"What do you think of it?"
Paul started. He had been standing, like a man in a dream, with folded arms, looking across the room with idle eyes, and unconsciously ignoring many salutations. His brother's tone sounded oddly in his ears, and he looked flushed and a little nervous.
"What did I think of it!" It was a difficult question to answer. He repeated it, and was glad when Arthur spared him the necessity of replying, by adding his own opinion.
"It was glorious, magnificent! I'm going to find out more about her!"
He strolled away, and joined one of the little groups of men who were discussing the performance. Paul, at first, had made a gesture as though to detain him, but on second thoughts he had changed his mind. Better let him go and find out what he could.
He himself watched carefully for his opportunity, and then left the room. He felt like a man who has received a silent shock. Something fresh had comeinto his life, noiselessly, insidiously, without effort. He pressed on his hat, and passed down the steps out into the street, scarcely conscious of what he was doing.
The rush of fresh air somewhat revived him, and he stood still for a moment to collect his thoughts. He felt the need of absolute solitude for a while, to help him to realize—or at any rate to understand—this thing which had happened, and with almost feverish haste he called a hansom from the other side of the road. The man whipped up the horse, but hesitated as he reached the pavement. Looking around, Paul saw the cause of his indecision. A woman, standing only a few yards behind, had called him at the same time, and was waiting also for his approach.
There was a gas-lamp between them, and as their eyes met, he recognised her. Even in that flickering light, and through her veil, there was no mistaking those wonderful eyes. As a rule, he was possessed of as muchsavoir faireas most men of his class, but at that moment it had deserted him. He stood there on the edge of the pavement, without moving or saying anything, simply looking at her, startled at her sudden appearance, and magnetised by her close presence. He had heard no footfall behind him, and the fact of her being alone seemed so strange to him, that he simply could not realize for a moment that it was indeedshe who stood so close to him. The cabman, leaving them to decide who had the prior claim upon him, sat motionless, with his eyes discreetly fixed upon his horse's ears. It was an odd little tableau, insignificant enough to a spectator, save, perhaps, for the curious look in the woman's face and softly flashing eyes. Yet it left its mark for ever in the lives of the two principal figures.
The curious sensation which had kept Paul standing there dazed and tongue-tied, passed away. Yet it did not immediately occur to him to raise his hat and walk on, as in any ordinary case he would have done. He was conscious of the exact nature of the situation, but he felt a strong disinclination to leave the spot; nor, strangely enough, did she seem to expect it. Yet something had to be done.
He moved a step nearer her. He was no schoolboy, this tall, grave-looking young Englishman. The lines across his fair, smooth forehead, and by his close-set mouth spoke for themselves. He had seen life in many aspects, and in a certain Indian jungle village, there were natives and coolies who still spoke admiringly of the wonderful nerve and pluck of the English sahib during a terrible and unexpected tiger rush. But at that moment his nerve seemed to have deserted him. He could almost hear his heart beat ashe took that step forward. He had intended to have made some trifling apology, and to have handed her into the cab, but the words would not come. Some instinct seemed to revolt at the thought of uttering any such commonplacism. She was standing on the edge of the pavement, close to the step, with her skirts in one hand, slightly raised. He held out his hand to her in silence.
She gave him hers; and yet she did not at once step into the cab. She seemed to be expecting that little speech from him which he found impossible to frame, and, seeing that it did not come, recognising, perhaps, his suppressed agitation behind that calm, almost cold, gravity of demeanour, she spoke to him.
"It is a shame to take your cab, and leave you in the rain! I am sorry."
Afterwards her admirers spoke of her voice as being one of her chief charms; to Paul it sounded like a soft strain of very sweet, throbbing music, reaching him from some far distant world. Yet, curiously enough, it went far to dissolve the spell which her presence seemed to have laid upon him. He was able to look at her steadily, and standing upon the wet pavement in the cold, grey light of that November afternoon, their eyes met in a long, searching gaze. He was able even to notice trifles. He saw the rich furwhich lined her plain, black cloak, and he could even admire the absolute perfection with which it followed the lines of her slim, supple, figure. He saw the glowing eyes shining out from her dusky face, and the coils of brown hair, not very securely fastened under her turban hat. As she put out her foot to enter the cab, he could even catch a glimpse of the amber draperies concealed by her cloak. A dancer! A public dancer! His eyes swept over her again, taking in every detail of her simple but rich toilette, and he shivered slightly. Then he answered her, "It is of no consequence, thank you. I can walk."
