The Shadow of the East Part 12

He was standing rigid, to her strained fancy he seemed almost to have stopped breathing and there was in his att.i.tude something that frightened her. It came to her suddenly that, after all, he was to all intents and purposes a stranger to her. Even the intimacy of these last months, living in close contiguity to him in his own house had not broken down the barrier that his sojourn in j.a.pan had raised. She understood him no better than on the day of his arrival in Paris. He had been uniformly thoughtful and affectionate but had never reverted to the old Barry whom she had known so well. He had, as it were, retired within himself. He lived his life apart, with them but not of them, daily carrying through the arduous work he set himself with a dogged determination in which there was no pleasure. Yet, beyond a certain gravity, to the casual observer there was in him no great change. He entertained frequently and was a popular host, interesting and appearing interested. Only Miss Craven and Peters, more intimate, saw the effort that he made. To Miss Craven it seemed sometimes as if he were deliberately living through a self-appointed period--she had found herself wondering what cataclysm would end it. She was conscious of the impression, which she tried vainly to dismiss as absurd, of living over an active volcano. What would be the result of the upheaval when it came? She had prayed earnestly for some counter-distraction that might become powerful enough to surmount the tragic memory with which he lived--a memory she was convinced and the tragedy was present in his face. She had cherished a hope, born in the early days of their return to Craven Towers and maintained in the face of seeming improbability of fulfilment, that had grown to be an ardent desire. In the realization of that hope she thought she saw his salvation. With the knowledge of her own precarious hold on life she clung even more closely to what had become the strongest wish she had ever known. She had never deluded herself into imagining the consummation of her wish imminent, she had frankly acknowledged to herself that his inscrutability was impenetrable, and now hope seemed almost extinguished. She realized it with a feeling of helplessness. And yet she had a curious impulse, an inner conviction that urged with a peremptoriness that over-rode subterfuge. She would speak plainly, be the consequences what they were.

It was for the ultimate happiness of the two beings whom she loved best on earth--for that surely she might venture something. She had never been afraid of plain speaking, it would be strange if she let convention deter her now. Convention! it had wrecked many a life--so had interference, she thought with sudden racking indecision. What if by interference she hindered now, rather than helped? What if speech did more mischief than silence? Irresolutely she wavered, and to her indecision there came suddenly the further disturbing thought--if Barry acceded to her earnest wish what ground had she for pre-supposing that it would result in his happiness? She had no definite knowledge, no positive a.s.surance wherewith to press her request. The inmost feelings of both were hidden from her. Her meddling might only bring more sorrow to him who seemed already weighed down under a crus.h.i.+ng burden of grief. Grat.i.tude and an intense admiration she knew existed. But between admiration and any deeper feeling there was a wide gulf. And yet what might not be hidden behind the grave seriousness of those great dark eyes that looked with apparently equal frankness at every member of the household? Months spent in the proximity of an unusually handsome man, the romance of the tie between them--it was an experience that any woman, least of all an unsophisticated convent-bred girl, could hardly pa.s.s through unscathed. It was surely enough to gamble on, she reflected with grim humour that did not amuse. It was a great hazzard, the highest stakes she had ever played for who had never been afraid of losing. The thought spurred her. If it was to be the last throw then let there be no hesitation. A reputation for courage and coolness had gone with her through life.

She turned to him abruptly, all indecision gone, complete mistress of herself again.

"Barry, don't you understand?" she said with slow distinctness. "I want you to ask Gillian to marry you."

He started as if she had stabbed him.

"Good G.o.d," he cried violently, "you don't know what you are saying!"

And from his tortured face she averted her eyes hastily, sick at heart.

But she held her ground, aware that retreat was not now possible.

She answered gently, steadying her voice with difficulty.

