The snapping of a twig caused him to turn suddenly round. Paul de Vaux was advancing through the ruins, with a loose cloak thrown over his evening clothes.
Father Adrian turned round to meet him. The two men stood for a moment face to face without speaking. Both recognised that this interview was to be no ordinary one; and in a certain sense, each seemed to be measuring the other's strength. It was Paul who spoke first.
"We have met before, Father Adrian."
"Yes."
"You will scarcely wonder that I am surprised to see you here in England. Have you left the monastery at Cruta?"
"I left it a month after you did."
"But your vows,—were they not for life?" Paul asked.
Father Adrian smiled scornfully. "I was not bound to Cruta," he answered. "There had been complaints, and I was there to investigate them. The monastery was poverty and disease-stricken. It is closed now forever."
"Then you are no monk?"
Father Adrian shook his head. "I am, and I am not. In my youth I served my novitiate, but I nevertook the oaths. The cloisters are for holier men than I."
"Then who are you?"
"I am—Father Adrian, priest of the Roman Catholic Church, I can tell you no more."
The moonlight was falling full upon his dark, striking face. Paul, with bent brows, scanned every feature of it intently. Father Adrian bore the scrutiny without flinching and without discomposure. Only once the colour mounted a little into his cheeks as the eyes of the two men met.
"What brings you to Vaux Abbey, Father Adrian?" Paul asked at length.
"To see your home," was the quiet reply.
"What do you want with me? It must be something more than curiosity which has brought you all this way. What is it?"
Father Adrian was silent. Yet his silence was not one of confusion. He was looking down through the gaps in the ruined chapel walls at the dark Gothic front of the old Abbey. Paul waited for an answer, and it came at last.
"I wished to see the home of Martin de Vaux, the Englishman who died in my arms at the monastery of Cruta. For six nights I have prayed for his soul in Purgatory, amongst the ruins here. He died in grievous sin!"
"Have you come to remind me of it?" Paul asked bitterly. "Perhaps you have repented of your silence, and have come to break the widow's heart by telling her the story of his last moments. Perhaps—perhaps in those dark hours he told you his secret—told you why he had come to Cruta!"
"He did," said the priest gravely.
"My God!"
It was a great shock to Paul. Hitherto he had feared only one thing: that the story of his father's tragical death might come to light, and break his mother's heart. Now there was more to fear,—far more. He looked into Father Adrian's face with a new and keener interest. He recognised at once that everything dear to him in life might be at this man's mercy.
"You were intrusted with this secret by a dying man," Paul said, with a little hoarseness in his tone. "It is to you as the secrets of the confessional!"
The priest shook his head gently. "He refused to confess. He told me distinctly that it was as man to man he spoke to me."
Paul looked away into the night with white, stricken face, and cursed his father's weakness. Supposing that this priest had discovered that his conscience would not allow him to keep the secret! What morelikely! Why else was he here,—why else did he disclaim the confessional? There was only one other alternative! Perhaps he desired to trade upon his secret. Yet how was that possible? Of what use could money be to him? What could he gain by it? Besides, his was not the face of an adventurer.
"I do not understand," Paul said at last. "Once more let me ask you, Father Adrian, why are you here?"
Father Adrian looked thoughtfully away. "You ask more than I can tell you," he said gravely. "The time has not yet come. We shall meet again. Farewell!"
The priest turned away, but Paul laid his hand on his shoulder.
"If there is anything which you ought or mean to tell me, tell me now," he demanded hoarsely. "I can bear everything but suspense. I know only—that there was a secret. No more. Proceed! Tell me more!"
The priest shook his robe free from Paul's restraining hand, and turned away.
"Not yet! Not yet! My mind is not yet clear. We shall meet again. Farewell!"
"But——"
"Farewell!"
The priest had passed from the ruins, and was already out of sight in the gathering darkness.
"Come back, Father Adrian! One word more!"
"Farewell!"
The priest did not turn his head. Paul was left alone, gazing after him with stern, troubled face and anxious heart. It was a danger which he had always foreseen, always dreaded. Henceforth he must live like a man who paces, day by day, the brink of a volcano. At any moment the blow might fall.