"But you will get very wet! Let us make a compromise! You may come with me. I am going only a very little distance, and then you can take the cab on to your home, or wherever you want to go to."
She stepped in, taking it for granted that he would accept her offer, and he followed her at once. He was not in the least surprised. From the first he had not expected to leave her, and her invitation seemed perfectly natural to him. She gave the cabman her address through the trap-door, and they drove off together.
At the corner of the square, two men were standing together talking, and as the hansom passed within a yard or two of them both glanced idly in, and then started.Paul, who had been looking straight ahead of him, and seeing nothing, turned round, startled by a familiar exclamation, just in time to see his brother Arthur, and Leslie Horton, gazing after the cab. The incident troubled him, as much for her sake as his own. But, looking into her face, he could not see that she was in any way disturbed, although she must have seen the two men, and would probably have recognised them as having been present at Lady Swindon's reception. Her face was quite unmoved, but in a moment or two she asked a question.
"Who was the younger and better looking of those two men; the one with violets in his coat, like yours?"
"It was my brother," he answered simply. "I am afraid, too, that he recognised you."
"So far as I am concerned, that is of no consequence at all," she answered lightly.
He turned away with a sudden sinking of the heart. He knew, too well, that her carelessness was not assumed. How was he to interpret it?
Their drive was finished in silence, and they pulled up before a handsome, though somewhat sombre-looking house in a back street.
"My rooms are here," she remarked.
He stepped on to the pavement, and assisted herto alight. The thought of leaving her so abruptly was painful to him, and yet he dreaded to hear her invite him to go in with her; nevertheless, she did so.
"If you are not in a hurry, perhaps you will come in, and let me give you a cup of tea," she said, looking him full in the face.
His heart sank. What was he to think now? And yet he was absurdly glad that he was not to leave her.
"Do you mean it?" he asked.
"Of course! I should not have asked you else. Are you very much shocked?" she added, with a mocking gleam in her eyes. "It is not proper, is it! I confess I did not think of that. But do come," she added, with a sudden bewitching smile.
"I shall be delighted," he answered, gravely enough, but truthfully. He turned to pay the cabman, and followed her into the house.
"My rooms are upstairs," she remarked, leading the way. "The luxury of a first floor is at present beyond me."
Her words pleased him, but their effect died away when she opened a door on the first landing, and ushered him in. Such of the interior of the house as he had seen was handsomely furnished, but the room in which he stood was almost like a fairy chamber. Curtains divided it in the centre, and beyond he could see a table laid for dinner.
"That half I use for a dining-room," she remarked, pointing towards it with one of her gloves, which she had just taken off. "It makes this room small, but it is a convenient arrangement. Do sit down!"
He bowed, but remained standing, with his elbow resting upon the draped mantel-board. She took off her hat and coat, hanging them over the back of a chair, and advanced towards him.
She was in her dancing dress, a floating mass of yellow draperies, and the firelight gleamed strangely upon her dusky, perfect face, with its olive colouring, and soft, glowing eyes. She came so close to him that a faint odour from the handkerchief in her hand stole up to him.
He was playing with an ornament on the shelf, and his fingers tightened convulsively around it. It snapped in two in his hand; he did not notice it. He leaned forward towards her, and his strong voice vibrated with feeling.
"And it was for this then, Adrea Kiros, that you ran away from the convent St. Lucile! My God!"
To-day I have made my entrance in the first scene of the drama of life. To-day, therefore, I commence my memoirs. Everything before goes for nothing!
As I have removed myself altogether from all association with the humdrum existence which might have been mine, I am naturally friendless for the present. So far as the other sex is concerned, I fancy that that could be easily remedied. But no women are likely to care about making my acquaintance, and I am glad of it. I hate women—men, too, I think! At any rate, there will be no one of whom I shall make a confidant, so I have chosen you, my silent friend. I gave a guinea for you in Bond Street, and with your dainty morocco case and binding, I think you are well worth it. At any rate, you will be faithful so far as silence is concerned.
