The Shadow of the East

Craven crossed the hall and went into the study. He looked without interest through an accumulation of letters lying on the writing table, then threw them down indifferently. Walking to the fireplace he lit a cigarette and stood staring at the cheerful blaze. At last he raised his head and gazed with deliberation at himself in the glass over the mantle. He scowled at the stern worn face reflected in the mirror, looking curiously at its deep cut lines, at the silver patches in the thick brown hair. Then with a violent exclamation he swung abruptly on his heel, flung the cigarette into the fire and left the room. He went upstairs slowly, surprised at the feeling of apathy that had come over him. In the face of direct action the high tension of the last few weeks had snapped, leaving him dull, almost inert, and reluctance to go forward grew with every step. But at the head of the stairs his mood changed suddenly. All that the coming interview meant to him revealed itself with startling clearness. With a deep breath he caught at the rail, for he was shaking uncontrollably, and covered his face with his hand.

“God!” he whispered, and again: “God!”

Then he gripped himself and went quickly across the gallery, turning down the corridor that led to the west wing. He followed the oddly twisting passage, contorted at the whim of succeeding generations where rooms had been enlarged or abolished, passing rows of closed doors and another staircase. The corridor terminated in the room he was seeking. It had been the old playroom; at the extreme end of the wing it faced northward and westward and was well suited for the studio into which it had been converted. It was Gillian’s own domain and he had never asked to visit it. As he reached the door he heard from within the shrill treble of a boy’s mirth and then a low soft laugh that made his heart beat quicker. He tapped and went in and for a moment stared in amazement. He did not recognise the room, it was a totally unexpected French atelier tucked away in the corner of a typically English house.

The polished rug-laid floor, the fluted folds of toile-de-genes clothing the walls, the litter of sketches and pictures, casts and easels, the familiar lay-figure grotesquely attitudinising in a corner, above all the atmosphere carried him straight to Paris. It was the room of an artist, and a French artist. His eyes leaped to her. She was standing before a big easel looking wonderingly over her shoulder at the opening door, the brush she was using poised in her hand, her eyes wide with astonishment, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks.

In the picturesque painter’s blouse, her brown hair loosely framing her face, she seemed altogether different. He could not define wherein lay the change, he had no time to discriminate, he only knew that seen thus she was a thousand times more desirable than she had ever been and that his heart cried out for her more fiercely than before. He looked at her with hungry longing, then quickly—lest his eyes should betray him—from her to her model. A boy of ten with an intelligent small brown face, a mop of black curls, and red lips parted in a mischievous smile, he stood on the raised platform with the easy assurance of a professional.

Craven shut the door behind him and came forward. She turned to meet him and the colour rushed in a crimson wave to the roots of her hair. “Monsieur … vous etes de retour … mais, soyez le bienvenu!” she stammered, with surprise unconsciously lapsing into the language of childhood. Then she caught herself up with a little laugh of confusion and hurried on in English: “I am so sorry … there is nobody in but me. Will you have some tea? It is only three o’clock,” with a glance at her wrist, “but I expect you lunched early.”

“I don’t want any tea,” he said bluntly. “I came to see you.” He spoke in French, mindful of two sharp ears on the platform. The colour in her face deepened painfully and her eyes fell under his steady gaze. She moved slowly back to the easel.

“If you could wait a few moments–” she murmured.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” he said hastily. “Please finish your work. You don’t mind if I stay? I haven’t been here since I was a boy; you have changed the room incredibly. May I look round?”

She nodded assent over a tube of colour, and returned to her study.