The Shadow of the East

Miss Craven seemed scarcely to be listening. “It happened in Japan,” she asserted in fierce low tones. “Japan! Japan!” she continued vehemently, “how much more sorrow is that country to bring to our family! It happened in Japan and whatever it was—Yoshio knows! You spoke of him just now. You said he was hanging about—waiting—watching. Peter, he’s doing it all the time! He watches continually. Barry never has to send for him—he’s always there, waiting to be called. When Barry goes out the man is restless until he comes in again—haunting the hall—it gets on my nerves. Yet there is nothing I can actually complain of. He doesn’t intrude, he is as noiseless as a cat and vanishes if he sees you, but you know that just out of sight he’s still there—waiting—listening. Peter, what is he waiting for? I don’t think that it is apparent to the rest of the household, I didn’t notice it myself at first. But a few months ago something happened and since then I don’t seem able to get away from it. It was in the night, about two o’clock; I was wakeful and couldn’t sleep. I thought if I read I might read myself sleepy. I hadn’t a book in my room that pleased me and I remembered a half-finished novel I had left in the library. I didn’t take a light—I know every turn in the Towers blindfold. As you know, to reach the staircase from my room I have to pass Barry’s door, and at Barry’s door I fell over something in the darkness—something with hands of steel that saved me from an awkward tumble and hurried me down the passage and into the moonlit gallery before I could find a word of expostulation. Yoshio of course. I was naturally startled and angry in consequence. I demanded an explanation and after a great deal of hesitation he muttered something about Barry wanting him—which is ridiculous on the face of it. If Barry had really wanted him he would have been inside the room, not crouched outside on the door mat. He seemed very upset and kept begging me to say nothing about it. I don’t remember how he put it but he certainly conveyed the impression that it would not be good for Barry to know. I don’t understand it—Barry trusts him implicitly—and yet this.... I’m afraid, and I’ve never been afraid in my life before.” The little break in her voice hurt him. He felt curiously unable to cope with the situation. Her story disturbed him more than he cared to let her see in her present condition of unwonted agitation. Twice in the past they had stood shoulder to shoulder through a crisis of sufficient magnitude and she had showed then a cautious judgment, a reliability of purpose that had been purely masculine in its strength and sanity. She had been wholly matter-of-fact and unimaginative, unswayed by petty trivialities and broad in her decision. She had displayed a levelness of mind which had almost excluded feeling and which had enabled him to deal with her as with another man, confident of her understanding and the unlikelihood of her succumbing unexpectedly to ordinary womanly weaknesses. He had thought that he knew her thoroughly, that no circumstance that might arise could alter characteristics so set and inherent. But to-day her present emotion which had come perilously near hysteria, showed her in a new light that made her almost a stranger. He was a little bewildered with the discovery. It was incredible after all these years, just as if an edifice that he had thought strongly built of stone had tumbled about his ears like a pack of cards. He could hardly grasp it. He felt that there was something behind it all—something more than she admitted. He was tempted to ask definitely but second reflection brought the conviction that it would be a mistake, that it would be taking an unfair advantage. Sufficient unto the day—his present concern was to help her regain a normal mental poise. And to do that he must ignore half of what her suggestions seemed to imply. He felt her breakdown acutely, he must say nothing that would add to her distress of mind. It was better to appear obtuse than to concur too heartily in fears, a recollection of which in a saner moment he knew would be distasteful to her. She would never forgive herself—the less she had to forget the better. She trusted him or she would never have spoken at all. That he knew and he was honoured by her confidence. They had always been friends, but in her weakness he felt nearer to her than ever before. She was waiting for him to speak. He chose the line that seemed the least open to argument. He spoke at last, evenly, unwilling alike to seem incredulous or overanxious, his big steady hand closing warmly over her twitching fingers.