To-day has been an eventful one. I have made mydebutas a dancer, and Paul de Vaux has been here, in this house, alone with me! That is hard to realize,but it is so! He has altered since he used to pay me periodical visits at the convent—and so have I, I imagine! Yet he recognised me! How pale and stern he looked when he stood up on the hearthrug and called me by my name! He is very handsome—handsomer now even than on that day when he stood by, in that chamber of death, and saw my father murdered, without lifting his hand. Ah! Paul de Vaux, Paul de Vaux! that was an evil day for you! Did you never think that that little brown girl, as you called her, would grow up some day; or did you think that she would forget! Bah! What fools men are!
He remembered me! How grave he looked, and yet how tender his voice sounded! He did not forget that he was my guardian, and I his ward. How bewildered and anxious he was! Was I living quite alone, had I no friends, did I think it wise to lay myself open to so much notice?
He had come close to my chair, and was leaning down, so that his head nearly touched mine. Really, when I looked up, I thought that he was going to take me into his arms. I looked up and laughed softly into his face.
He said no more. I invited him to dine with me, and promised to dance to him afterwards. I even let my hand rest for a moment upon his shoulder, andwhispered—butn'importe! He behaved just as I would have had him behave! He took up his hat and walked straight out of the room! It was rude, but it was magnificent. Ah! Paul de Vaux! you may struggle as long as you like, but in the end you will be mine!
"Paul!"
Paul had walked unannounced into his mother's favourite little sitting-room at Vaux Court, tired and travel-stained. She rose to her feet and looked at him anxiously.
"Don't be alarmed, mother," he said, stooping down and kissing her. "There's nothing at all the matter."
"Arthur is well?"
"Quite well; I was with him yesterday afternoon. There's nothing the matter. London was boring me, that's all, and I thought I'd run down here and have a look at the old place, and perhaps a day's hunting."
Relieved of her anxiety, Mrs. de Vaux was unaffectedly pleased to see her eldest son. She was a fine, white-haired old lady, dignified and handsome, but with very few soft lines about her comely face.
"I am delighted to see you, of course, Paul! The meet is at Dytchley woods to-morrow! I hope you'llhave a good day. Take your coat off. I have rung for some tea."
"Thanks! How bright and cheerful the fire seems. I walked from the station, and it was miserably cold."
"Of course it was. I wish I had known you were coming. We have so little work for the carriage horses."
"I did not make up my mind until half an hour before the train started," Paul answered. "Dick Carruthers wanted me to run over to Paris with him for a couple of days, and I was undecided which to do. I heard that it was cold and wet there, though; and there is always a charm about this old place which makes me glad to come back to it."
"There is not such another place in England," his mother remarked, pouring out the tea. "Although this is such an outlandish county, there have been a dozen people here this week, asking to be allowed to see over the Abbey. I always give permission when you are away, and there is no one stopping here."
Paul drank his tea, and stretched himself out in his low chair with an air of comfort.
"I am glad you let them see the place, mother," he said. "It is only right. What class of people do you have, as a rule? Clergymen and ecclesiastical architects, I suppose?"
"Chiefly. There are a good many Americans, though; and yesterday, or the day before, a Roman Catholic priest. He spent the day in the cloisters and wandering about the Abbey, I believe."
Paul looked up suddenly, and drew his chair back out of the firelight. For the first time, his mother noticed how pale and ghastly his face was.
"Paul, are you ill?" she asked anxiously. "What is the matter with you?"
"Nothing. I am only tired. It is a long journey, you know,—and the walk from the station. Indeed, it is nothing else. I am quite well."
His mother resumed her seat. She had risen in sudden alarm. Her son's face had frightened her.
"You look just as your poor father used to look sometimes," she said softly. "It always frightened me. It was as though you had a pain somewhere, or had suddenly seen a ghost. You are sure you are well?"
"Quite, mother! You need have no fear. Arthur and I have your constitution, I think."
His tone was deeper, almost hollow. He still kept his chair back amongst the shadows. Mrs. de Vaux was only partially satisfied.
"I am afraid you have been keeping too late hours, Paul, or reading too much. Lord Westover was sayingthe other day that you were in a very Bohemian set—journalists and artists, and those sort of people. I am afraid they keep awful hours."
"Lord Westover knows nothing about it," Paul answered wearily. "Ordinary London society would tire me to death in a fortnight. There is another class of people, though, whose headquarters are in London, far more cultured, and quite as exclusive, with whom association is a far greater distinction. I can go anywhere in the first set, because I am Paul de Vaux, of Vaux Abbey, and have forty thousand a year. I am permitted to enter the other only as the author of an unfashionable novel, which a few of them have thought leniently of. Which seem the worthier conditions?"
