in the footsteps of his forebears. The fighting
men were with him solidly, even those who had been inclined to object
to his European tactics had, in view of his brilliant generalship, been
obliged to concede him the honour that was his due. For his victory had
not been altogether the walkover he had airily described to Craven. The
older men--the headmen in particular--more prejudiced still, who, like
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, had centred all their hopes on Omar, were beginning
to comprehend that their fears of Saïd's rule were unfounded and that
his long sojourn among the hated dominant race had neither impaired his
courage nor fostered practices abhorrent to them. Craven watched with
interest the gradual establishment of mutual goodwill between the young
Sheik and his petty Chiefs. Since his recovery he had attended several
of the councils called in consequence of the old Sheik's retirement
from active leadership of the tribe, and he had been struck by Saïd's
restrained and conciliatory attitude toward his headmen. He had met them
half-way, sinking his own inclinations and disarming their suspicions of
him. At the same time he had let it be clearly understood that he meant
to be absolute as his father had been. In spite of the civilisation that
had bitten so deeply he was still too much an Arab, too much the son of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, to be anything but an autocrat at heart. And his
assumption of power had been favourably looked upon by the minor Chiefs.
They were used to being ruled by an iron hand and would have despised a
weak leader. They had feared the effects of foreign influence, dreaded a
régime that might have lessened the prestige of the tribe. Their doubts
set at rest they had rallied with enthusiasm round their new Chief.
As soon as he had been able to get about again Craven had visited
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah in his darkened tent and been shocked at his changed
appearance. He could hardly believe that the bowed stricken figure who
barely heeded his entrance, but, absorbed in grief, continued to sway
monotonously to and fro murmuring passages from the Koran alternately
with the name of his dead son, was the vigorous alert old man he had
seen only a few weeks before dominating a frenzied crowd with the
strength of his personality and addressing them in tones that had
carried to the furthest extent of the listening multitude. Crushing
sorrow and the weight of years suddenly felt had changed him into a
wreck that was fast falling to pieces.
Saïd had followed him out into the sunshine.
“You see how it is with him,” he said. “I cannot leave him now. As soon
as possible I will go to Algiers to give in my resignation and smooth
matters with the Government. We shall not be in very good odour over
this affair. We have kept the peace so long in this quarter of
the country that deliberate action on our part will take a lot of
explaining. They will admit provocation but will blame our mode of
retaliation. They may blame!” he laughed and shrugged. “I shall be
called hasty, ill-advised. The Governor will haul me over the coals
unmercifully--you know him, that fat old Faidherbe? He is always
trembling for his position, seeing an organized revolt in the petty
squabbles of every little tribe, and fearful of an outbreak that might
lead to his recall. A mountain of flesh with the heart of a chicken! He
will rave and shout and talk a great deal about the beneficent French
administration and the ingratitude of Chiefs like myself who add to the
Government's difficulties. But my Colonel will back me up, unofficially
of course, and his word goes with the Governor. A very different man,
by _Allah_! It would be a good thing for this country if he were where
Faidherbe is. But he is only a soldier and no politician, so he is
likely to end his days a simple Colonel of Spahis.”
As they moved away from the tent they discussed the French methods of
administration as carried out in Algeria, and Craven learned a great
deal that astonished him and would also have considerably astonished
the Minister of the Interior sitting quietly in his office in the Place
Beauveau. Saïd had seen and heard much. His known sympathies had
made him the recipient of many confidences and even his Francophile
tendencies had not blinded him to evils that were rampant, corruption
and double dealing, bribes freely offered and accepted by highly placed
officials, fortunes amassed in crooked speculations with Government
money--the faults of individuals who had abused their official positions
and exploited the country they had been sent to administer.
As Craven listened to these frank revelations from the only honest Arab
he had ever met he wondered what effect Saïd's intimate knowledge would
have upon his life, how far it would influence him, and what were likely
to be his future relations with the masters of the country. With a Chief
less broadminded and of less innate integrity the result might easily be
disastrous. But Saïd had had larger experience than most Arab Chiefs and
his adherence to the French was due to what he had seen in France rather
than to what had been brought to his notice in Algeria.
It was early in January when they started on the long ride across the
desert. For some weeks Craven had been impatient to get away, only his
promise to Saïd kept him.
It was a large cavalcade that left the oasis, for the new Chief required
a bigger escort to support his dignity than the Captain of Spahis had
done. The days passed without incident. Despite Craven's desire to reach
England the journey was in every way enjoyable. When he had actually
started his restlessness decreased, for each successive sunrise meant
a day nearer home. And Saïd, too, had thrown off the depression and new
gravity that had come to him and talked more hopefully of the future.
As they travelled northward they reached a region of greater cultivation
and in their route passed some of the big fruit farms that were
becoming more and more a feature of the country. Spots of beauty in the
wilderness, carved out of arid desert by patience and perseverance and
threatened always by the devastating locust, though no longer subjected
to the Arab raids that had been a daily menace twenty or thirty years
before. The motley gangs of European and native workers toiling more
or less diligently in the vineyards and among the groves of fruit
trees invariably collected to watch the passing of the Sheik's troop, a
welcome break in the monotony of their existence, and once or twice Saïd
accepted the hospitality of farmers he knew.
Craven stayed only one night in Algiers. When writing home from Lagos he
had given, without expecting to make use of it, an address in Algiers
to which letters might be sent, but when he called at the office the
morning after his arrival he found that owing to the mistake of a clerk
his mail had been returned to England. The lack of news made him uneasy.
He was gripped by a sudden fear that something might have happened to
Gillian, and he wondered whether he should go first to Paris, to the
flat he had taken for her. But second thoughts decided him to adhere to
his original intention of proceeding straight to Craven--surely she must
by this time have returned to the Towers.
There was nothing to do but telegraph to Peters that he was on his
way home and make arrangements for leaving Africa at the earliest
opportunity. He found there was no steamer leaving for Marseilles for
nearly a week but he was able to secure berths for himself and Yoshio on
a coasting boat crossing that night to Gibraltar, and at sunset he was
on board waving fare-well to Saïd, who had come down to the quay to see
the last of him, and was standing a distinctive figure among the rabble
of loafers and water-side loungers of all nationalities who congregated
night and morning to watch the arrival and departure of steamers. The
tide was out and the littered fore-shore was lined with fishing-boats
drawn up in picturesque confusion, and in the shallow water out among
the rocks bare-legged native women were collecting shell fish and
seaweed into great baskets fastened to their backs, while naked children
splashed about them or stood with their knuckles to their teeth to watch
the thrashing paddle wheels of the little steamer as she churned slowly
away from the quay. Craven leant on the rail of the ship, a pipe
between his teeth--he had existed for the last four months on Saïd's
cigarettes--and waved a response to the young Sheik's final salute, then
watched him stalk through the heterogeneous crowd to where two of his
mounted followers were waiting for him holding his own impatient horse.
He saw him mount and the passers-by scatter as the three riders set off
with the usual Arab impetuosity, and then a group of buildings hid him
from sight.
The idlers by the waterside held no interest for Craven, he was too used
to them, too familiar with the riff-raff of foreign ports even to glance
at them. But he lingered for a moment to look up at the church of Notre
Dame d'Afrique that, set high above the harbour and standing out sharply
against the skyline, was glowing warmly in the golden rays of the
setting sun.
Then he went below to the stuffy little cabin where dinner was waiting.
The next four days he kicked his heels impatiently in Gibraltar waiting
to pick up a passage on a home bound Indian boat. When it came it was
half empty, as was to be expected at that time of year, and the gale
they ran into immediately drove the majority of the passengers into the
saloons, and Craven was able to tramp the deck in comparative solitude
without having to listen to the grumbles of shivering Anglo-Indians
returning home at an unpropitious season. In a borrowed oilskin he spent
hours watching the storm, looking at the white topped waves that piled
up against the ship and threatened to engulf her, then slid astern in
a welter of spray. The savage beauty of the sea fascinated him, and the
heavy lowering clouds that drove rapidly across a leaden sky, and the
stinging whip of the wind formed a welcome change after more than two
years of pitiless African sun and intense heat.
