The Shadow of the East

She saw instead her husband. His unexpected appearance in a room he habitually avoided robbed her, all unprepared to meet him as she was, of the power of speech. White-lipped she stared at him, unable to formulate even a conventional greeting, her heart beating rapidly as she watched him cross the room. He, too, seemed to have no words, and she saw with increased nervousness that his face was dark with obvious displeasure. The silence that was fast becoming marked was broken by Mouston who with another angry snarl leaped suddenly at Craven with jealous hostility, to be caught up swiftly by a pair of powerful hands and flung into a far corner, where he landed heavily with a shrill yelp of surprise and pain that died away in a broken whimper as, cowed by the unlooked-for retribution, he crawled under a big bureau that seemed to offer a safe retreat.

“Barry!” Gillian’s exclamation of incredulous amazement made Craven sensible that the punishment he had inflicted must seem to her unnecessarily severe. She could not be expected to see into his mind, could not possibly know the feeling of loathing inspired by the sight of the poodle in her arms. He was jealous—of a dog and in no mood to curb the temper that his jealousy roused.

“I am sorry,” he said shortly. “I didn’t mind him going for me, it’s perhaps natural that he should—but I hate to see you kiss the dam’ brute,” he added with a sudden violence in his voice that braced her as a more temperate explanation would not have done. To be deliberately cruel to an animal, no matter how great the provocation, was unlike Craven; she felt convinced that Mouston was not the primary cause of his irritability. Something must have occurred previously to disturb him—the business, perhaps, for which he had waited in London, and, seeking her, the scene he had surprised had grated on fretted nerves. He had never before commented on her affection for the dog who was her shadow; he had never even remonstrated with her, as Peters had many times, for spoiling him. His present attitude seemed therefore the more inexplicable—but she realised the impossibility of remonstrance. The dog had behaved badly and had suffered for his indiscretion; she could not defend him—had she wanted to. And she did not want to. At the moment Mouston hardly seemed to matter—nothing mattered but the unbearable fact of Craven’s displeasure. If she could have known the real cause of that displeasure it would have made speech easier. She feared to aggravate his mood but she knew some answer was expected of her. Silence might be misconstrued.

With calmness she did not feel she forced her voice to steadiness.

“Most women make fools of themselves over some animal, faute de mieux,” she said lightly. “I only follow the crowd.”

“Is it faute de mieux with you?” The sharp rejoinder struck her like a physical blow. Unable to trust herself, unable to check the quivering of her lips, she turned away to get another cup and saucer from a near cabinet.

“Answer me, Gillian,” he said tensely. “Is it for want of something better that you give so much affection to that cringing beast”—he pointed to the poodle who was crawling abjectly on his stomach toward her from the bureau where he had taken refuge—“is it a child that your arms are wanting—not a dog?” His face was drawn, and he stared at her with fierce hunger smouldering in his eyes. He was hurting himself beyond belief—was he hurting her too? Could anything that he might say touch her, stir her from the calm placidity that sometimes, in contradiction to his own restlessness, was almost more than he could tolerate? She had fulfilled the terms of their bargain faithfully, apparently satisfied with its limitation. She appeared content with this damnable life they were living. But a sudden impulse had come to him to assure himself that his supposition was a true one, that the outward content she manifested did not cover longings and desires that she sought to hide. Yet how would it benefit either of them for him to wring from her a secret to which he, by his own doing, had no right? In winning her consent to this divided marriage he had already done her injury enough—he need not make her life harder. And just now, in a moment of ungovernable passion, he had said a brutal thing, a thing beyond all forgiveness. His face grew more drawn as he moved nearer to her.

“Gillian, I asked you a question,” he began unsteadily. She confronted him swiftly. Her eyes were steady under his, though the pallor of her face was ghastly.

“You are the one person who has no right to ask me that question, Barry.” There was no anger in her voice, there was not even reproach, but a gentle dignity that almost unmanned him. He turned away with a gesture of infinite regret.