"I am answered, Paul. Of course, in a sense, you are right. I am an old woman, and the twaddle of a London drawing-room would fall strangely upon my ears now, but I had my share of it before Arthur was born. If I were a man, I should want variety,—a little sauce,—and you are right to seek for it. And now, won't you go and have a bath, and change your things. You still look pale, and I think it would refresh you. Shall I ring for Reynolds? I suppose you have not brought your own man?"
He stretched out his hand, and arrested her fingers upon the bell. "In a moment, mother. It is socomfortable here, and I really think it is my favourite room."
He looked round approvingly. It was a curious, hexagonal chamber, with an oak-beamed ceiling, curving into a dome. The walls were hung with a wonderful tapestry of a soft, rich colour, and every piece of furniture in the room was of the Louis Quinze period. There was scarcely a single anachronism. The Martin de Vaux of forty years ago had been an artist, and a man of taste; and when he had brought home his bride, a duke's daughter, he had spent a small fortune on this apartment. Since then it had always been her favourite, and she was always glad to hear any one praise it.
"I seldom sit in any other," she remarked complacently. "The blue drawing-room is open to-night, but that is because Lord and Lady Westover are dining here. I am afraid May will not be able to come; she has a cold or something of the sort. I wonder whether it is true, what they say, that she is delicate."
Paul did not appear much interested. He had a purpose in lingering here, and it had nothing to do with May Westover's health. There was a little information he wished to obtain without exciting his mother's curiosity. But it was not exactly an easy matter.
"I was interested in what you said about the visitors here," he remarked. "I daresay to Americans this place must be very interesting."
"You would think so if you saw some of them. They are a great deal too inquisitive and familiar for Reynolds. He detests them. It is far more interesting to think of that Catholic priest who was here the other day. He lingered about the place as though he had known it all his life, and loved it; and, Reynolds says, he prayed for two hours in the chapel."
"Did you see him yourself?"
"Yes, in the distance. I did not notice him particularly. I wished afterwards that I had. Reynolds' report of him pleased me so much. I daresay he was conjuring up pictures of the days when the old Abbey was full of grey-hooded monks, and the chapel was echoing day and night to their solemn chants and prayers. Sometimes, in the gloaming, I can almost fancy myself that I see them kneeling in long rows in those rich stalls, and hear the rustle of their gowns as they pass slowly down the aisles. I think he must have found it sad to linger about in that beautiful chapel, so cold, and empty, and bare. That is why I like Roman Catholics. They have such a strong reverential affection for their places of worship, and take such a delight in adorning them. It is almost like a personal love."
Paul moved uneasily in his chair and looked steadily into the fire. "Then you did not notice him particularly?"
"Notice him! Notice whom?"
"This priest, or whoever he was."
"I did not see his face, Paul, if that is what you mean. I only remember that he was tall. You seem very much interested in him. No doubt Reynolds could tell you anything you wish to know. Here he is; you had better ask him."
A grey-headed man-servant had entered, bearing a lamp. Mrs. de Vaux turned to him.
"Reynolds, Mr. Paul is interested in hearing about the priest who spent so much time looking over the Abbey yesterday. Can you describe him?"
Reynolds set down the lamp and turned respectfully around. "Not very well, I'm afraid, sir," he said doubtfully. "They all seem so much alike, you know, sir, in those long gowns. He was tall, rather thin, and no hair on his face at all. I can't say that I noticed anything else, except that he spoke in rather a foreign accent."
"You are sure he was a priest, I suppose," Paul asked carelessly. "We hear so much now of impostors, and of things being stolen from places of interest, that it makes one feel suspicious."
"I am quite sure he was no impostor, sir." Reynolds answered confidently. "He was too interested in the place for that. He knew its history better than any one who has ever been here in my day. If he had been one of those sneaking sort of fellows, looking about for what he could get, he would have offered me money, and tried to get rid of me for a time, I think, sir."
"That's true," Paul remarked. "Were you with him all the time, then?"
"Very nearly, sir. He did not like my leaving him at all. He was afraid of missing something worth seeing. Besides, he did not ask to come into the house at all, not even to see the pictures. He spent all his time in the ruins.
"That ends the matter, of course," Paul answered shortly. "There is nothing out there to attract pilferers. Sorry I said anything about it."