They passed up the Thames dead slow in a dense fog that grew thicker
and murkier as they neared the docks, but they berthed early enough to
enable Craven to catch a train that would bring him home in time for
dinner. It was better than wasting a night in London.
He had a compartment to himself and spent the time staring out of the
misty rain-spattered windows, a prey to violent anxiety and impatience.
The five-hour journey had never seemed so long. He had bought a number
of papers and periodicals but they lay unheeded on the seat beside
him. He was out of touch with current events, and had stopped at the
bookstall more from force of habit than from any real interest. He had
wired to Peters again from the docks. Would she be waiting for him at
the station? It was scarcely probable. Their meeting could not be other
than constrained, the platform of a wayside railway station was hardly
a suitable place. And why in heaven's name should she do him so much
honour? He had no right to expect it, no right to expect anything. That
she should be even civil to him was more than he deserved. Would she
be changed in any way? God, how he longed to see her! His heart beat
furiously even at the thought. With his coat collar turned up about his
ears and his cap pulled down over his eyes he shivered in a corner of
the cold carriage and dreamed of her as the hours drew out in maddening
slowness. Outside it was growing dusk and the window panes had become
too steamy for him to recognise familiar landmarks. The train seemed to
crawl. There had been an unaccountable wait at the last stopping place,
and they did not appear to be making up the lost time.
It was a strange homecoming, he thought suddenly. Stranger even than
when, rather more than six years ago, he had travelled down to Craven
with his aunt and the shy silent girl whom fate and John Locke had made
his ward. Was she also thinking of that time and wishing that a kinder
future had been reserved for her? Was she shrinking from his coming,
deploring the day he had ever crossed her path? It was unlikely that she
could feel otherwise toward him. He had done nothing to make her happy,
everything to make her unhappy. With a stifled groan he leant forward
and buried his face in his hands, loathing himself. How would she meet
him? Suppose she refused to resume the equivocal relationship that
had been fraught with so much misery, refused to surrender the greater
freedom she had enjoyed during his absence, claimed the right to live
her own life apart from him. It would be only natural for her to do so.
And morally he would have no right to refuse her. He had forfeited
that. And in any case it was not a question of his allowing or refusing
anything, it was a question solely of her happiness and her wishes.
Darkness had fallen when the train drew up with a jerk and he stepped
out on to the little platform. It was a cheerless night and the wind
tore at him as he peered through the gloom and the driving rain,
wondering whether anybody had come to meet him. Then he made out Peters'
sturdy familiar figure standing under the feeble light of a flickering
lamp. Craven hurried toward him with a smile softening his face. His
life had been made up of journeys, it seemed to him suddenly, and always
at the end of them was Peters waiting for him, Peters who stuck to the
job he himself shirked, Peters who stood loyally by an employer he must
in his heart despise, Peters whose boots he was not fit to clean.
The two men met quietly, as if weeks not years had elapsed since they
had parted on the same little platform.
“Beastly night,” grumbled the agent, though his indifference to bad
weather was notorious, “must feel it cold after the tropics. I brought
a man to help Yoshio with your kit. Wait a minute while I see that
it's all right.” He started off briskly, and with the uncomfortable
embarrassment he always felt when Peters chose to emphasise their
relative positions, Craven strode after him and grabbed him back with an
iron hand.
“There isn't any need,” he said gruffly. “I wish you wouldn't always
behave as if you were a kind of upper servant, Peter. It's dam'
nonsense. Yoshio is quite capable of looking after the kit, there's very
little in any case. I left the bulk of it in Algiers, it wasn't worth
bringing along. There are only the gun cases and a couple of bags. We
haven't much more than what we stand up in.”
Peters acquiesced good-temperedly and led the way to the closed car that
was waiting at the station entrance. As the motor started Craven turned
to him eagerly, with the question that had been on his lips for the last
ten minutes.
“How is Gillian?”
Peters shot a sidelong glance at him.
“Couldn't say,” he said shortly; “she didn't mention her health when she
wrote last--but then she never does.”
“When she wrote--” echoed Craven, and his voice was dull with
disappointment; “isn't she at the Towers? I missed my mail at
Algiers--some mistake of a fool of a clerk. I haven't had any home news
for nearly a year.”
“She is still in Paris,” replied Peters dryly, and to Craven his tone
sounded faintly accusing. He frowned and stared out into the darkness
for a few minutes without speaking, wondering how much Peters knew. He
had disapproved of the African expedition, stating his opinion frankly
when Craven had discussed it with him, and it was obvious that since
then his views had undergone no change. Craven understood perfectly what
those views were and in what light he must appear to him. He could not
excuse himself, could give no explanation. He doubted very much whether
Peters would understand if he did explain--his moral code was too
simple, his sense of right and wrong too fine to comprehend or to
countenance suicide. Craven also felt sure that had he been aware of the
circumstances Peters would not have hesitated to oppose his marriage.
Why hadn't he told Peters the whole beastly story when he returned from
Japan? Peters had never failed a Craven, he would not have failed him
then. He stifled a bitter sigh of useless regret and turned again to his
companion.
“Then I take it the Towers is shut up. Are you giving me a bed at the
Hermitage?” he asked quietly.
“No. I have kept the house open so that it might be ready if at any time
your wife suddenly decided to come home. I imagined that would be your
wish.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Craven hurriedly, “you did quite right.”
Then he glanced about him and frowned again thoughtfully. “Isn't this
the Daimler Gillian took to France with her--surely that is Phillipe
driving?” he asked abruptly, peering through the window at the
chauffeur's back illuminated by the electric lamp in the roof of the
car.
“She sent it back a few months afterwards--said she had no need for it,”
replied Peters. “I kept Phillipe on because he was a better mechanic
than the other man. There was no need for two.”
Craven refrained from comment and relapsed into silence, which was
unbroken until they reached the house.
During dinner the conversation was mainly of Africa and the scientific
success of the mission, and of local events, topics that could safely
be discussed in the hearing of Forbes and the footmen. From time to time
Craven glanced about the big room with tightened lips. It seemed chill
and empty for lack of the slight girlish figure whose presence had
brought sunshine into the great house. If she chose never to return! It
was unthinkable that he could live in it alone, it would be haunted by
memories, he would see her in every room. And yet the thought of leaving
it again hurt him. He had never known until he had gone to Africa with
no intention of returning how dear the place was to him. He had suddenly
realised that he was a Craven of Craven, and all that it meant. But
without Gillian it was valueless. A shrine without a treasure. An empty
symbol that would stand for nothing. Her personality had stamped itself
on the house, even yet her influence lingered in the huge formal dining
room where he sat. It had been her whim when they were alone to banish
the large table that seemed so preposterously big for two people and
substitute a small round one which was more intimate, and across which
it was possible to talk with greater ease. Forbes was a man of fixed
ideas and devoted to his mistress. Though absent her wishes were
faithfully carried out. Mrs. Craven had decreed that for less than
four people the family board was an archaic and cumbersome piece of
furniture, consequently tonight the little round table was there, and
brought home to Craven even more vividly the sense of her absence. It
seemed almost a desecration to see Peters sitting opposite in her place.
He grew impatient of the lengthy and ceremonious meal the old butler was
superintending with such evident enjoyment, and gradually he became
more silent and heedless, responding mechanically and often inaptly to
Peters' flow of conversation. He wished now he had obeyed the impulse
that had come to him in Algiers to go straight to Paris. By now he would
have seen her, have learned his fate, and the whole miserable business
would have been settled one way or the other. He could not wonder that
she had elected to remain abroad. He had put her in a horrible position.