Paul and Arthur shared a bachelor residence in Mayfair; shared it, that is to say, insomuch as Paul had purchased it, and was the sole proprietor, and Arthur used it whenever he could get leave from his regiment. It was here Paul found his brother on the morning of his arrival in London.
They shook hands in silence; Paul did not wish to say anything for a moment. His brother's appearance had choked him. It was one o'clock, but he was still in his dressing-gown; with sunken, pale cheeks, save for one bright spot, and with faint, dark rims underneath his eyes. There were a pile of blue papers and some ominous-looking envelopes on the table before him, and Paul could not help noticing the intense pallor of the hand which rested upon them.
"I wish you would let a fellow know what time you were coming," Arthur said, rather peevishly, but with an attempt at a smile. "I didn't expect you till evening, so I was having a shack before dressing. I was late last night!"
Paul banished his gravity, as far as possible, and stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the mantel-piece. He heartily disliked the part of mentor, and he did not wish to play it, unless he were obliged.
"It was beastly early to get up," he said, "but the connection at Normanton is so much better. One has to wait two hours by the late train, and Normanton is such a hole. I don't know that I should have come up to town at all, just yet," he continued after a slight pause, "only that I'm on the committee at the club this term, you know, and I haven't attended a single meeting yet. Besides, I promised Westover to put him up this time, and the half-yearly meeting's to-morrow, you know. Got any engagement? If not, you might dine with me there. Always a full night election time, you know!"
"Beastly sorry! but my leave's up to night," Arthur answered ruefully. "I shall have to go down to Aldershot by the four o'clock train, and do a week's close grind."
Paul nodded. "I'm sorry; I'd have liked you to run down home with me for a few days, and see the mater. The Westovers have some very nice people coming to the Castle, and are going to get up some theatricals. Lady May says they must have you! Will you come in a week, if I work the Colonel?"
"I'm afraid I can't," Arthur answered, with a slight flush in his cheeks. "I have some engagements for next week, and—and—I'm sure I can't manage it."
"The mater'll be disappointed," Paul said quietly. "She is counting on seeing you, and it's some time since you were down, isn't it? Tell you what, old man! I'd try and manage it, if I were you!"
"I can't promise! I will, if I can manage it! I'll write you from Aldershot!"
"You don't look quite the thing," Paul said kindly. "Nothing the matter, is there?"
"Nothing at all," Arthur assured him hastily. "I'm quite well. A bit of a head, that's all."
"Not too many of those bits of paper about, eh?" Paul asked, pointing to an oblong strip of blue paper which lay, face uppermost, on the table.
Arthur coloured, and threw a book over it.
"I am sorry I saw it," Paul went on; "but it was there to be seen, wasn't it?"
"Oh, yes! that's all right! I oughtn't to have left it about, that's all. I'm not exactly a Crœsus, like you, you know, Paul, and now and then I'm obliged to raise the wind somehow. Yes! I know what you're going to say. My allowance is a good one, and I ought to make it do. But, you see, sometimes I can't."
"I hope you won't mind my asking, Arthur, but is that an acceptance of your own?"
Arthur nodded. "There are a few accounts which I must pay," he said. "So I'm going to ask Plimsoll to do it for me. He's a decent fellow of his sort, you know! Lots of fellows go to him!"
Paul stretched out his hand. "Give it to me," he said, "and I will discount it for you. Thanks!"
Paul took it, and, just glancing at the amount, threw it into the fire. "I haven't my cheque book here," he said, "but we will call at the bank on our way to the club, and I can get the money. I'm glad I saw it!"
"It's awfully good of you," Arthur said hesitatingly. "I shouldn't have thought of asking you. I must owe you an awful lot already."
"Never mind what you owe me! I'll write it all off, Arthur, and this last amount too, if you'll do me a favour. Come down home with me next week, as soon as you can get leave."
Arthur rose to his feet, and then, leaning against the mantel-board, buried his face in his hands. "I can't leave London, Paul!—or, if I did, it could only be for a day," he said in a low tone. "I wish I could tell you why, but I can't; you wouldn't understand!"