"He asked whether you spent much of your time here, and when you would be down again, sir," Reynolds remarked, as he turned to quit the room.
Paul looked up, and then stood quite still for a moment without speaking. A great fear had fallen upon him. Out of the shadows of the past, he seemed to see again that deathbed scene, and the tragedy which had brought down the curtain upon two lives. Almosthe could fancy himself again upon his yacht, with the salt sea spray beating against his face, and the white breakers hissing and seething around him, as they made the dangerous passage towards that faint light, which flickered and gleamed in the distant monastery tower. They are safe! They reach the land; they are hurried into that great, gloomy bedchamber, where chill draughts rustled ghost-like amongst the heavy, faded hangings, and the feeble candlelight left weird shadows moving across the floor and upon the walls. Again he heard the rattling of the window-panes, bare and exposed to every gust of wind; the far-off thunder of the sea, like a deep, continuous undernote; and, from an almost unseen corner of the chamber, the monotonous, broken rhythm of sad prayers for the dying, mumbled by that dark, curious-looking priest. And then, when the background of the picture had formed itself in his memory, he saw the deed itself. He saw the white, stricken face suddenly ablaze with that last effort of passionate life; he saw the outstretched arm, the line of fire, and the sudden change in the countenance of the man who stood at the foot of the bed. He saw the cool cynicism replaced by a spasm of ghastly fear, and he heard the low, gurgling cry dying away into a faint moan of terror, as the murdered man sank on to the floor, a crumpled heap. And,last of all, he saw that little brown girl, with her tumbled hair and tear-stained face, clasping the dead body and glaring at every one in the room, with a storm of hatred and impotent fury in her flashing eyes. And that last recollection brought him, like a flash, back to the present,—brought him swift, bewildering memories of Adrea, shaking his heart, and bringing the hot colour streaming into his face. He remembered where he was, and why he had left London. He remembered, too, that he was not alone, and with a little start he awoke to the present.
Reynolds had left the room, and his mother was watching him curiously. He found it hard to meet her steady, questioning gaze without flinching.
"Paul," she said slowly, "you are in trouble."
He shook his head. "It is nothing, mother—nothing at all. I ought to beg your pardon for letting my thoughts run away with me so."
She was too proud to ask him for his confidence, and at that moment the rumbling of a gong reached them from the distant hall. Mrs. de Vaux rose:—
"There are a few people dining here, Paul, so you will not be late."
"I will be down, mother. The usual time, I suppose."
"Yes, eight o'clock."
They left the room together, but parted in the hall. Mrs. de Vaux stayed to speak to the housekeeper for a moment, and Paul ascended the broad staircase alone. On the first corridor he paused, standing before the deep-cushioned sill of a high-arched window, and gazing at the ruined portion of the abbey. The air outside was frosty and clear, and though the moon as yet was only faintly yellow, every arch and cloister was clearly visible. Paul gazed down at them, as he had done all his life, with reverent eyes. There was something almost awesome in the graceful yet bold outline, and in the great age of those rugged, moss-grown pillars and arches, so ecclesiastical in their shape and suggestiveness,—as indeed they might well be, for they were practically the ruins of the old monastery chapel. But, as he looked, the expression in his eyes suddenly changed. A dark figure had passed slowly out from the shadow of the arches, and stood looking up towards the house, rigid, solemn, and motionless. Paul covered his face with his hands, and sank down upon the cushioned window-sill.
"Mr. de Vaux!"
Paul turned quickly around in his saddle towards the young lady who had addressed him. He looked into a fair, thoughtful face, whose general amiability was discounted, just then, by a decided frown.
"I beg your pardon, Lady May! Didn't you say something just now?"
"Didn't I say something just now!" she repeated, with fine scorn. "Upon my word, Mr. de Vaux, I think that you must have left your wits in London! What is the matter with you?"
"The matter! Why, nothing! I'm sorry——"
"Oh! pray don't apologise!" she interrupted hastily. "I think I'll ride on and catch papa up."
He laid his hand upon her rein. "Please don't, Lady May," he begged. "I know I've been inattentive! I'm very sorry—really I am. Let me try and make up for it!"
She looked into his face, and she was mollified. He was evidently in earnest.