By lingering in Africa after the return of the rest of the mission he
had made her an object of idle curiosity and speculation. He had left
her as the elder Barry Craven had left his mother, to the mercy of
gossip-mongers and to the pity and compassion of her friends which,
though even unexpressed, she must have felt and resented. He glanced
at the portrait of the beautiful sad woman in the panel over the
mantelpiece and a dull red crept over his face. It was well that his
mother had died before she realised how completely the idolised son was
to follow in the footsteps of the husband who had broken her heart. It
was a tradition in the family. From one motive or another the Cravens
had consistently been pitiless to their womenkind. And he, the last of
them, had gone the way of all the others. A greater shame and bitterness
than he had yet felt came to him, and a passionate longing to undo what
he had done. And what was left for him to do was so pitifully little.
But he would do it without further delay, he would start for Paris the
next day. Even the few hours of waiting seemed almost unbearable. The
thought occurred to him to motor to London that night to catch the
morning boat train from Victoria, but a glance at his watch convinced
him of the impossibility of the idea. Owing to the delay of the train
it had been nine o'clock before he reached the Towers. It was ten now.
Another hour would be wasted before Phillipe and the car would be ready
for the long run. And it was a wicked night to take a man out, the
strain of driving under such conditions at top speed through the
darkness would be tremendous. Reluctantly he abandoned the project.
There was nothing for it but to wait until the morning.
Forbes at his elbow recalled him to his duties as host. With a murmured
apology to Peters he rose to his feet.
“Coffee in the study, please,” he said, and left the room.
In the study, in chairs drawn up to the blazing fire, the two men smoked
for some time in silence. Though consumed with anxiety to hear more of
his wife Craven felt a certain diffident in mentioning her name, and
Peters volunteered nothing. After a time the agent began to speak of the
estate. “I want to give an account of my stewardship,” he said, with an
odd ring in his voice that Craven did not understand. And for the best
part of an hour he talked of farms and leases, of cottage property and
timber, of improvements and alterations carried out during Craven's
absence or in progress, of the conditions under which certain of the
bigger houses scattered about the property were let--a complete history
of the working and management of the estate extending back many years
until Craven grew more and more bewildered as to the reason of this
detailed revelation that seemed to him somewhat unnecessary and
certainly ill-timed. He did not want to be bothered with business the
very moment of his arrival. Peters was punctilious of course, always had
been, but his stewardship had never been called in question and there
was surely no need for this complicated and lengthy narrative of affairs
tonight.
“And then there are the accounts,” concluded the agent, in the dry
curiously formal voice he had adopted all the evening. Craven made a
gesture of protest. “The accounts can wait,” he said shortly. “I don't
know why on earth you want to bother about all this tonight, Peter.
There will be plenty of time later. Have I ever criticised anything you
did? I'm not such a fool. You've forgotten more than I ever knew about
the estate.”
“I should like you to see them,” persisted Peters, drawing a big bundle
of papers from his pocket and proceeding to remove and roll up with his
usual precise neatness the tape that confined them. He pushed the typed
sheets across the little table. “I don't think you will find any error.
The estate accounts are all straightforward. But there is an item in the
personal accounts that I must ask you to consider. It is a sum of eight
thousand pounds standing to your credit that I do not know what to do
with. You will remember that when you went to Africa you instructed me
to pay your wife four thousand a year during your absence. I have sent
her the money every quarter, which she has acknowledged. Three months
ago the London bank advised me that eight thousand pounds had been paid
into you account by Mrs. Craven, the total amount of her allowance, in
fact, during the time you have been away.”
There was a lengthy pause after Peters stopped speaking, and then Craven
looked up slowly.
“I don't understand,” he said thickly; “all her allowance! What has she
been living on--what the devil does it mean?”
Peters shrugged. “I don't know any more about it than you do. I am
simply telling you what is the case. It was not for me to question her
on such a matter,” he said coldly.
“But, Good Heavens, man,” began Craven hotly, and then checked himself.
He felt stunned by Peters' bald statement of fact, unable, quite,
for the moment, to grasp it. Heavens above, how she must hate him! To
decline to touch the money he had assured her was hers, not his! On what
or on whom had she been living? His face became suddenly congested. Then
he put the hateful thought from him. It was not possible to connect such
a thing with Gillian. Only his own foul mind could have imagined it. And
yet, if she had been other than she was, if it had been so, if in her
loneliness and misery she had found love and protection she had been
unable to withstand--the fault would be his, not hers. He would have
driven her to it. He would be responsible. For a moment the room went
black. Then, he pulled himself together. Putting the bundle of accounts
back on to the table he met steadily Peters' intent gaze. “My wife is
quite at liberty to do what she chooses with her own money,” he said
slowly, “though I admit I don't understand her action. Doubtless she
will explain it in due course. Until then the money can continue to lie
idle. It is not such a large sum that you need be in such a fierce hurry
about it. In any case I am going to Paris tomorrow. I can let you know
further when I have seen her.” His voice was harsh with the effort it
cost him to steady it. “And having seen her--what are you going to do
to her?” The question, and the manner of asking it, made Craven look
at Peters in sudden amazement. The agent's face was stern and curiously
pale, high up on his cheek a little pulse was beating visibly and his
eyes were blazing direct challenge. Craven's brows drew together slowly.
“What do you mean?”
Peters leant forward, resting one arm on his knee, and the knuckles of
his clenched hand shone white.
“I asked you in so many words what you were going to do to her,” he
said, in a voice vibrant with emotion. “You will say it is no business
of mine. But I am going to make it my business. Good God, Barry, do you
think I've seen nothing all these years? Do you think I can sit down and
watch history repeat itself and make no effort to avert it for lack of
moral courage? I can't. When you were a boy I had to stand aside and see
your mother's heart broken, and I'm damned if I'm going to keep silent
while you break Gillian's heart. I loved your mother, the light went out
for me when she died. For her sake I carried on here, hoping I might
be of use to you--because you were her son. And then Gillian came
and helped to fill the blank she had left. She honoured me with her
friendship, she brought brightness into my life until gradually she has
become as dear to me as if she were my own daughter. All I care about
is her happiness--and yours. But she comes first, poor lonely child. Why
did you marry her if it was only to leave her desolate again? Wasn't
her past history sad enough? She was happy here at first, before your
marriage. But afterwards--were you blind to the change that came over
her? Couldn't you see that she was unhappy? I could. And I tell you I
was hard put to it sometimes to hold my tongue. It wasn't my place
to interfere, it wasn't my place to see anything, but I couldn't help
seeing what was patent to the eye of anybody who was interested. You
left her, and you have come back. For what? You are her husband, in name
at any rate--oh, yes, I know all about that, I know a great deal more
than I am supposed to know, and do you think I am the only one?--legally
she is bound to you, though I do not doubt she could easily procure her
freedom if she so wished, so I ask you again--what are you going to do?
She is wholly in your power, utterly at your mercy. What more is she to
endure at your hands? I am speaking plainly because it seems to me to
be a time for plain speaking. I can't help what you think, I am afraid I
don't care. You've been like a son to me. I promised your mother on her
death-bed that I would never fail you, I could have forgiven you any
mortal thing on earth--but Gillian. It's Gillian and me, Barry. And if
it's a case of fighting for her happiness--by God, I'll fight! And
now you know why I have told you all that I have tonight, why I have
rendered an account of my stewardship. If you want me to go I shall
quite understand. I know I have exceeded my prerogative but I can't
help it. I've left everything in order, easy for anybody to take over--”
Craven's head had sunk into his hands, now he sprang to his feet unable
to control himself any longer. “Peter--for God's sake--” he cried
chokingly, and stumbling to the window he wrenched back the curtain and
flung up the sash, lifting his face to the storm of wind and rain that
beat in about him, his chest heaving, his arms held rigid to his sides.