"I think I know," Paul said quietly. "There is some one whom you do not care to leave! Is that not it?"
Arthur looked up quickly. His face was very white, and his lip was quivering.
"Who told you that? What do you know?"
"I know nothing! I want you to tell me. Perhaps I could help you. There is a—lady in the case, isn't there?"
Arthur stood up on the hearthrug, and spoke, with a subdued passion trembling in his tone.
"Yes! it's Adrea Kiros, the dancer! I daresay you've heard all about it! I don't see why you shouldn't! I can't leave her! I know all that you would say! It doesn't make any difference. She isn't good! Well! I know it! She doesn't care for me! I don't believe she does. She's as cruel as a woman can be. Sometimes, when I am away from her, the thought of going back makes me shudder; and yet, I could no more keep away than lift the roof from this house. Of course, this sounds like rigmarole to you. You think I'm raving! I don't blame you. Only it is so, and I can't help it! I am as much a prisoner as any poor devil in Newgate."
Paul laid his hand upon his brother's shoulder, and looked kindly into his face. "Arthur, I'm very sorry! And don't think I don't understand! I do! I do not know much of A—of Adrea Kiros, but I know enough to tell me that she is a very dangerous woman. Can't I help you, somehow?"
"I—I don't think you can! I don't think any one can," Arthur exclaimed unsteadily. He had been prepared for a lecture, for good advice, for a little contempt even; but his brother's attitude was unexpected, and it almost unnerved him. "It is the uncertainty of it all that is so tormenting," he went on. "Sometimes she is so kind, and sweet, and thoughtful, that I could almost worship her. And then, without any cause, she will suddenly become cold, and hard, and cruel, till I hate myself for bearing quietly all that she says. But I do! I can't help it! I am never quite happy even when she is in one of her sweetest moods, for I never know how long it will last. The moment I leave her I begin to get anxious, and wonder how she will be the next day."
"Try what a change will do, Arthur!" his brother begged.
Arthur shook his head. "It's no use; I've tried! If I went away I should only be miserable, and hurry back by the first train. Oh, if only I could make you understand!" he cried, with a little passionate gesture, which gained pathos and almost dignity from the expression on his white, sorrowing face. "Adrea is as necessary to me as the air we breathe! The sun has no light, and the day no ending, till I have seen her! She is the measure of all things to me: joy,grief, happiness, misery, it is her hand that deals them out to me! She can play upon the chords of my being as she chooses. A look or word from her can pull me down into hell, or transport me into a seventh heaven! Who gave her this power, I cannot tell! But she has it! she has it!"
Paul said no more. Perhaps he recognised that, for the present at any rate, it was useless. He walked up and down the room for a few minutes, in sympathetic silence. When he spoke again he made no reference to the subject, but Arthur understood. "Get your things on, and come out to lunch with me," he said pleasantly. "I am too hungry to be sympathetic, and we can call at Coutts' on the way."
Arthur nodded and disappeared. Paul took his chair for a while, and, as he sat there gazing into the fire, his face grew grey and haggard. Was Adrea Kiros seeking vengeance on the son of her father's murderer? he wondered. If so, it seemed as though she were indeed succeeding. How could he save Arthur? and what would happen if those rumours should reach his mother's ears, as some day they certainly would? At any rate, he would see Adrea himself before he left London. He had made up his mind that, if Arthur refused to listen to him, that should be his course.
Things somehow seemed brighter when they walked down to the club together. Dress makes so much difference to a man, and Arthur, spruce anddebonair, with a gardenia in his button-hole, and every part of his attire almost "faultily faultless," according to the canons of London fashion, presented a very different appearance to the tragical-looking personage of half an hour ago. There was a slight air of subdued feverishness about him, though, not altogether healthy, and the dark rims had not quite vanished from underneath his eyes.
"Paul, I wonder whether you will do something for me?" he asked, as they were crossing Pickadilly. "I hate asking you!"
"I'll try," Paul answered. "What is it?"
