The Shadow of the East

“‘—dubbed knight this day by Gloriana. God He knoweth why, but not I.’ He was an idealist and visionary, with the power of putting his thoughts into words—his love poems are the most beautiful I have ever read, but they are quite impersonal. There is no evidence that his love was ever given to any ‘faire ladye.’ No woman’s name was ever connected with his, and from his detached attitude towards the tender passion he earned, in a fantastical court, the euphuistic appellation of L’amant d’ Amour. Quite suddenly, after ten years in the queen’s household, he fitted out an expedition to America. He gave no reason. Distaste for the artificial existence prevailing at Court, sorrow at the death of his friend Sidney, or a wander-hunger fed on the tales brought home by the numerous merchant adventurers may have been the cause of this surprising step. His decision provoked dismay among his friends and brought a furious tirade from Elizabeth who commanded him to remain near her. But in spite of royal oaths and entreaties—more of the former than the latter—he sailed to Virginia on a land expedition. Two letters came from him during the next few years, but after that—silence. His fate is not known. He was the first of many Cravens to vanish into oblivion searching for new lands.” The pleasant voice hesitated and dropped to a lower, more serious note. And Gillian was puzzled at the sudden anxiety that clouded the agent’s smiling blue eyes. She had listened with eager interest. It was history brought close and made alive in its intimate connection with the house. The dream castle was more wonderful even than she had thought. She smiled her thanks at Peters, and drew a long breath.

“I like that,” and looking at the picture again, “the Lover of Love!” she repeated softly; “it’s a very beautiful idea.”

“A very unsatisfactory one for any poor soul who may have been fool enough to lose her heart to him.” Miss Craven’s voice was caustic.

“I have often wondered if any demoiselle ‘pined in a green and yellow melancholy for his sake,’ she added, rising from the table.

“Reason enough, if he knew of it, for going to Virginia,” said Craven, with a hard laugh. “The family traditions have never tended to undue consideration of the weaker sex.”

“Barry, you are horrible!”

“Possibly, my dear aunt, but correct,” he replied coolly, crossing the room to open the door. “Even Peter, who has the family history at his fingers’ ends, cannot deny it.” His voice was provocative but Peters, beyond a mildly sarcastic “—thank you for the ‘even,’ Barry—” refused to be drawn.

Her nephew’s words would formerly have aroused a storm of indignant protest from Miss Craven, touched in a tender spot. But now some intuition warned her to silence. She put her arm through Gillian’s and left the room without attempting to expostulate.

In the drawing room she sat down to a patience table, lit a cigarette, rumpled her hair, and laid out the cards frowningly. More than ever was she convinced that in the two years he had been away some serious disaster had occurred. His whole character appeared to have undergone a change. He was totally different. The old Barry had been neither hard nor cynical, the new Barry was both. In the last few weeks she had had ample opportunity for judging. She perceived that a heavy shadow lay upon him darkening his home-coming—she had pictured it so very differently, and she sighed over the futility of anticipation. His happiness meant to her so much that she raged at her inability to help him. Until he spoke she could do nothing. And she knew that he would never speak. The nightly occupation lost its usual zest, so she shuffled the cards absently and began a fresh game.

Gillian was on the hearthrug, Houston’s head in her lap. She leant against Miss Craven’s chair, dreaming as she had dreamt in the old convent until the sudden lifting of the dog’s head under her hands made her aware of Peters standing beside her. He looked down silently on the card table for a few moments, pointed with a nicotine-stained finger to a move Miss Craven had missed and then wandered across the room and sat down at the piano. For a while his hands moved silently over the keys, then he began to play, and his playing was exquisite. Gillian sat and marvelled. Peters and music had seemed widely apart. He had appeared so essentially a sportsman; in spite of the literary tendency that his sympathetic account of the Elizabethan Barry Craven had suggested she had associated him with rougher, more physical pursuits. He was obviously an out-door man; a gun seemed a more natural complement to his hands than the sensitive keys of a piano, his thick rather clumsy fingers manifestly incompatible with the delicate touch that was filling the room with wonderful harmony. It was a check to her cherished theory which she acknowledged reluctantly. But she forgot to theorise in the sheer joy of listening.