“Do you think I don't care?” he said at last, brokenly. “Do you think
it hasn't nearly killed me to see her unhappiness--to be able to do
nothing. You don't know--I wasn't fit to be near her, to touch her. I
hoped by going to Africa to set her free. But I couldn't die. I tried,
God knows I tried, by every means in my power short of deliberately
blowing my brains out--a suicide's widow--I couldn't brand her like
that. When men were dying around me like flies death passed me by--I
wasn't fit even for that, I suppose.” He gave a ghastly little mirthless
laugh that made Peters wince and came back slowly into the room,
heedless of the window he had left open, and walked to the fireplace
dropping his head on his arm on the mantel. “You asked me just now what
I meant to do to her--it is not a question of me at all but what Gillian
elects to do. I am going to her tomorrow. The future rests with her.
If she turns me down--and you turn me down--I shall go to the devil
the quickest way possible. It's not a threat, I'm not trying to make
bargains, it's just that I'm at the end of my tether. I've made a
damnable mess of my life, I've brought misery to the woman I love. For
I do love her, God help me. I married her because I loved her, because
I couldn't bear to lose her. I was mad with jealousy. And heaven knows
I've been punished for it. My life's been hell. But it doesn't matter
about me--it's only Gillian who matters, only Gillian who counts for
anything.” His voice sank into a whisper and a long shudder passed over
him.
The anger had died out of Peters' face and the old tenderness crept back
into his eyes as they rested on the tall bowed figure by the fireplace.
He rose and went to the window, shutting it and drawing the curtain back
neatly into position. Then he crossed the room slowly and laid his hand
for an instant on Craven's shoulder with a quick firm pressure that
conveyed more than words. “Sit down,” he said gruffly, and going back to
the little table splashed some whisky into a glass and held it under
the syphon. Craven took the drink from him mechanically but set it
down barely tasted as he dropped again into the chair he had left a few
minutes before. He lit a cigarette, and Peters, as he filled his own
pipe, noticed that his hands were shaking. He was silent for a long
time, the cigarette, neglected, smouldering between his fingers, his
face hidden by his other hand. At last he looked up, his grey eyes
filled with an almost desperate appeal.
“You'll stay, Peter--for the sake of the place?” he said unsteadily.
“You made it what it is, it would go to pieces if you went. And I can't
go without you--if you chuck me it will about finish me.”
Peters drew vigorously at his pipe and a momentary moisture dimmed his
vision. He was remembering another appeal made to him in this very room
thirty years before when, after a stormy interview with his employer,
the woman he had loved had begged him to remain and save the property
for the little son who was her only hold on life. It was the mother's
face not the son's he saw before him, the mother's voice that was
ringing in his ears.
“I'll stay, Barry--as long as you want me,” he said at length huskily
from behind a dense cloud of smoke. A look of intense relief passed over
Craven's worn face. He tried to speak and, failing, gripped Peters' hand
with a force that left the agent's fingers numb.
There was another long pause. The blaze of the cheerful fire within and
the fury of the storm beating against the house without were the only
sounds that broke the silence. Peters was the first to speak.
“You say you are going to her tomorrow--do you know where to find her?”
Craven looked up with a start.
“Has she moved?” he asked uneasily. Peters stirred uncomfortably and
made a little deprecating gesture with his hand.
“It was a tallish rent, you know. The flat you took was in the most
expensive quarter of Paris,” he said with reluctance. Craven winced and
his hands gripped the arms of his chair.
“But you--you write to her, you have been over several times to see
her,” he said, with a new trouble coming into his eyes, and Peters
turned from his steady stare.
“Her letters, by her own request, are sent to the bank. I was only once
in the flat, shortly after you left. I think she must have given it up
almost immediately. Since then when I have run over for a day--she never
seemed to want me to stay longer--we have met in the Louvre or in the
gardens of the Tuileries, according to weather,” he said hesitatingly.
Craven stiffened in his chair.
“The Louvre--the gardens of the Tuileries,” he gasped, “but what on
earth--” he broke off with a smothered word Peters did not catch, and
springing up began to pace the room with his hands plunged deep in
his pockets. His face was set and his lips compressed under the neat
moustache. His mind was in a ferment, he could hardly trust himself to
speak. He halted at last in front of Peters, his eyes narrowing as he
gazed down at him. “Do you mean to tell me that you yourself do not know
where she is?” he said fiercely. Peters shook his head. “I do not. I
wish to heaven I did. But what could I do? I couldn't question her. She
made it plain she had no wish to discuss the subject. The little I did
say she put aside. It was not for me to spy on your wife, or employ a
detective to shadow her movements, no matter how anxious I felt.”
“No, you couldn't have done that,” said Craven drearily, and turned
away. To pursue the matter further, even with Peters, seemed suddenly
to him impossible. He wanted to be alone to think out this new problem,
though at the same time he knew that no amount of thought would solve
it. He would have to wait with what patience he could until the morning
when he would be able to act instead of think.
His face was expressionless when he turned to Peters again and sat down
quietly to discuss business. Half an hour later the agent rose to go.
“I'll bring up a checque book and some money in the morning before you
start. You won't have time to go to the bank in London. Wire me your
address in Paris--and bring her back with you, Barry. The whole place
misses her,” he said with a catch in his voice, stuffing the bundle of
papers into his pocket. Craven's reply was inaudible but Peters' heart
was lighter than it had been for years as he went out into the hall to
get his coat. “Yes, I'm walking,” he replied in response to an inquiry,
“bit of rain won't hurt me, I'm too seasoned,” and he laughed for the
first time that evening.
Going back to the study Craven threw a fresh log on the fire, filled a
pipe, and drew a chair close to the hearth. It was past one but he was
disinclined for bed. Peters' revelations had staggered him. His brain
was on fire. He felt that not until he had found her and got to the
bottom of all this mystery would he be able to sleep again. And perhaps
not even then, he thought with a quickening heart-beat and a sick fear
of what his investigations in Paris might lead to.
Before leaving England he had snatched time from his African
preparations to superintend personally the arrangements for her stay
in Paris. He had himself selected the flat and installed her with every
comfort and luxury that was befitting his wife. She had demurred once or
twice on the score of extravagance, particularly in the case of the car
he had insisted on sending over for her use, but he had laughed at her
protests and she had ceased to make any further objection, accepting
his wishes with the shy gentleness that marked her usual attitude toward
him. And she must have hated it all! Why? She was his wife, what was his
was hers. He had consistently impressed that on her from the first. But
it was obvious that she had never seen it in that light. He remembered
her passionate refusal--ending in tears that had horrified him--of the
big settlement he had wished to make at the time of their marriage, her
distress in taking the allowance he had had to force upon her. Was it
only his money she hated, or was it himself as well? And to what had
her hatred driven her? A fiercer gust of wind shrieked round the house,
driving the rain in torrents against the window, and as he listened
to it splashing sharply on the glass Craven shivered. Where was she
tonight? What shelter had she found in the pitiless city of contrasts?
Fragile and alone--and penniless? His hand clenched until the stem of
the pipe he was holding snapped between his fingers and he flung the
fragments into the fire, leaning forward and staring into the dying
embers with haggard eyes--picturing, remembering. He was intimately
acquainted with Paris, with two at least of its multifarious
aspects--the brilliant Paris of the rich, and the cruel Paris of the
struggling student. And yet, after all, what did his knowledge of the
latter amount to? It had amused him for a time to live in the Latin
quarter--it was in a disreputable cabaret on the south side of the river
that he had first come across John Locke--he had mixed there with all
and sundry, rubbing shoulders with the riff-raff of nations; he had seen
its vice and destitution, had mingled with its feverish surface
gaiety and known its underlying squalor and ugliness, but always as a
disinterested spectator, a transient passer by. Always he had had money
in his pocket. He had never known the deadly ever present fear that lies
coldly at the heart of even the wildest of the greater number of its
inhabitants. He had seen but never felt starvation. He had never sold
his soul for bread. But he had witnessed such a sale, not once or twice
but many times. In his carelessness he had accepted it as inevitable.