"Oh! very well," she said. "You mustn't think that I complained without due cause, though, for I spoke to you three times before you answered me. Oh, it's all right," she went on, as he commenced to frame another apology. "I don't mind now, but I really should like to know what is the matter with you. You have ridden all day like a man who valued neither his own life nor his horse's. Some of your jumps were simply reckless! I have heard other people say so, too! I like bold riding, but there is a limit; and though I've ridden two hounds since papa gave me my first pony, I've never seen any one try to jump Annisforth brook below the bridge, before,—and don't want to again," she added, with a little shudder. "I know you ride fine horses, but you are not generally foolhardy. I saw your dark bay mare being taken home at Colbourne Spinneys, and I don't think she'll be fit to ride again this season. Old Harrison had tears in his eyes when he saw her!"
"Harrison is an old woman about horses! I never touched Meg with the spurs. She was as fresh as paint, and there was no holding her."
"You can't deceive me or yourself," Lady May continued calmly. "You have been riding for a fall, all day, and you may think yourself pretty fortunate that you haven't a broken neck. It seemed as though youwere trying for one. And now that you haven't succeeded, you have nearly ridden ten miles alone with me, and scarcely opened your mouth. You are very provoking, Mr. de Vaux. I wish I had ridden home with Captain Fellowes."
He was on the point of reminding her that the arrangement had not been of his making, but he checked himself. After all, Lady May had some grounds for her irritation. They had been friends since they had been children, and Paul knew that every one expected him, someday, to ask Lady May to become the mistress of Vaux Abbey. There had been a little more than intimacy even in their friendship up till twelve months ago; and Paul had certain recollections of their last interview, which had made him more than once a trifle uneasy. As a matter of fact, Lady May had quite made up her mind that Paul de Vaux would certainly ask her to marry him some time; and she had, on his account, refused two very eligible offers. Their people desired it, and, in her heart, Lady May was conscious that Paul was a little more to her than any other man could be. So she felt herself at first, aggrieved by his long silence during their ride home, which, to tell the truth, she had carefully planned for, and afterwards was just on the verge of being seriously offended.
"Don't be angry with me, please," he said quietly."You are right; something is the matter. I am worried."
She was sympathetic and kindly at once. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me for bothering you. You used to tell me your troubles once! Are we too old now?"
He shook his head. "I hope we never shall be," he said. "I can't tell you all, but one thing is this. I had a letter from a man in town to-day—a man whom I can trust—about Arthur. You know what an impressionable, sensitive boy he is. Anyone who once obtains an influence over him can do nearly what they like with him. He seems—so my correspondent tells me—to have become completely fascinated with a—a—dancer—Adrea Kiros I think she calls herself."
"I have heard of her," Lady May murmured. "She dances only at private houses, I think. Everyone says she is wonderful."
"She is—wonderful," Paul said slowly. He was about to say more, but he checked himself. Lady May was watching him, and he knew that he could not speak of Adrea Kiros unmoved. So he went on:—
"I am not complaining, for after all it is perfectly natural, but Arthur is certainly his mother's favorite son. You know how strict she is in some of her notions; so you can understand what a shock it would beto her if any rumors were to reach her ears. It would be a terrible blow to her. But, apart from that, the thing is serious in itself. Arthur was always delicate, and Cis—my friend—speaks of him as looking ghastly ill. The girl is probably only amusing herself, although she seems to have given him plenty of encouragement. But I know Ad—Adrea Kiros. She is no ordinary girl of her class. In the whole world I doubt if there breathes a more dangerous woman," he wound up, in a low tone.
Lady May was quite sympathetic now, but a little mystified. "I am so sorry," she said softly. "Ought you not to go to London, and try what your influence can do with him? That is disinterested advice, at any rate," she added, with a little laugh, "for I don't want you to go. But Arthur always seemed to look up to you so! You might be able to get him away. Don't you think it would be a good thing if you could get him down here? We would make it as lively as possible for him up at the Castle; and, I don't know how your preserves are, but ours have been scarcely touched yet. Between the two of us, at any rate, he could have as much shooting as he liked. And I would ask the Fergusson girls to come and stay," she went on, getting more and more in love with her plan. "He was so much taken with Amy, you know, whenthey were down here before. We could get up some theatricals, or something, and have quite a good time. What do you think of my plan?"