"Is it so extraordinary that I should wish it, should hope for it? I care for you both so deeply. To know that your mother's place would be filled by one who is worthy to follow her--how worthy only I, who have been admitted to her high ideals, appreciate; to know that there would be the happiness of home ties here for you, to know that I leave Gillian safe in your hands--it would make my going very easy, Barry."

His head was down on his arms on the mantelshelf, his face hidden from her. "Gillian--safe--in my hands--_my G.o.d_!" he groaned, and shuddered like a man in mortal agony.

All the deep love she had for him, all the fears she entertained for him leaped up in her with sudden strength, forcing utterance and breaking down the reticence she had imposed upon herself. She caught his arm.

"Barry, what is it--for heaven's sake speak! Do you think I have been blind all these months, that I have seen nothing? Can't you tell me--anything?" her voice, quivering with emotion, was strange to him, strange enough to recall him to himself. He straightened slowly and drew away from her with a little s.h.i.+ver. "There is nothing I can tell you,"

he replied dully, "nothing that I can explain, only this--I went through h.e.l.l in j.a.pan. I don't want any sympathy--it was my own fault, my own doing.... Just now I made a fool of myself, I was off my guard, your words startled me. Forget it, you can do me no good by remembering."

He made an abrupt movement as if to leave the room but Miss Craven stood squarely in front of him, her chin raised stubbornly. She knew now that she was face to face with something even more terrible than she had imagined. He had avoided a definite answer. By all reasoning she should have accepted his rebuff but intuition, stronger than reason, impelled her. If he went now it would be the end. She knew that positively.

The question could never be opened up again. She could not let it pa.s.s without a final effort. It was inconceivable that this shadow could always lie across his life. Whatever tragical event had occurred belonged to the past--surely the future might hold some alleviation, some happiness that might compensate for the sorrow that had lined his face and brought the silver threads that gleamed in his thick dark hair.

Surely in the care for another life memory might be dulled and there might dawn for him a new hope, a new peace. Despite his broken suggestive words her trust in him was still maintained; she had no fear for Gillian--with him her future would be a.s.sured. And there seemed no other alternative. Her confidence in herself furthermore was not shaken, she had a deep unalterable conviction that the wish for the union she so desired was based upon something deeper than mere fancy. It was not anything that she could put into words or even into concrete thought, but the belief was strong. It was a vivid a.s.surance that went beyond reasoning, that made it possible for her to speak again.

"Are you going to let the past dominate the rest of your life," she asked slowly, "is the future to count for nothing? There are, in all probability, many years ahead of you--cannot you, in them, obliterate what has gone before?"

He turned from her with a hopeless gesture and a muttered word she could not catch. But he did not go as she feared he would. He lingered in the room, staring into the heart of the glowing fire and Miss Craven played her last card.

"And--Gillian?" she said firmly, all the Craven obstinacy in her voice, and waited long for his answer. When it came it was flat, monotonous.

"I cannot marry her. I cannot marry--anybody."

"Are you married already?" The question escaped before she could bite it back. With a quickening heartbeat she awaited an outburst, a retort that would end everything. But he answered quietly, in the same toneless voice: "No, I am not married."

She caught at the loop-hole it seemed to offer. "If there is no bar----"

she began eagerly, but he cut her short. "I have done with all that sort of thing," he said harshly.

"Why?" she persisted, with a doggedness that matched his own. "If you have known sorrow, does that necessarily mean that you can never again know happiness? Must you for a--a memory, turn your back irrevocably on any chance that may restore your peace of mind? I believe that such a chance is waiting for you."

He looked at her with strange intentness. "For me...." he smiled bitterly. "If you only knew!"

"I only know that you are hesitating at what most men would jump at,"

she retorted, suddenly conscious of strained nerves and feeling as if she were battering impotently against a granite rock-face. His hands clenched but he did not reply and swift contrition fell on her. She turned to him impulsively. "Forgive me, Barry. I shouldn't have said that, but I want this thing so desperately. I am convinced that it would mean happiness for you, for you both. And when I think of Gillian--alone--fighting against the world----" She broke down completely and he gripped her hands with a strength that made her wince.

