The Shadow of the East

Left to himself he wandered leisurely round the room, examining the pictures and sketches that were heaped indiscriminately. He had never before displayed any interest in her work, and was now amazed at what he saw. There was power in it that surprised him, that made him wonder what intuition had given the convent-bred girl the knowledge she exhibited. The tardy recognition of her talent strengthened his stranger feeling toward her. He went thoughtfully to the fireplace, and, from the rug, surveyed the room and its occupants. The atmosphere recalled old memories—he had studied in Paris after leaving Oxford—only one thing seemed lacking.

“May I smoke?” he asked abruptly.

Gillian turned with a quick smile.

“But, of course. What need to ask? After Aunt Caro has been here for an hour the room is blue.”

For another ten minutes he watched her in silence, free to look as he would, for her back was toward him and in his position before the fire he was beyond the range of the little model’s inquisitive black eyes.

Then she laid palette and brushes on a near table and stepped back, frowning at what she had done until a smile came slowly to chase the creases from her forehead. She spoke without moving, still looking at the canvas: “That is all for to-day, Danny. The light has gone.”

The small boy stretched himself luxuriously, and descending from the platform, joined her and gazed with evident interest at his portrait. He peered in unconscious but faithful imitation of her own critical attitude, his head slanted at the same angle as hers. “It’s coming on,” he announced solemnly, and Craven guessed from the girl’s laugh that it was a repetition of some remark heard and stored up for future use. The boy grinned in response, and slipping behind her went to the table where she had laid her tools. “Can I clean palut?” he asked hopefully, his hand already half-way to the coveted mass of colour.

“Not to-day, thanks, Danny.”

“Shall I fetch th’ dog, Miss?” more hopefully. Gillian turned to him quickly.

“He bit you last time.”

Danny wriggled his feet and his small white teeth flashed in a wide smile. “He won’t bite I again,” he said confidently. “Mammy said ‘twas ‘cos he loved you and hated to have folks near you. She said I was to whisper in his ear I loved you too, ‘cos then he wouldn’t touch me. Dad he says ‘tis a damned black devil,” he added with candid relish and a sidelong glance of mischief at his employer.

Gillian laughed and gave his shoulder a little pat.

“I’m afraid he is,” she admitted ruefully. The boy threw his head back. “I ain’t afeard o’ he,” he said stoutly. “Shall I fetch ‘im?”

“I think we’ll leave him where he is, Danny,” she said gravely, as if in confidence. “He’s probably very happy. Now run away and come again on Saturday.” She waved a paint-stained rag at him and turned again to the picture. Obediently he started towards the door, then hesitated, glancing irresolutely at Craven, and tip-toed back to the easel.

“Them things in the drawer,” he muttered sepulchrally, in a voice not intended to reach the ears of the rather awe-inspiring personage on the hearthrug. Gillian whipped round contritely. “Danny, I forgot them!” she apologised, and tweaking a black curl went to a bureau and produced a square cardboard box. Danny tucked it under his arm with murmured thanks and a duck of the head, and crossing the room noiselessly went out, closing the door behind him softly. Craven came slowly to her. She moved to give him place before the easel. Craven looked at the small alert brown face, the odd black eyes dancing with almost unearthly merriment, the red lips curving upward to an enigmatical smile, and his wonder and admiration grew.

“Who is he?” he asked curiously, puzzled by a likeness he seemed to recognise dimly and yet was unable to place.

“Danny Major—the son of one of your gamekeepers,” said Gillian; “his mother has gipsy blood in her.”

Craven whistled. “I remember,” he said, interested. “Old Major was head-keeper. Young Major lost his heart to a gipsy lass and his father kicked him out of doors. Peters, as usual, smoothed things over and kept the fellow on at his job, in spite of a great deal of opposition—he had seen the girl and formed his own opinion. I asked once or twice and he said that it had turned out satisfactorily. So this is the son—he’s a rum-looking little beggar.”

Gillian was cleaning brushes at the side table. “He’s the terror of the neighbourhood,” she said smiling, “but for some reason he is a perfect angel when he comes here. It isn’t the chocolates,” she added hastily as she saw a fleeting smile on his face, “he just likes coming. And he tells me the most wonderful things about the woods and the wood beasties.”