He was thankful for her long speech, for it had enabled him to get over the slight agitation which the thought of that unavoidable journey to London had called up in him. From the first he had felt that it was his duty to go. He had received this disquieting letter two days ago, and since then he had telegraphed twice and written to Arthur without getting any reply. Yes, he must go. And mingled with that reluctance and nameless apprehension which he felt at the thought of returning into her neighbourhood, he was acutely conscious, all the time, of a certain vague but sweet pleasure at the thought that fate had so ordained it. Perhaps it would be necessary for him to see her! A thrill of pleasure passed through him at the thought, followed almost immediately by a reaction of keen and bitter disgust with himself. He set his teeth, and quite unconsciously dug his spurs into his horse's sides, with the natural result that she reared up, almost unseating him, and then plunged forward. He had to gallop her along the road for a few hundred yards, and then turned round and rejoined Lady May. Fortunately she had not seen the commencement of the little episode.
"Whatever was the matter?" she asked.
"I fancy my spurs must have pricked her," he said apologetically. "I was riding quite carelessly."
"Well, please don't let it happen again," she begged, eyeing his mare's flanks suspiciously. "Dandy is very tired now, and is generally good tempered; but I don't think he would stand much of that sort of thing."
"I'm really very sorry," he said.
She nodded. "All right. And now, what do you think of my plan? Are you going to London?"
"I think your plan is a very good one indeed, and I shall run up to town to-morrow," he said. "It is very good of you to be so interested."
He looked down into her face, a fair, sweet face it was, and then glanced away over the bare moorland which stretched on one side of them. It was a late November afternoon, and a faint yellow light was lingering in the west, where the sun had just set, colouring the clouds which stretched across the sky in long, level streaks. A fresh, healthy breeze, strong with the perfume of the sea, blew in their teeth, and afar off they could hear the waves dashing against the iron-bound line of northern cliffs. Inland, the country was more cultivated, but hilly and broken up with masses of lichen-covered rock, and little clumps of thin fir trees. He knew the scenery so well. The rugged,barren country, with its great stretches of moorland and little patches of cultivated land, with its silent tarns, its desolation, and the ever-varying music of the sea, they all meant home to him, and he loved them. It had always been so, and yet he felt it at that moment as he had never felt it before. The prospect of that journey to London was suddenly loathsome to him. The clear, physical healthfulness of his North-country home was triumphant, for the moment, over that other passion, which seemed to him then weak and artificial. It seemed to him also, looking down into Lady May's fresh, thoughtful face, that she was somehow in accord with these surroundings,—that she was, indeed, the link, the safeguard which should bind him to them, the good influence which should keep him fit to breathe God's pure air, and to keep himself, as he had ever striven to,sans peur et sans reproche. Paul was no sentimentalist, in the idle and common sense of the word. In his attitude to every-day life, he was essentially practical, sometimes perhaps a little too practical. But he was capable of strong feeling, and it came then with a rush. He leant over towards Lady May, and laid his hand upon her saddle.
"You are very kind and sympathetic," he said softly. "You are always kind."
She looked up at him, pleased, and with a soft lookin her deep grey eyes. "You do not give me very much opportunity," she said quietly. "At one time you used to tell me all your troubles; do you remember?"
"Yes! I remember," he answered, almost in a whisper, for they were riding up a grass-grown avenue,—a back way to the Abbey,—and their horses' hoofs sank noiselessly into the soft turf. "Sometimes I have dared to hope that those days may come again."
She was silent, and her head was turned away lest he might see the tears trembling in her eyes. So they rode on for a moment or two, walking their horses in the dim twilight; she in the shadow of the grey wall and the overhanging trees, and he very close to her, with his hand still upon her saddle and his reins loose in his hand.
"If ever they did, if ever I was so fortunate," he went on in a low tone, "you would find your office no sinecure. I have troubles, or rather, one trouble, and a great one, May."
She looked at him for a moment, her eyes full of sympathy. She dimly remembered the time when strange stories were current in the county of Martin de Vaux, and their echo had remained for years. It was not for her to inquire about them, and she never had done so. But that their burden should have fallenupon Paul; it was hard! Her heart was sore with the injustice of it. A woman is a swift and censorious judge of any one who brings trouble upon the man she loves.
He was a little closer to her still; and suddenly the hand which carried her small whip felt itself grasped in strong fingers and held tightly.
"May——"
It was not his fault this time that his mare stood still, and then ran backwards, dislodging the topmost stones from the grey stone wall with her hind quarters, and then plunging violently. This time there was cause for her alarm. A tall, forbidding-looking figure stood in the middle of the avenue, grasping the rein of Lady May's terrified horse. He had come out of the twilight so suddenly, and his attire was so unusual, that Paul and Lady May were almost as surprised as the animals. Paul's first instinct was one of anger.