"I don't believe you'll like it, but—the fact is, Adrea wants you to go and see her. I promised that I would do my best to get you to call with me this afternoon. If you don't mind, I wish you would," he added wistfully.
"I will go with you certainly, if you wish it," Paul answered, not too cordially, for he did not wish his brother to know that it was what he had already planned to do. "Did she tell you that we had already a slight acquaintance?"
"Yes! You rode home in a cab together from LadySwindon's, didn't you? There was only one, and it was raining, so you shared it. Adrea told me that."
Paul nodded. He meant, after he had seen Adrea, to consider whether it would not be best to tell his brother everything. But, for the present, her story was enough. They turned into Pall Mall, and, almost immediately, Arthur's hat was in his hand, and he was on the edge of the pavement, colouring with pleasure. A small victoria had pulled up by the side, and Paul found himself face to face with Adrea.
She was muffled up in rich brown furs, and almost invisible, but her dark eyes flashed into his from underneath her thick veil. After the first greeting she scarcely noticed Arthur; it was Paul upon whom her eyes were bent.
"You are in London again, then, Mr. de Vaux," she remarked. "Have you discovered that, after all, the country is a littletristein this land of damp and fogs—the country in November, I mean—or is it only important business which has brought you up!"
"The latter," he answered, "as it happens. I am glad to see that the damp and fogs which you complain of have not affected your health."
"I am quite well, thanks," she answered. "How long are you staying in town?"
"For less than a week, I think."
"Well, it is too cold to talk here. Will you come and let me give you some tea this afternoon, after the fashion of you strange islanders? I want you to, please."
Paul looked her straight in the face. "You are very kind; I shall be glad to," he answered.
She nodded. "About five o'clock. I go to sleep till then. Shall you come, Arthur?" she added carelessly.
"I cannot, so late as that," he answered despondently.
"Ah, I forgot. You are going down to Aldershot, aren't you? Don't overwork yourself."
She nodded, and the carriage drove on. Arthur watched it until it was out of sight. "She might have said a little earlier," he remarked despondently. "She knew I couldn't come so late as that."
Paul passed his arm through his brother's and was silent. He knew very well that Adrea had thought of this when she had made the arrangement.
They lunched together, and Paul did his utmost to make the time pass pleasantly for his brother. When they parted, too, late in the afternoon, he referred once more to Mrs. de Vaux's desire that he should come down to the Abbey for a few days.
"I want you to think of it seriously, Arthur," hesaid, as they shook hands through the carriage window. "The mother is very anxious to have you, and I am sure we can make things pleasant for you. I shall speak to Drummond about leave if I see him to-morrow."
Arthur assented dubiously, and without any enthusiasm.
"Awfully good of you to want me," he remarked. "I daresay I'll be able to come. I'll try, anyhow—just for a day or two."
The train steamed off, and Paul walked slowly back to his carriage.
"Where to, sir?" the man asked.
Paul hesitated for a moment. Then he gave Adrea's address, and was driven away.
Paul found no one in the hall of the house where Adrea lived to take him to her, so after waiting a few minutes for her maid, whom the porter had twice fruitlessly summoned, he ascended the stairs alone, and knocked at the door of her rooms.
At first there was no reply. He tried again a little louder, and this time there was a sound of some one stirring within.
"Come in, Celeste," was the drowsy answer.
He turned the handle and walked in, carefully closing the door behind him. At first the room appeared to be in semi-darkness, for a clear spring day's sunshine was brightening the streets which he had just left, and here the heavy curtains were closely drawn, as though to keep out every vestige of daylight. But gradually his eyes grew accustomed to the shaded twilight and he could make out the familiar objects of the room; for although it was only his second visit, they were familiar already in his thoughts.
