The Shadow of the East

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—”