But the recollection stabbed him now with sudden poignancy. Merciful
God, toward what were his thoughts tending! He brushed his hand across
his eyes as though to clear away some hideous vision and rose slowly to
his feet. The expiring fire fell together with a little crash, flared
for an instant and then died down in a smouldering red mass that grew
quickly grey and cold. With a deep sigh Craven turned and went heavily
from the room. He lingered for a moment in the hall, dimly lit by the
single lamp left burning above, listening to the solemn ticking of the
clock, that at that moment chimed with unnatural loudness.
Mechanically he took out his watch and wound it, and then went slowly up
the wide staircase. At the head of the stairs he paused again. The great
house had never seemed so silent, so empty, so purposeless. The rows of
closed doors opening from the gallery seemed like the portals of some
huge mausoleum, vacant and chill. A house of desolation that cried to
him to fill its emptiness with life and love. With lagging steps he
walked half way along the gallery, passing two of the closed doors
with averted head, but at the third he stopped abruptly, yielding to
an impulse that had come to him. For a moment he hesitated, as though
before some holy place he feared to desecrate, then with a quick drawn
breath he turned the handle and went in.
In the darkness his hand sought and found the electric switch by the
door, and pressing it the room was flooded with soft shaded light.
Peters had spoken only the truth when he said that the house was kept in
immediate readiness for its mistress's return. Craven had never crossed
the threshold of this room before, and seeing it thus for the first time
he could hardly believe that for two years it had been tenantless.
She might have gone from it ten minutes before. It was redolent of her
presence. The little intimate details were as she had left them. A
bowl of bronze chrysanthemums stood on the dressing table where lay the
tortoise-shell toilet articles given her by Miss Craven. A tiny clock
ticked companionably on the mantelpiece. The pain in his eyes
deepened as they swept the room with hungry eagerness to take in every
particular. Her room! The room from which his unworthiness had barred
him. All that he had forfeited rose up before him, and in overwhelming
shame and misery a wave of burning colour rolled slowly over his face.
Never had the distance between them seemed so wide. Never had her purity
and innocence been brought home to him so forcibly as in this spotless
white chamber. Its simplicity and fresh almost austere beauty seemed
the reflection of her own stainless soul and the fierce passion that was
consuming him seemed by contrast hideous and brutal. It was as if he
had violated the sanctuary of a cloistered Nun. And yet might not even
passion be beautiful if love hallowed it? His arms stretched out in
hopeless longing, her name burst from his lips in a cry of desperate
loneliness, and he fell on his knees beside the bed, burying his face
in the thick soft quilt, his strong brown hands outflung, gripping and
twisting its silken cover in his agony.
Hours later he raised his tired eyes to the pale light of the wintry
dawn filtering feebly through the close drawn curtains.
* * * *
He left that morning for Paris, alone.
It was still raining steadily and the chill depressing outlook from the
train did not tend to lighten his gloomy thoughts.
In London the rain poured down incessantly. The roads were greasy and
slippery with mud, the pavements filled with hurrying jostling crowds,
whose dripping umbrellas glistened under the flaring shop lights. Craven
peered at the cheerless prospect as he drove from one station to the
other and shivered at the gloom and wretchedness through which he was
passing. The mean streets and dreary squalid houses took on a greater
significance for him than they had ever done. The sight of a passing
woman, ill-clad and rain-drenched, sent through him a stab of horrible
pain. Paris could be as cruel, as pitiless, as this vaster, wealthier
city.
He left his bag in the cloakroom at Charing Cross and spent the hours of
waiting for the boat train tramping the streets in the vicinity of the
station. He was in no mood to go to his Club, where he would find a
host of acquaintances eager for an account of his wanderings and curious
concerning his tardy return.
The time dragged heavily. He turned into a quiet restaurant to get a
meal and ate without noticing what was put before him. At the earliest
opportunity he sought the train and buried himself in the corner of a
compartment praying that the wretched night might lessen the number of
travellers. Behind an evening paper which he did not attempt to read
he smoked in silence, which the two other men in the carriage did not
break. Foreigners both, they huddled in great coats in opposite corners
and were asleep almost before the train pulled out of the station.
Laying down the paper that had no interest for him Craven surveyed them
for a moment with a feeling of envy, and tilting his hat over his eyes,
endeavoured to emulate their good example. But, despite his weariness,
sleep would not come to him. He sat listening to the rattle of the train
and to the peaceful snoring of his companions until his mind ceased to
be diverted by immediate distractions and centred wholly on the task
before him.
At Dover the weather had not improved and the sea was breaking high over
the landing stage, drenching the few passengers as they hurried on to
the boat and dived below for shelter from the storm. Indifferent to the
weather Craven chose to stay on deck and stood throughout the crossing
under lea of the deckhouse where it was possible to keep a pipe alight.
Contrary to his expectation he managed to sleep in the train and slept
until they reached Paris. Avoiding a hotel where he was known he drove
to one of the smaller establishments, and engaging a room ordered
breakfast and sat down to think out his next move.
There were two possible sources of information, the flat, where she
might have left an address when she vacated it, and the bank where
Peters had told him she called for letters. He would try them before
resorting to the expedient of employing a detective, which he was loth
to do until all other means failed. He hated the idea, but there was no
alternative except the police, whose aid he had determined not to invoke
unless it became absolutely necessary. It was imperative that his search
should be conducted as quietly and as secretly as possible. He decided
to visit the flat first, and, having wired to Peters in accordance with
his promise, set out on foot.
It was not actually raining but the clouds hung low and threatening and
the air was raw. He walked fast, swinging along the crowded streets with
his eyes fixed straight in front of him. And his great height and deeply
tanned face made him a conspicuous figure that excited attention of
which he was ignorant.
Leaving the narrow street where was his hotel he emerged into the Place
de la Madeleine, and threading his way through the stream of traffic
turned into the Boulevard de Malesherbes, which he followed, cutting
across the Boulevard Haussmann and passing the Church of Saint Augustin,
until the trees in the Parc Monceau rose before him. How often in the
heat of Africa had he pictured her sitting in the shade of those great
spreading planes, reading or sketching the children who played about
her? He had thought of her every hour of the day and night, seeing her
in his mind moving about the flat he had taken and furnished with such
care. How utterly futile had been all his dreams about her. His lips
tightened as he passed up the steps of the house he remembered so well.
But to his inquiries the concierge, who was a new-comer, could give no
reply. He had no knowledge of any Madame Craven who had lived there, and
was plainly uninterested in a tenant who had left before his time. It
was past history with which he had nothing to do, and with which he made
it clear he did not care to be involved. He was curt and decisive
but, with an eye to Craven's powerful proportions, refrained from the
insolence that is customary among his kind. It was the first check, but
as he walked away Craven admitted to himself that he had not counted
overmuch on obtaining any information from that quarter, taking into
account the short time she had lived there. Remained the bank. He
retraced his steps, walking directly to the Place de l'Opéra. But the
bank, which was also a tourists' agency, could give him no assistance.
