The Shadow of the East

“He would,” said Craven significantly, “it’s in the blood. What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a smaller board propped face inward against the big canvas. For a moment she did not answer and the colour flamed into her face again. She put the brushes away, and wiping her fingers on a cloth, lifted the board and gave it into his hands.

“It’s Danny as I see him,” she said in an odd voice. And, looking at it, Craven realised that the cleverness of the painted head on the large canvas paled to mediocrity beside the brilliance of the sepia sketch he held. It was the same head—but marvellously different—set on the body of a faun. The dancing limbs were pulsing with life, the tiny hoofs stamping the flower-strewn earth in an ecstasy of movement; the head was thrown forward, bent as though to catch a distant echo, and among the tossing curls showed two small curving horns; to the enigmatical smile of the original had been added a subtle touch of mockery, and the wide eyes held a look of mystical knowledge that was uncanny. Craven held it silently, it seemed an incredible piece of work for the girl to have conceived. And, beside him, she waited nervously for his verdict, with close-locked twitching fingers. He had never come before, had never shown any interest in the work that meant so much to her. She was hungry for his praise, fearful of his censure. If he saw nothing in it now but the immature efforts of an amateur! Her heart tightened. She drew a little nearer to him, her eyes fixed apprehensively on his intent face, her breath coming quickly. At length he replaced the sketch carefully. “You have a wonderful talent,” he said slowly. A little gasp of relief escaped her and her lips trembled in spite of all efforts to keep them steady. “You like it?” she whispered eagerly, and was terrified at the awful pallor that overspread his face. For a moment he could not speak. The words, the intonation! He was back again in Japan, looking at the painting of a lonely fir tree clinging to a jutting sea-washed cliff—the faintest scent of oriental perfume seemed stealing through the air. He drew his hand across his eyes. “Merciful God … not here … not now!” he prayed in silent agony. Then with a desperate effort he mastered himself and turned to the frightened girl with a forced smile. “Forgive me—I’ve a beastly headache—the room went spinning round for a minute,” he said jerkily, wiping the moisture from his forehead. She looked at him gravely. “I think you are very tired, and I don’t believe you had any lunch,” she said with quiet decision. “I’m going to make some coffee. Aunt Caro says my coffee drinking is more vicious than her smoking,” she went on, purposely giving him time to recover himself, and crossing the room she collected little cups and a small brass pot. “Any how it’s the real article, and in spite of what she says Aunt Caro doesn’t scorn it. She comes regularly to drink my cafe noir with her after-lunch cigarette.”

Craven dropped down heavily on the broad cushioned window seat, his hands clasped over his throbbing temples, fighting to regain his shaken nerve. And yet there was a great hope dawning. For the first time the threatening vision had failed to materialise, and the fact gave him courage. If a time should come when it would definitely cease to haunt him! He could never forget, never cease to regret, but he would feel that in the Land of Understanding the hapless victim of his crime had forgiven the sin that had robbed her of her young life.

And as he grew calmer he began to be conscious that in the room where he sat there was a restfulness that he had not felt in any other part of the house since his return to Craven Towers. It was acting on him curiously and he wondered what it portended. And as he pondered it Gillian came to him with a cup of coffee in either hand.