"She'll never do that if I can help it," he said swiftly.

Miss Craven looked up with sudden hope. "You will ask her?" she whispered expectantly. He put her from him gently. "I can promise nothing. I must think," he said deliberately, and there was in his face a look that held her silent.

With uncertain feelings she watched him leave the room.... Inevitable re-action set in, doubts overwhelmed her. Had she done what was best or had she blundered irretrievably? She went unsteadily to a chair, extraordinarily tired, exhausted in her new weakness by the emotional strain through which she had pa.s.sed. She was beginning to be a little aghast at what she had done, at the force that she had set moving.

And yet she had been actuated by the highest motives. She believed implicitly that the joining of the two lives whose future was all her care would result in the ultimate happiness of both. They had grown used to each other. A closer relations.h.i.+p than that of guardian and ward seemed, in view of the comparatively slight difference in age, a natural outcome of the intimacy into which they had been thrown. It was not without precedent; similar events had happened before and would doubtless happen again, she argued, striving to stifle the still lingering doubt that whispered that she had gone beyond her prerogative.

And what she had done was in a way inexplicable even to herself. All through she had felt that involuntary forceful impulse that had been almost fatalistic, she had urged through the prompting of an inward conviction. She had perhaps attached too much importance to it, her own wish had been magnified until it a.s.sumed the appearance of fate.

Her closed eyes quivered as she leaned back in the chair.

She had done it for the best, she kept repeating mechanically to herself, to try and bring happiness into his life; to insure the safety of the girl who had become so dear to her. Had it been his thought too, even before she spoke? His manner had been so strange. He had recoiled from her suggestion but she had been left with the impression that it was no new one to him. She had caught a fleeting look, before his face had taken on that impenetrable mask, that had given the lie to his emphatic words. He had seemed to be wrestling with himself, she had seen the moisture thick on his forehead, his set face had looked as if it could never soften again. When he had gone he had given her no definite promise and she had no possibility of guessing what his decision would be. But on reflection she found hope in his deferring reply. It was all that was left to her. She had done her utmost, the rest lay with him.

She sighed deeply, she had never felt such weariness of mind and body.

As she gave way to a feeling of growing la.s.situde drowsiness came over her which she was too tired to combat and for some time she slept heavily. She awoke with a start to find Gillian, wide-eyed with concern, kneeling beside her, the girl's slim warm fingers clasped closely round her sleep-numbed hands. Dazed with sudden waking she looked up without speaking at the fresh young face that bent over her. Gillian rubbed the cold hands gently. "Aunt Caro, you were asleep! I've never caught you napping before," she laughed, but a hint of anxiety mingled with the wonder in her voice. Miss Craven slowly smiled rea.s.surance. Her weakness seemed to have vanished with sleep, she felt herself once more strong enough to hide from the searching affectionate eyes anything that might give pain or cause uneasiness. She sat up straighter.

"Laziness, my dear, sheer laziness," she said st.u.r.dily. Gillian looked at her gravely. "Sure?" she asked, "you are sure that you are quite well? You looked so tired--your face was quite white."

"Quite sure--unbeliever! And you--did you have a good time; did you remember to take your tonic, and did you keep warm?"

Gillian laughed softly and stood up, ticking off the items on her fingers. "I did have a good time, I did remember to take my tonic, and this heavenly coat has kept me as warm as pie--Nina Atherton taught me that. That nice family considerably enlarged my vocabulary," she added with enjoyment, slipping out of a heavy fur coat and coming back to perch on the arm of Miss Craven's chair.

"Not yours only," was the answer, "Peter was quoting the husband this afternoon."

They were both silent for a moment thinking of the three charming Americans who had spent a couple of months at the Towers the previous summer, bringing with them an adored sc.r.a.p of humanity and a host of nurses, valets and maids.