The lady called for her letters at infrequent intervals, they had no
idea where she might be found. Would the gentleman care to leave a card,
which would be given to her at the first opportunity? But Craven shook
his head--the chance of her calling was too vague--and passed out again
into the busy streets. There was nothing for it now but a detective
agency, and with his face grown grimmer he went without further delay to
the bureau of a firm he knew by repute. In the private room of the
_Chef de Bureau_ he detailed his requirements with national brevity and
conciseness. His knowledge of the language stood him in good stead and
the painfulness of the interview was mitigated by the businesslike and
tactful manner in which his commission was received. The keen-eyed man
who sat tapping a gold pencil case on his thumbnail in the intervals of
taking notes had a reputation to maintain which he was not unwilling to
increase; foreign clients were by no means rare, but they did not come
every day, nor were they always so apparently full of wealth as this
stern-faced Englishman, who spoke authoritatively as one accustomed to
being obeyed and yet with a turn of phrase and _politesse_ unusual in
his countrymen.
Followed two days of interminable waiting and suspense, two days that to
Craven seemed like two lifetimes. He hung about the hotel, not daring to
go far afield lest he should lose some message or report. He had no
wish either to advertise his presence in Paris, he had too many friends
there, too many acquaintances whose questions would be difficult to
parry.
But on the morning of the third day, about eleven o'clock, he was
called to the telephone. A feeling of dread ran through him and he was
conscious of a curious sensation of weakness as he lifted the receiver.
But the voice that hailed him was reassuring and complacently expressive
of a neat piece of work well done. The wife of _Monsieur_ had been
traced, they had taken time--oh, yes, but they had followed _Monsieur's_
instructions _au pied de la lettre_ and had acted with a discretion
that was above criticism. Then followed an address given minutely. For
a moment he leaned against the side of the telephone box shaking
uncontrollably. Only at this moment did he realise completely how great
his fear had been. There had been times when the recurring thought of
the Morgue and its pitiful occupants had been a foretaste of hell. The
feeling of weakness passed quickly and he went out to the entrance of
the hotel and leaped into a taxi which had just set down a fare.
He knew well the locality toward which he was driving. Years ago he
could almost have walked to it blindfold, but today time was precious.
And as he sat forward in the jolting cab, his hands locked tightly
together, it seemed to him as if every possible hindrance had combined
to bar his progress. The traffic had never appeared so congested, the
efforts of the agents on point duty so hopelessly futile. Omnibuses and
motors, unwieldy meat carts and fiacres, inextricably jammed, met them
at every turn, until at last swinging round by the corner of the Louvre
the streets became clearer and the car turned sharply to cross the
river. As they approached the address the detective had given him Craven
was conscious of no sensation of any kind. A deadly calm seemed to have
taken possession of him. He had ceased even to speculate on what lay
before him. The house at which they stopped at last was typical of its
kind; in his student days he had rented a studio in a precisely similar
building, and the concierge to whom he applied might have been the twin
sister of the voluble amply proportioned citoyenne of long ago who had
kept a maternal eye on his socks and shirts and a soft spot in her heart
for the _bel Anglais_ who chaffed her unmercifully, but paid his rent
with commendable promptitude. A huge woman, with a shrewd not unkindly
face, she sat in a rocking chair with a diminutive kitten on her
shoulder and a mass of knitting in her lap. As she listened to Craven's
inquiry she tossed the kitten into a basket and bundled the shawl she
was making under her arm, while she rose ponderously to her feet and
favoured the stranger with a stare that was frankly and undisguisedly
inquisitive. A pair of twinkling eyes encased in rolls of fat swept him
from head to foot in leisurely survey, and he felt that there was no
detail about him that escaped attention, that even the texture of his
clothing and the very price of the boots he was wearing were gauged with
accuracy and ease. She condescended to speak at last in a voice that was
curiously soft, and warmed into something almost approaching enthusiasm.
Madame Craven? but certainly, _au quatrieme_. Monsieur was perhaps a
patron of the arts, he desired to buy a picture? It was well, painters
were many but buyers were few. Madame was assuredly at home, she was
in fact engaged at that moment with a model. A model--_Sapristi_!--he
called himself such, but for herself she would have called him _un vrai
apache_! Of a countenance, _mon Dieu_! She paused to wave her hands
in horror and jerk her head toward the staircase, continuing her
confidences in a lowered tone. The door of the studio was open, it
was wiser when such gentry presented themselves, and also did she not
herself always sit in the hall that she might be within call, one never
knew--and Madame was an angel with the heart of a child. A face to
study--and she thought of nothing else. But there were those who
thought for her, the blessed innocent. It was doubtless because she was
English--Monsieur was also English, she observed with another shrewd
glance and a wide smile. Madame would be glad to see a compatriot. If
Monsieur would do himself the trouble of ascending the stairs he could
not mistake the door, it was at the top, and, as she had said, it was
open.
She beamed on him graciously as with a murmur of thanks Craven turned
to mount the stone staircase. A feeling of relief came to him at the
thought of the warm hearted self-appointed guardian sitting in kindly
vigilance in the big armchair below. Here, too, it would appear, Gillian
had made herself beloved. As he passed quickly upward the unnatural calm
that had come over him gave place to a very different feeling. It was
brought home to him all at once that what he had longed and prayed for
was on the point of taking effect. He realised that the ghastly waiting
time was over, that in a few moments he would see her, and his heart
began to throb violently. Every second that still separated them seemed
an age and he took the last remaining flight two steps at a time. But he
stopped abruptly as he reached the level of the landing. The open door
was within a few feet of him but screened from where he stood.
It was her voice that had arrested him, speaking with an accent of
weariness he had never heard before that sent a sudden quiver to his
lips. His fingers clenched on the soft hat he held.
“But it does not do at all,” she was saying, and the racking cough that
accompanied her words struck through Craven's heart like a knife, “it is
the expression that is wrong. If you look like that I can never believe
that you are what you say you are. Think of some of the horrible things
you have told me--try and imagine that you are still tracking down that
brute who took your little Colette from you--” A husky voice interrupted
her. “No use, Madame, when I remember that I can only think of you and
the American doctor who gave her back to me, and our happiness.”
“You don't deserve her, and she hates the things you do,” came the quick
retort, and the man who had been speaking laughed.
“But not me,” he answered promptly, “and the things I do keep a roof
over our heads,” he added grimly. “But, see, I will try again--does that
satisfy Madame?”
Craven moved forward as he heard her eager assent and her injunction to
“hold that for a few minutes,” and in the silence that ensued he reached
the door. For a moment his entrance passed unobserved.
The stark bareness of the room was revealed to him in a single
comprehensive glance and the chill of it sent a sudden feeling of anger
surging through him. His face was drawn and his eyes almost menacing
with pain as they rested on the slight figure bending forward in
unconscious absorption over the easel propped in the middle of the
rugless floor. Then his gaze travelled slowly beyond her to the model
who stood on the little dais, and he understood in a flash the reason
of the old concierge's vigilance as he saw the manner of man she was
painting. The slender darkly clad youth with head thrust forward and
sunk deep on his shoulders, with close fitting peaked cap pulled
low over his eyes shading his pale sinister face was a typical
representative of the class of criminal who had come to be known in
Paris as _les apaches_; no artist's model masquerading as one of
the dreaded assassins, but the genuine article. Of that Craven was
convinced. The risk she had taken, the quick resentment he felt at the
thought of such a presence near her forced from him an exclamation.
Artist and model turned simultaneously. There was a moment of tense
silence as husband and wife stared into each other's eyes. Then the
palette and brushes she was holding dropped with a little chatter to the
floor.
“Barry,” she whispered fearfully, “Barry--”
Both men sprang forward, but it was Craven who caught her as she fell.
She lay like a featherweight in his strong clasp, and as he gazed at the
delicate face crushed against his breast a deadly fear was knocking at
his heart that he had come too late. Convulsively his arms tightened
round the pitifully light little body and he spoke abruptly to the man
who was scowling beside him. “A doctor--as quick as you can--and tell
the concierge to come up.” Anxiety roughened his voice and he turned
away without waiting to see his orders carried out. For a second the
apache glowered at him under narrowing lids, his sullen face working
strangely, then he jerked the black cap further over his eyes and
slipped away with noiseless tread.
