The Shadow of the East

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.