Then Gillian drew her arm closer around Miss Craven.

"Alex pressed me to stay until to-morrow, I had the greatest trouble to get away. But I promised to come back this afternoon, and, do you know, Aunt Caro, I had the queerest feeling this morning. I thought you _wanted_ me, wanted me urgently. As if you could ever want anybody urgently, you self-reliant wonder." She gave the shoulder she was caressing an affectionate hug. "But it was odd, wasn't it? I nearly telephoned, and then I concluded you would think I had taken leave of my senses."

Miss Craven sat very still.

"I should have," she replied, and hoped that her voice appeared more natural than it sounded to herself. Gillian laughed.

"Anyhow, I'm glad you had Mr. Peters to cheer your solitary tea. I hated to think of you being alone."

"He didn't. He left early. But Barry condescended to take pity on me."

"Mr. Craven!" There was the slightest pause before she added: "I thought he scorned _le five o'clock_. He's not nearly so domesticated as David."

"As who, my dear?" asked Miss Craven, staring. Gillian gave another little laugh.

"Oh, that's my private name for Mr. Peters--he doesn't mind--he spoils me dreadfully--'the sweet singer in Israel'--you know. He has got the most beautiful tenor voice I have ever listened to."

"Peter--sing! I've never heard him sing," said Miss Craven in wonder, and she looked up with a new curiosity. "I've known him for thirty years, and in less than that number of months you discover an accomplishment of which everybody else is ignorant. How did you manage it, child?"

"By accident, one evening in the summer. You were dining out, and Mouston and I had gone for a ramble in the park--it's gorgeous there in the _crepuscule_--and we were quite close to the Hermitage. I heard him and I eaves-dropped--is there such a word? It was so lovely that I had to clap and he came out and found an unexpected audience on the windowsill. Wasn't it dreadful? He was so dear about it and explained that it was a very private form of amus.e.m.e.nt, but since the cat was out of the bag there was an end of the matter, only he positively declined to perform in public. I bullied him into singing some more, and then he walked home with me."

"You twist Peter round your little finger and trade on his good nature shamelessly," said Miss Craven severely, but her teasing held no terrors.

"He's such a dear," the girl repeated softly, and slipping off the arm of the chair she went to the fire and knelt down to put back a log that had fallen on to the hearth and was smouldering uselessly. Miss Craven looked at her as, the log replaced, she still knelt on the rug and held her hands mechanically to the blaze. She had an intense and wholly futile longing to speak what was in her mind and, demanding confidence for confidence, penetrate the secret of the heart that had confided to her all but this one thing. Little by little through no pressure but by mere telepathic sympathy, reserve had melted away and hopes and aspirations had been submitted and discussed. But of this one thing there could be no discussion. Miss Craven realised it and stifled a regretful sigh. Even she, dear as she knew herself to be, might not intrude so intimately. For by such an intrusion she might lose all that she had gained. She could not forfeit the confidence that had grown to mean so much to her, it was too high a price to pay even for the knowledge she sought. She must have patience, she thought, as she ran her fingers with the old gesture through her grey curls. But it was hard to be patient when any moment might bring the summons that would put her beyond the ken of earthly events. To go, leaving this problem still unsolved! She set her teeth and sat rigid, gripping the oak rails of the chair until her fingers ached, battling with herself. She looked again at the slim kneeling figure, the pale oval face half turned to her, the thick dark hair piled high on the small proud head glistening in the firelight. A thing of grace and beauty--in mind and body desirable. How could he hesitate....

"Barry was riding--all day--in this atrocious weather. He came in soaked," she said abruptly, almost querulously, unlike her usual tolerant intonation. There was no immediate answer and for a moment she thought she had not been heard. The girl had moved slightly, turning her face away, and with a steady hand was building the dying fire into a pyramid. She completed the operation carefully and sat back on her heels flouris.h.i.+ng the tiny bra.s.s tongs.