With a broken whisper Craven caught his frail burden closer, as though
seeking by the strength and warmth of his own body to animate the
fragile limbs lying so cold and lifeless in his arms, and he bent low
over the pallid lips he craved and yet did not dare to kiss. They were
not for him to take, he reflected bitterly, and in her unconsciousness
they were sacred.
His eyes were dark with misery as he raised his head and looked about
quickly for some couch on which to lay her. But the bare studio was
devoid of any such luxury, and with his face set rigidly he carried
her across the room and pushed open a door leading to an inner sleeping
apartment. Barer it was and colder even than the studio, and its bleak
poverty formed a horrible contrast to the big white bedroom at Craven
Towers. He laid her on the narrow comfortless bed with a smothered groan
that seemed to tear his heart to pieces. And as he knelt beside
her chafing her icy hands in helpless agony there burst in on him a
tempestuous fury who raved and stormed and called on heaven to witness
the iniquity of men. “_Bete! animal!_” she raged, “what have you done
to her--you and that rat-faced devil!” and she thrust her bulky figure
between him and the bed. Then with a sudden change of manner, her voice
grown soft and caressing, she bent over the fainting girl and slipped a
plump arm under her, crooning, over her and endeavouring to restore her
to consciousness. She snapped an enquiry at Craven and he explained
as best he could, and his explanation brought down on him a wealth of
biting sarcasm. The husband of _cet ange la_! In the name of heaven! was
there no limit to the blundering stupidity of men--had he no more sense
than to present himself with such unexpectedness, after so long an
absence? Small wonder _la pauvre petite_ had fainted. What folly! And
lashing him with her tongue she renewed her fruitless efforts. But
Craven scarcely heeded her. His eyes were fixed on the little white face
on the pillow, and he was praying desperately that she might be spared
to him, that his punishment might not take so terrible a form. For the
change in her appalled him. Slight and delicate always, she was now a
mere shadow of what she had been. If she died!--he clenched his teeth to
keep silent--must he be twice a murderer? O Hara San's blood was on his
hands, would hers also--
He turned quickly as a tall, loosely made man swung into the room. The
new-comer shot a swift glance at him and moved past to the bedside,
addressing the concierge in fluent French that was marked by a
pronounced American accent. He cut short her eager communication as he
bent over the bed and made a rapid examination.
“Light a fire in the stove, bring all the blankets you can find, and
make some strong coffee. I have been waiting for this, the marvel is
it hasn't happened before,” he said brusquely. And as the woman hurried
away with surprising meekness to do his bidding he turned again to
Craven. “Friend of Mrs. Craven's?” he asked with blunt directness. “Pity
her friends haven't looked her up sooner. Guess you can wait in the
other room until I'm through here--that is if you are sufficiently
interested. It will probably be a long job and the fewer people she sees
about her when she comes to, the better.”
The blood flamed into Craven's face and an angry protest rose to his
lips, but his better judgment checked it. It was not the time for
explanations or to press the claim he had to remain in the room. And had
he a claim at all, he wondered with a dull feeling of pain. “I'll wait,”
he said quietly, fighting an intolerable jealousy as he watched the
doctor's skilful hands busy about her. Strangers might tend her, but the
husband she had evidently never spoken of, was banished to an outer room
to wait “if sufficiently interested.” He winced and passed slowly into
the studio. And yet he had brought it on himself. She could have had
little wish to mention him situated as she was, the bare garret he was
pacing monotonously was evidence in itself that she had determined to
cut adrift from everything that was connected with the life and the man
she had obviously loathed. His surroundings left no doubt on that score.
She had plainly preferred to struggle independently for existence rather
than be beholden to him who was her natural protector. He recalled with
an aching heart the swift look of fear that had leapt into her eyes
during that long moment before she had lost consciousness, and the
memory of it went with him, searing cruelly, as he tramped up and down
in restless anxiety that would not allow him to keep still. To see that
look in her eyes again would be more than he could endure.
From time to time the concierge passed through the room bearing the
various necessaries the doctor had demanded, but her mouth was grimly
shut and he did not ask for information that she did not seem inclined
to vouchsafe. She did unbend so far at last as to light a fire in the
stove, but she let it be clearly understood that it was not for his
benefit. “It will help to warm the other room, and it has been empty
long enough,” she said, with a glance and a shrug that were full of
meaning. But as she saw the misery of his face her manner softened and
she spoke confidently of the skill of the American doctor, who from
motives of pure philanthropy had practised for some years in a quarter
that offered much experience but little pecuniary profit.
Then she left him to wait again alone.
He could not bring himself to look at the canvases propped against the
bare walls, they were witnesses of her toil, witnesses perhaps of a
failure that hurt him even more than it must have hurt her. And to
him who knew the spirit-crushing efforts of the unknown artist to win
recognition, her failure was both natural and intelligible. He guessed
at a pride that scorning patronage had not sought assistance but had
striven to succeed by merit alone, only to learn the bitter lesson that
falls to the lot of those who fight against established convention. She
had pitted her strength against a system and the system had broken her.
Her studies might be--they were--marked with genius, but genius without
advertisement had gone unrecognised and unrewarded.
But before the portrait of the strange model he had found with her he
paused for a long time. Still unfinished it was brilliantly clever. The
lower part of the face had evidently not satisfied her, for it was wiped
out, but the upper part was completed, and Craven looked at the
deep-set eyes of the apache staring back at him with almost the fire
of life--melancholy sinister eyes that haunted--and wondered again what
circumstance had brought such a man across her path. He remembered the
fragmentary conversation he had heard, remembered too that mention had
been made of the man who was even now with her in the adjoining room,
and he sighed as he realised how utterly ignorant he was of the life she
had led during his absence.
Had she meditated a complete severance from him, formed ties that would
bind her irrevocably to the life she had chosen? He turned from the
picture wearily. It was all a tangle. He could only wait, and waiting,
suffer.
He went to the window and leant his arms unseeingly on the high narrow
sill that looked out over the neighbouring housetops, straining to hear
the faintest sound from the inner room. It seemed to him that he must
have waited hours when at last the door opened and shut quietly and the
American came leisurely toward him. He faced him with swift unspoken
inquiry. The doctor nodded, moving toward the stove. “She's all right
now,” he said dryly, “but I don't mind telling you she gave me the
fright of my life. I have been wondering when this was going to happen,
I've seen it coming for a long time.” He paused, and looked at Craven
frowningly while he warmed his hands.
“May I ask if you are an intimate friend of Mrs. Craven's--if you know
her people? Can you put me in communication with them? She is not in
a fit state to be alone. She should have somebody with her--somebody
belonging to her, I mean. I gather there is a husband somewhere
abroad--though frankly I have always doubted his existence--but that is
no good. I want somebody here, on the spot, now. Mrs. Craven doesn't
see the necessity. I do. I'm not trying to shunt responsibility. I've
shouldered a good deal in my time and I'm not shirking now--but this
is a case that calls for more than a doctor. I should appreciate any
assistance you could give me.”
The fear he had felt when he held her in his arms was clutching anew at
Craven and his face grew grey under the deep tan. “What is the matter
with her?” Something in his voice made the doctor look at him more
closely.
“That, my dear sir,” he parried, “is rather a leading question.”
“I have a right to know,” interrupted Craven quickly.
“You will pardon me if I ask--what right?” was the equally quick
rejoinder.
The blood surged back hotly into Craven's face.
“The right of the man whose existence you very justly doubted,” he said
heavily. The doctor straightened himself with a jerk. “You are Mrs.
Craven's husband! Then you will forgive me if I say that you have not
come back any too soon. I am glad for your wife's sake that the myth is
a reality,” he said gravely. Craven stood rigidly still, and it seemed
to him that his heart stopped beating. “I know my wife is delicate,
that her lungs are not strong, but what is the cause of this
sudden--collapse?” he said slowly, his voice shaking painfully. For a
moment the other hesitated and shrugged in evident embarrassment.