Strangely enough it seemed to him, after his first hasty glance around, that the room was empty; but just then a sudden gleam from the bright fire fell upon Adrea's hair, and he saw her. He stood for a moment silent and motionless. She was curled up on a huge divan drawn close to the fireplace, with her limbs doubled under her like a panther's, and her arms, from which the loose sleeves had fallen back, clasped half-bare underneath her head. The peculiar grace of movement and carriage, which had made her dancing so famous, was even more striking in repose, for there was a faint, insidious suggestion of voluptuous movement in those motionless, crouching limbs, and theabandonof the shapely, dusky head, with its crown of dark, wavy hair thrown back amongst the cushions. It was beauty of a strange sort, the beauty almost of some wild animal; but Paul felt a most unwilling admiration steal through his senses as he gazed down upon her. Her tea-gown, a wonderful shade of shimmering green, tumbled and disarranged out of all similitude to its original shape, followed the soft perfections of her outline with such peculiar faithfulness that it seemed to suggest even more than it concealed, leaving the gentle tracery of her figure outlined there like a piece of living Greek statuary. She turned slightly upon the couch, and a slipperless little footstole out from a sea of lace and white draperies which her uneasy movement had left exposed, and swayed slowly backwards and forwards, trying to reach the ground. Her eyes were still closed, but she was not sleeping, for in a moment or two she spoke in a low, drowsy tone.
"Celeste, I told you not to disturb me for an hour. It isn't five o'clock yet, is it?"
He roused himself, and moved a step further into the room. "It is still a quarter to five, I think," he said. "I have come before my time."
She opened her eyes, and then, seeing him, sprang into a sitting posture. Her hair, which had escaped all bounds, was down to her shoulders, and her gown, still further disarranged by her hasty movement, floated around her in wonderful curves and angles. Had she been a past mistress in the art of picturesque effects she could have conceived nothing more striking. Paul felt all the old fear upon him as he watched the firelight gleaming upon her startled, dusky face, and the faint pink colouring, wonderfully suggestive of a blush, steal into her cheeks. It seemed to him that she was as beautiful as a woman could be, and yet so different from Lady May.
She rose, and, with a shrug of the shoulders and a quick, graceful movement, shook out her skirts, andpushed the hair back from her face. Then she held out her hand, and Paul found himself compelled, against his will, to stand by her side.
"How strange that I should have overslept like this, and have taken you for Celeste!" she said. "Yet perhaps it was natural; for, Monsieur Paul, save Celeste, no one yet has permission to enter my chamber unannounced. How comes it that I find you here to laugh at mydeshabille?"
He was silent for a moment, while she looked at him questioningly. Her soft, delicate voice, with its very slight but piquant foreign intonation, had often sounded in his reluctant yet charmed ears since their last meeting; but now that he heard it again he felt how weak were his imaginings, and what sweet music it indeed was.
"I am sorry," he answered; and the constraint which he was placing upon his voice made it sound hard and cold. "The porter rang for your maid twice whilst I waited in the hall; but as she did not come, I thought I had better try and find the way myself."
"And I mistook your knock for Celeste's, and let you discover mecomme cela. Well, you were not to blame. See, I will just arrange my hair here, and you need not look at me unless you like."
She stood up in front of a mirror, over which shelighted a shaded candle, and for a moment or two her white hands flashed deftly in and out amongst the dark, silky coils of disordered hair. Paul sat down, and taking up a magazine which he found lying on the divan, tried to concentrate his thoughts upon its contents. But he could not. Every moment he found his eyes and his thoughts straying to that slim, lithe figure, watching the play of her arms and the grace of her backward pose. When she looked suddenly round, on the completion of her task, their eyes met.
"Monsieur Paul, you are like all your sex—curious," she said lightly. "Tell me, then, do you admire my coiffure?"
"Very much," he answered, glancing at the loose Grecian knot into which she had gathered her disordered hair, and confined it with a band of dull gold. "It is quite oriental, and it seems to suit you. Not that I am any judge of such matters," he added quickly.
She moved away with a little, low laugh, and lit two or three more of the shaded candles or fairy lamps which were placed here and there on brackets round the room. Then she rang the bell, and gave some orders to the maid.
"So you think my hair looks oriental," she said, sinking down upon a huge cushion in front of the fire."That is what the papers call me sometimes—oriental. My early associations asserting themselves, you see. I think I remember more of Constantinople than any place," she went on dreamily, with her eyes fixed on the fire. "I was only a child in those days, but it seemed to me then that nothing could be more beautiful than the City of Mosques and the Golden Horn on a clear summer evening. Why do I think of those days?" she added, shaking her head impatiently. "Such folly! And yet I always think of them when I am lonely."
