Miss Craven looked at him for a moment before answering as he stood with his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him, his face ruddy with the wind and rain, his keen blue eyes on hers, reliable, unchanging. It was a curious chance that had brought him—just at that moment. The temptation to make an unusual confidence rose strongly. She had known him and trusted him for more years than she cared to remember. How much to say? Indecision held her.
“You are always thoughtful, Peter,” she temporised. “I am afraid there is no excuse,” with a little smile; “Barry rode off somewhere quite early this morning and Gillian went yesterday to the Horringfords. I expect her back to-day in time for tea. For myself, I had gout or rheumatism or the black dog on my back, I forget which! Anyhow, I stayed at home.” She laughed and pointed to the cigarettes. He took one, tapping it on his thumbnail.
“You were alone. Why didn’t you ‘phone? I should have been glad to escape the Australians. They are enormously kind, but somewhat—er—overwhelming,” he added with a quick laugh.
“My dear man, be thankful I never thought of it. I’ve been like a bear with a sore head all day.” She looked past him into the fire, and struck by a new note in her voice he refrained from comment, smoking slowly and luxuriating in the warmth after a cold wet drive in an open motor. He never used a closed car. But some words she had used struck him. “Barry is riding—?” with a glance at the storm raging outside.
“Yes. He had breakfast at an unearthly hour and went off early. Weather seems to make no difference to him, but he will be soaked to the skin.”
“He’s tough,” replied Peters shortly. “I thought he must be out. As I came in just now Yoshio was hanging about the hall, watching the drive. Waiting for him, I suppose,” he added, flicking a curl of ash into the fire. “He’s a treasure of a valet,” he supplemented conversationally. But Miss Craven let the observation pass. She was still staring into the leaping flames, drumming with her fingers on the arms of the chair. Once she tried to speak but no words came. Peters waited. He felt unaccountably but definitely that she wished him to wait, that what was evidently on her mind would come with no prompting from him. He felt in her attitude a tension that was unusual—to-day she was totally unlike herself. Once or twice only in the course of a lifelong friendship she had shown him her serious side. She had turned to him for help then—he seemed presciently aware that she was turning to him for help now. He prided himself that he knew her as well as she knew herself and he understood the effort it would cost her to speak. That he guessed the cause of her trouble was no short cut to getting that trouble uttered. She would take her own time, he could not go half-way to meet her. He must stand by and wait. When had he ever done anything else at Craven Towers? His eyes glistened curiously in the firelight, and he rammed his hands down into his jacket pockets with abrupt jerkiness. Suddenly Miss Craven broke the silence.
“Peter—I’m horribly worried about Barry,” the words came with a rush. He understood her too well to cavil.
“Dear lady, so am I,” he replied with a promptness that did not console.
“Peter, what is it?” she went on breathlessly. “Barry is utterly changed. You see it as well as I. I don’t understand—I’m all at sea—I want your help. I couldn’t discuss him with anybody else, but you—you are one of us, you’ve always been one of us. Fair weather or foul, you’ve stood by us. What we should have done without you God only knows. You care for Barry, he’s as dear to you as he is to me, can’t you do something? The suffering in his face—the tragedy in his eyes—I wake up in the night seeing them! Peter, can’t you do something?” She was beside him, clutching at the mantel-shelf, shaking with emotion. The sight of her unnerved, almost incoherent, shocked him. He realised the depth of the impression that had been made upon her—deep indeed to produce such a result. But what she asked was impossible. He made a little negative gesture and shook his head.
“Dear lady, I can’t do anything. And I wonder whether you know how it hurts to have to say so? No son could be dearer to me than Barry—for the sake of his mother—” his voice faltered momentarily, “but the fact remains—he is not my son. I am only his agent. There are certain things I cannot do and say, no matter how great the wish,” he added with a twisted smile.
Miss Craven seemed scarcely to be listening. “It happened in Japan,” she asserted in fierce low tones. “Japan! Japan!” she continued vehemently, “how much more sorrow is that country to bring to our family! It happened in Japan and whatever it was—Yoshio knows! You spoke of him just now. You said he was hanging about—waiting—watching. Peter, he’s doing it all the time! He watches continually. Barry never has to send for him—he’s always there, waiting to be called. When Barry goes out the man is restless until he comes in again—haunting the hall—it gets on my nerves. Yet there is nothing I can actually complain of. He doesn’t intrude, he is as noiseless as a cat and vanishes if he sees you, but you know that just out of sight he’s still there—waiting—listening. Peter, what is he waiting for? I don’t think that it is apparent to the rest of the household, I didn’t notice it myself at first. But a few months ago something happened and since then I don’t seem able to get away from it. It was in the night, about two o’clock; I was wakeful and couldn’t sleep. I thought if I read I might read myself sleepy. I hadn’t a book in my room that pleased me and I remembered a half-finished novel I had left in the library. I didn’t take a light—I know every turn in the Towers blindfold. As you know, to reach the staircase from my room I have to pass Barry’s door, and at Barry’s door I fell over something in the darkness—something with hands of steel that saved me from an awkward tumble and hurried me down the passage and into the moonlit gallery before I could find a word of expostulation. Yoshio of course. I was naturally startled and angry in consequence. I demanded an explanation and after a great deal of hesitation he muttered something about Barry wanting him—which is ridiculous on the face of it. If Barry had really wanted him he would have been inside the room, not crouched outside on the door mat. He seemed very upset and kept begging me to say nothing about it. I don’t remember how he put it but he certainly conveyed the impression that it would not be good for Barry to know. I don’t understand it—Barry trusts him implicitly—and yet this.... I’m afraid, and I’ve never been afraid in my life before.” The little break in her voice hurt him. He felt curiously unable to cope with the situation. Her story disturbed him more than he cared to let her see in her present condition of unwonted agitation. Twice in the past they had stood shoulder to shoulder through a crisis of sufficient magnitude and she had showed then a cautious judgment, a reliability of purpose that had been purely masculine in its strength and sanity. She had been wholly matter-of-fact and unimaginative, unswayed by petty trivialities and broad in her decision. She had displayed a levelness of mind which had almost excluded feeling and which had enabled him to deal with her as with another man, confident of her understanding and the unlikelihood of her succumbing unexpectedly to ordinary womanly weaknesses. He had thought that he knew her thoroughly, that no circumstance that might arise could alter characteristics so set and inherent. But to-day her present emotion which had come perilously near hysteria, showed her in a new light that made her almost a stranger. He was a little bewildered with the discovery. It was incredible after all these years, just as if an edifice that he had thought strongly built of stone had tumbled about his ears like a pack of cards. He could hardly grasp it. He felt that there was something behind it all—something more than she admitted. He was tempted to ask definitely but second reflection brought the conviction that it would be a mistake, that it would be taking an unfair advantage. Sufficient unto the day—his present concern was to help her regain a normal mental poise. And to do that he must ignore half of what her suggestions seemed to imply. He felt her breakdown acutely, he must say nothing that would add to her distress of mind. It was better to appear obtuse than to concur too heartily in fears, a recollection of which in a saner moment he knew would be distasteful to her. She would never forgive herself—the less she had to forget the better. She trusted him or she would never have spoken at all. That he knew and he was honoured by her confidence. They had always been friends, but in her weakness he felt nearer to her than ever before. She was waiting for him to speak. He chose the line that seemed the least open to argument. He spoke at last, evenly, unwilling alike to seem incredulous or overanxious, his big steady hand closing warmly over her twitching fingers.