“There are a variety of causes--I find it somewhat difficult to say--you
couldn't know, of course--”
Craven cut him short. “You needn't spare my feelings,” he said hoarsely.
“For God's sake speak plainly.
“In a word then--though I hate to have to say it--starvation.” The keen
eyes fixed on him softened into sudden compassion but Craven did not see
them. He saw nothing, for the room was spinning madly round him and he
staggered back against the window catching at the woodwork behind him.
“Oh, my God!” he whispered, and wiped the blinding moisture from his
eyes. If it had been possible for her gentle nature to contemplate
revenge she could have planned no more terrible one than this. But in
his heart he knew that it was not revenge. For a moment he could
not speak, then with an effort he mastered himself. He could give no
explanation to this stranger, that lay between him and her alone.
“There was no need,” he said at last dully, forcing the words with
difficulty; “she misunderstood--I can't explain. Only tell me what I can
do--anything that will cure her. There isn't any permanent injury, is
there--I haven't really come too late?” he gasped, with an agony of
appeal in his voice. The American shook his head. “You ran it very
fine,” he said, with a quick smile, “but I guess you've come in time,
right enough. There isn't anything here that money can't cure. Her lungs
are not over strong, her heart is temporarily strained, and her nerves
are in tatters. But if you can take her to the south--or better still,
Egypt--?” he hesitated with a look of enquiry, and as Craven nodded,
continued with more assurance, “Good! then there's no reason why she
shouldn't be a well woman in time. She's constitutionally delicate but
there's nothing organically wrong. Take her away as soon as possible,
feed her up--and keep her happy. That's all she wants. I'll look in
again this evening.” And with another reassuring smile and a firm
handclasp he was gone.
As his footsteps died away Craven turned slowly toward the adjoining
room with strangely contending emotions. “... keep her happy.” The
bitter irony of the words bit into him as he crossed to the door and,
tapping softly, went in.
She was waiting for him, lying high on the pillows that were no whiter
than her face, toying nervously with the curling ends of the thick plait
of soft brown hair that reached almost to her waist. Her eyes were fixed
on him appealingly, and as he came toward her her face quivered suddenly
and again he saw the look of fear that had tortured him before. “Oh,
Barry,” she moaned, “don't be angry with me.”
It was all that he could do to keep his hungry arms from closing round
her, to keep back the passionate torrent of love that rushed to his
lips. But he dared not give way to the weakness that was tempting him.
Controlling himself with an effort of will he sat down on the edge of
the bed and covered her twitching fingers with his lean muscular hands.
“I'm not angry, dear. God knows I've no right to be,” he said gently. “I
just don't understand. I never dreamt of anything like this. Can't you
tell me--explain--help me to understand?”
She dragged her hands from his, and covering her face gave way to bitter
weeping. Her tears crucified him and his heart was breaking as he looked
at her. “Gillian, have a little pity on me,” he pleaded. “Do you think
I'm a stone that I can bear to see you cry?”
“What can I say?” she whispered sobbingly. “You wouldn't understand. You
have never understood. How should you? You were too generous. You gave
me your name, your wealth, you sacrificed your freedom to save me from
a knowledge of the callousness and cruelty of the world. You saw further
than I did. You knew that I would fail--as I have failed. And because of
that you married me in pity. Did you think I would never guess? I
didn't at first. I was a stupid ignorant child, I didn't realise what a
marriage like ours would mean. But when I did--oh, so soon--and when
I knew that I could never repay you--I think I nearly died with shame.
When I asked you to let me come to Paris it was not to lead the life you
purposed for me but because my burden of debt had grown intolerable.
I thought that if I worked here, paid my own way, got back my lost
self-respect, that it would be easier to bear. When you took the flat
I tried to make you understand but you wouldn't listen and I couldn't
trouble you when you were going away. And then later when they told me
at the convent what you had done, when I learned how much greater was
my debt than I had ever dreamt, and when I heard of the money you gave
them--the money you still give them every year--the money they call the
Gillian Craven Fund--”
“They had no right, I made it a stipulation--”
“They didn't realise, they thought because we were married that I must
surely know. I couldn't go on living in the flat, taking the allowance
you heaped on me. All you gave,--all you did--your generosity--I
couldn't bear it! Oh, can't you see--your money _choked_ me!” she
wailed, with a paroxysm of tears that frightened him. He caught her
hands again, holding them firmly. “Your money as much as mine, Gillian.
I have always tried to make you realise it. What is mine is yours.
You're my wife--”
“I'm not, I'm not,” she sobbed wildly. “I'm only a burden thrust on
you.”
A cry burst from his lips. “A burden, my God, a burden!” he groaned. And
suddenly he reached the end of his endurance. With the agony of death in
his eyes he swept her into his arms, holding her to him with passionate
strength, his lips buried in the fragrance of her hair. “Oh, my dear, my
dear,” he murmured brokenly, “I'm not fit to touch you, but I've loved
you always, worshipped you, longed for you until the longing grew too
great to bear, and I left you because I knew that if I stayed I should
not have the strength to leave you free. I married you because I loved
you, because even this damnable mockery of a marriage was better than
losing you out of my life--I was cur enough to keep you when I knew I
might not take you. And I've wanted you, God knows how I've wanted you,
all these ghastly years. I want you now, I'd give my hope of heaven to
have your love, to hold you in my arms as my wife, to be a husband
to you not only in name--but I'm not fit. You don't know what I've
done--what I've been. I had no right to marry you, to stain your purity
with my sin, to link you with one who is fouled as I am. If you knew
you'd never look at me again.” With a terrible sob he laid her back on
the pillows and dropped on his knees beside her. Into her tear-wet eyes
there came suddenly a light that was almost divine, her quivering face
became glorious in its pitiful love. Trembling, she leant towards him,
and her slender hands went out in swift compassion, drawing the bowed
shamed head close to her tender breast.
“Tell me,” she whispered. And with her soft arms round him he told her,
waiting in despair for the moment when she would shrink from him, repel
him with the horror and disgust he dreaded. But she lay quite still
until he finished, though once or twice she shuddered and he felt the
quickened beating of her heart. And for long after his muffled voice had
died away she remained silent. Then her thin hand crept quiveringly
up to his hair, touching it shyly, and two great tears rolled down
her face. “Barry, I've been so lonely”--it was the cry of a frightened
desolate child--“if you have no pity on yourself, will you have no pity
on me?”
“Gillian!” he raised his head sharply, staring at her with desperate
unbelieving eyes, “You care?”
“Care?” she gave a tremulous little sobbing laugh. “How could I help
but care! I've loved you since the day you came to me in the convent
parlour. You're all I have, and if you leave me now”--she clung to him
suddenly--“Barry, Barry, I can't bear any more. I haven't any strength
or courage left. I'm afraid! I can't face the world alone--it's
cruel--pitiless. I love you, I want you, I can't live without you,” and
with a piteous sob she strained him to her, hiding her face against
his breast, beseeching and distraught. His lips were trembling as he
gathered the shuddering little body closely in his arms, but still he
hesitated.
“Think, dear, think,” he muttered hoarsely, “I'm not fit to stay with
you. I've done that which is unforgivable.”
“I'm your wife, I've the right to share your burden,” she cried
passionately. “You didn't know, you couldn't know when you did that
dreadful thing. And if God punishes you let Him punish me too. But God
is love, He knows how you have suffered, and for those who repent His
punishment is forgiveness.”
“But can you forgive--can you bear to come to me?” he faltered, still
only half believing.
“I love you,” she said simply, “and life without you is death,” and
lifting her face to his she gave him the lips he had not dared to take.