“Rubbish! furs suit you—please my sense of the artistic. I would not encourage you if you had a face like a harvest moon and no carriage—I can’t bear sloppiness in anything,” snapped Miss Craven in quite her old style. “When do the Horringfords start for Egypt?” she added by way of definitely changing the subject.
Gillian rubbed her cheek against the soft sealskin with an understanding smile. It was hopeless to try and curb Miss Craven’s generosity, hopeless to attempt to argue against it. “Next week,” she answered the inquiry. “Tuesday, probably. They stay in Paris for a month en route; Lord Horringford wants some data from the Louvre and also to arrange some preliminaries with the French Egyptologist who is joining their party.”
“Hum! And Alex—still interested in mummies?”
“More than ever, she is full of enthusiasm. She talks of dynasties and tribal deities, of kings and Kas and symbols until my head spins. Lord Horringford teases her but it is easy to see that her interest pleases him. He says she is the mascot of the expedition, that she brought luck to the digging last year.”
“Alex has had many hobbies but never one that ran for two seasons,” said Miss Craven thoughtfully; “I am glad she has found an interest at last that promises to be permanent.”
Gillian gathered the furs closer in her arms and made a few steps toward the door. “She has found more than that,” she said softly, and the colour flamed in her sensitive face. Miss Craven nodded. “You mean that in unearthing the buried treasure of a dead past she has found the living treasure of a man’s love? Yes, and not any too soon, poor silly child. Men like Horringford don’t bear playing with. I wonder whether she knows how near she has been to making shipwreck of her life.”
“I think she knows—now,” said Gillian, with a little wise smile as she left the room.
The sound of her soft contralto singing an old French nursery rhyme echoed faintly back to the library:
And, listening, Miss Craven smiled half-sadly, for the quaint words carried her back to the days of her own childhood. But the exigencies of the present thrust aside past memories. She sat on, wrapped in her thoughts until the dropping temperature of the room sent through her a sudden chill, so she rose with a shiver and a startled glance at her watch.
“Dry bones and love,” she said musingly, “it’s a curious combination! Peter, my man, you gave wise advice there.... But not all your wisdom can help my trouble.”
CHAPTER VI
December had brought a complete change of weather. It was within a few days of Christmas, a typical old-fashioned Yuletide with a firm white mantle of snow lying thick over the country.
Underneath the ground was iron and for two weeks all hunting had been stopped.
Craven was returning to the Towers after an absence of ten days. The motor crawled through the park for in places the frozen road was slippery as glass and the chauffeur was a cautious North-countryman whose faith in the chains locked round the wheels was not unlimited; he was driving carefully, with a wary eye for the worst patches noted on the outward run, and, beside him, equally alert, sat Yoshio muffled to the ears in an immense overcoat, a shapeless bundle.
It was early afternoon, calm and clear, and in the air the intense stillness that succeeds a heavy snowfall. The pale sun, that earlier in the day had iridised the snow, was now too low to affect the dead whiteness of the scene against which the trees showed magnified and sharply black. Here and there across the smooth surface stretching on either side of the road lay the curiously differing tracks of animals. From the back seat of the car where he sat alone Craven marked them mechanically. He knew every separate spoor and could have named the owner of each; ordinarily they would have claimed from him a certain interest but today he passed them without a second thought. He did not resent the slow progress of the car, he was in no hurry to reach the Towers. He had come to a momentous decision but shrank from the action that must necessarily follow; once at the house he knew that he would permit himself no further delay, he would put his purpose into effect at the earliest opportunity—today if possible; here there was still time—vaguely he wondered for what? Not for reflection, that was done with. He had striven with all his strength to arrive at a right determination; he had thought until reasoning became a mere repetition of fixed ideas moving in a circle and arriving always at an unvaried starting point. There seemed no consequence that he had not weighed in his mind, no issue that he had not considered. To ponder afresh would be to cover again uselessly ground that he had gone over a hundred times. Three days ago he had made his choice, he had no intention of departing from it. For good or ill the thing must go forward now. And, after all, the ultimate decision did not lie with him. Admitting it his thoughts became introspective. Throughout his deliberations he had put self on one side, there had been no question of his own wishes; now for the first time he allowed personal considerations to rise unchecked. For what did he hope? He knew the reason of his reluctance to reach the house—he desired success and yet he feared it, feared the consequences that might result, feared the strength of his own will to persevere in the course he had chosen. For him there was no other way but, merciful God, it would be hard! He set his teeth and stared at the frozen landscape with unseeing eyes. Since her outburst four weeks ago Miss Craven had not spoken again of the wish that was nearest her heart, but he knew that she was waiting for an answer, knew that that answer must be given. One way or the other. Day had succeeded day in torturing indecision. He had lived, slept with the problem, at no time was it out of his mind. In the course of the long rides that had become more frequent, obtruding during the monotonous hours spent in the estate office, the problem persisted. In the sleepless hours of the night he wrestled with it. If it had been a matter of personal inclination, if the past had not risen between them there would have been no hesitation. He would have gone to her months ago, would have begged the priceless gift that she alone could give. He wanted her, almost above the hope of salvation, and the inducement to ignore the past had been all but overpowering. He loved and desired with all the strength of the passionate nature he had inherited. He craved for her with an intensity that was anguish, that set him wondering how far the power of endurance reached, how much a man could bear. He was torn with the fierce promptings of primeval forces. To take her, willing or unwilling, despite honour, despite all that stood between them, to make her his and hold her in the face of all the world—at times the temptation had been maddening. There had been days when he had not dared to look on her, when he had drawn himself more than ever apart from the common life, fearful of himself, fearful of circumstances that seemed beyond his ordering. And the thought that another could take what he might not had engendered an insensate jealousy that was beyond reason. He did not recognise himself, he had not known the depths of his own nature. If there had been no bar, if she could have come to him willingly, if there could indeed have been for him the full ties of home—the thought was agony. Miss Craven’s words had been a sword turning in an open wound. To the burden he already carried had been added this.