The Shadow of the East

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—”