The Shadow of the East

“I’m glad it was only you, David, just now. Please forget it. I don’t know what’s the matter with me to-day, I let my nerves get the upper hand—I’m tired—the sun was hot–”

“So of course you sent the carriage away and proposed walking two miles home by way of a rest cure!” he interrupted, jumping up with alacrity, and taking advantage of the turn in the conversation. “Luckily I’ve got the car. Plenty of room for you and the pampered one.” And waving aside her protests he tucked her into the little two-seater, bundling Mouston unceremoniously in after her.

The village school was near the church, and while Peters steered the car carefully through groups of children who were loitering in the road she sat silent beside him, wondering, in miserable self-condemnation, how much she had betrayed during those few moments of hysterical outburst. Resolutely she determined that she would be strong, strong enough to put away the dread that haunted her, strong enough to meet trouble only when it came.

Clear of the children and running smoothly through the park Peters condescended to break the silence.

“How went Scotland?” he asked, slowing down behind a frightened fawn who was straying on the carriage road and cantering ahead of the car in panicky haste. “Your letters were not satisfactory.”

“I wasn’t taught to write letters. I never had any to write,” she said with a smile that made the sensitive man beside her wince. “I did my best, David, dear. And there wasn’t much to tell. There were only men—Barry said he couldn’t stand women with the guns again after the bother they were last year. They were nice men, shy silent creatures, big game hunters mostly, and two doctors who have been doing research work in Central Africa. When any of them could be induced to talk of their experiences it was a revelation to me of what men will endure and yet consider enjoyment. You would have liked them, David. Why didn’t you come? It would have done you more good than that horrid little yacht. And we were alone the last two weeks—we missed you,” she added reproachfully.

Peters had had his own reasons for absenting himself from the Scotch lodge, reasons that, connected as they were with Craven and his wife, he could not enlarge upon. He turned the question with a laugh.

“The yacht was better suited to a crusty old bachelor, my dear,” he smiled. Then he gave her a searching glance. “And what did you do all day long by yourself while the men were on the hills?”

She gave a little shrug.

“I sketched—and—oh, lots of things,” she answered, rather vaguely. “There’s always plenty to do wherever you are if you take the trouble to look for it.”

“Which most people don’t,” he replied, bringing the car to a standstill before the front door.

“Is Barry back from London?”

“Coming this afternoon. Thanks for the lift, David, you’ve been a Good Samaritan this afternoon. I don’t think I could have walked. Goodbye—and please forget,” she whispered.

He smile reassuringly and waved his hand as he restarted the car.

Calling to Mouston, who was rolling happily on the cool grass, she went slowly into the house. With the poodle rushing round her she mounted thoughtfully the wide stairs and turned down the corridor leading to the studio. It seemed of all rooms the one best suited to her mood. She wanted to be alone, beyond the reach of any chance caller, beyond the possibility of interruption, and it was understood by all that in the studio she must not be disturbed.

In the passage she met her maid and, giving her her hat and gloves, ordered tea to be sent to her.