"What the——"
He stopped short. The man who had startled them so had quieted Lady May's horse with a few soothing words, and now stood out of the deep shade of the over-hanging trees into the centre of the avenue. Even here his face was scarcely visible, but his figure and attire were sufficient. He wore the long robes and shovel hat of a Roman Catholic priest.
Paul broke off in the middle of his exclamation, and the arm which had been grasping his whip tightly sank nervelessly to his side. He was thankful for the twilight, which concealed the grey shade which had stolen into his face. Yet now that the blow had fallen, he was calmer than he had been in some of his anticipations of it. For it had indeed fallen! In the dusky twilight he had recognised the face of the priest, changed though it was. He rode up, and addressed him.
"Have you lost your way?" he asked quietly. "This is a private road, and the gate at the other end is locked."
The priest looked at him steadily for a moment, and then drew on one side, as though to let them pass.
"I am sorry that I startled your horses," he said, in a soft, pleasant voice, marked with a strong foreign accent; "I was standing with my back to you, waiting for the moon to rise behind the ruins there, and the soft ground made your approach noiseless. And, if I am trespassing, I am sorry. The steward at the Abbey yonder gave me permission to wander anywhere around the ruins. I have perhaps exceeded a little his bounds."
"It is of no consequence," Paul said. "You find the ruins interesting, then?"
"Very."
"There are some pictures in the Abbey you might care to see—mostly modern, but there is a Rubens and two Giorgiones."
The priest removed his hat. "I thank you, but I am only interested in ecclesiastical art. These ruins are more to me than any pictures—save those which Rome alone possesses," he added. "I spend all my evenings here, and hope to be allowed to, for the short time that I remain in the neighbourhood."
"You have my permission to come and go as you please. I am Mr. de Vaux," Paul said, touching his horse with the whip. "Good-evening!"
"Good-evening, sir! Good-evening, madam! I thank you!"
They rode on down the avenue, Paul silent and absorbed, and making no attempt to pursue the conversation. At the bend of the lane he turned round in his saddle. The priest was standing with his back to them, motionless and silent as a figure of stone.
The winter moon, soft and bright and full, looked down upon the ruins of Vaux Abbey. A strange beauty lay upon the bare, rock-strewn hillside and desolate moor. Afar off a grey, brawling stream was touched by its light, and in its place a band of gold seemed coiled around the grey, sleeping hill. A black, reed-grown tarn at the foot of the Abbey gleamed and quivered like a fair silver shield. The dark pines which crowned their sandy slopes lost their forbidding frown in an unaccustomed softness, and every harsh line and broken pillar of the ruined chapel was toned down into a rich, sad softness. A human face, too, uplifted to the sky, so silent and motionless that it seemed almost set into the side of one of those groined arches, had lost all its harshness and worldliness in the glow of that falling light. It might have been the face of a saint, save for the vague unhappiness which shone in the clear, dark eyes; for at that moment, spirituality, wistfulness, and reverence seemed carved into thewhite, still features. But there was disquiet, too; and, after a while, as though some cloud had passed across the moon, a dark shade stole into the white face. The brows were contracted into a frown, and the eyes filled with restless doubt. Father Adrian moved away from the shadow of the pillar, and stood, tall and motionless, on the ruined chapel floor, with his eyes fixed upon the distant landscape. After a moment or two, his lips began to move and he commenced to speak aloud in a low, deep tone.
"Six nights has my voice gone up to God from amongst these silent ruins, six nights I have prayed in rain. These fair, still evenings mock me! Whose is their beauty, if it be not God's; and, if there be a God, and if the Blessed Virgin, our Holy Mother, indeed dwells amongst the stars, why are their faces turned from me? Oh! that man knew a little more or a little less—enough to pierce the mystery of yon star-crowned heavens, or so little as to gaze on them unmoved and unfeeling! What is our little knowledge? A mockery, a dreary, hopeless mockery! I had better have rotted in that miserable monastery, a soulless, lifeless being, than have stepped out to struggle with a world which is only a terrible riddle to me. I cannot reason with it; I cannot laugh or weep with it; I am in it, but not of it! Why was I sent? Oh I why was I sent?"