He was suddenly and deeply moved with altogether a new feeling towards her—one of responsibility. She was alone in the world, and it was his father's hand which had rendered her so. How empty and barren had been his conception of the burden which that deed had laid upon him! Like a flash he seemed to see the whole situation in a new light. If, indeed, she had drifted into ruin, the sin lay at his door. He should have found her a mother; it should have been his care to have watched her continually, and to have assured himself that she was contented and happy. In those few moments the whole situation seemed to change, and he even felt a hot flush of shame at his own coldness towards her. He forgot the dancer, the woman of strange fascinations, the idol of thejeunesse doréeofWest London clubdom, and he remembered only the fact that she was a lonely orphan with a most womanly light in her soft, dark eyes, and that he had failed in his duty towards her. Paul was essentially a "manly" man, self-contained, and with all his feelings very much at his control; but at that moment he felt something like a rush of tenderness towards this strange, dark-eyed girl who lay coiled up at his feet. Involuntarily he stretched out his hand and laid it, with an almost caressing gesture, upon her hair.
She started around, as though electrified, and looking up saw the change in his face. It was the first kindly look or speech she had had from him since they had met in London, and it had come so suddenly that it seemed to have a strange effect upon her. A deep flush stole into her face, and her eyes gleamed brilliantly. She drew a long breath, and underneath her loose gown he could see her bosom rising and falling quickly. Yet it all seemed so softened and womanly that the thoughts which he had once had of her seemed like a distant nightmare to him. The ethical and physical horror of her being—of her ever becoming—what he feared, rose up strong within him, and deepened at once his sense of responsibility towards her, and his new-born tenderness. He took her hand gently, and was startled to find how cold it was.
"So you do feel lonely, Adrea, sometimes," he said softly, "although you have so many acquaintances."
The colour burned deeper for a moment in her cheeks. She looked at him half reproachfully, half indignantly.
"Acquaintances! You mean the people who come to see me! I hate them all! Sometimes they amuse me a little, but that is all. They are nothing!"
"And you have no women friends?"
"None! How should I! But I do not care. I do not like English-women!"
"But, Adrea, it is not good for you,—this isolation from your sex."
At the sound of her Christian name, coming from his lips so gently, almost affectionately, she looked up quickly. It seemed to him almost as though some softening change had crept over her. Was it the firelight, he wondered, or was it fancy?
"Good for me!" she said softly. "Have you just thought of that, Monsieur Paul?"
Again he felt that pang of conscience; and yet, was she not a little unjust to him?
"You took your life into your own hands," he reminded her. "You chose for yourself."
"Yes, yes!" she answered, drawing a little nearer to him, till her head almost rested upon his knees. "I do not blame you."
"It would have been so easy before to have found a home for you," he went on, "and now you have made it so difficult."
"There is no need," she interrupted proudly; "I could keep myself now. I do not want anything from you, Monsieur Paul,—save one thing!"
She raised her face to his, and it seemed to him to be all aglow with a wonderful, new light. There was no mistaking the soft entreaty of those strange, dark eyes so close to his, or the tremor in his tones. And then, before he could answer her, before he could summon up resolution enough to draw away, she had stolen softly into his arms, and, with a little murmur of content, had rested her small, dusky head, with its coronet of dark, braided hair, upon his shoulder, and twined her hands around his neck.
"Paul! Monsieur Paul! I am lonely and miserable. Love me just a little, only a little!" she pleaded.
It was the supreme moment for both of them. To her, coveting this love with all the passionate force of her fiery oriental nature, time seemed to stand still while she rested passively in his arms, neither altogether accepted nor altogether repulsed. And to him, as he sat there pale and shaken, fighting fiercely against this great temptation which threatened his self-respect, his liberty of body and soul, life seemed tohave turned into a grim farce, full of grotesque lights and shadows, mocking and gibing at all which had seemed to him sweet and pure and strong. Her warm breath fell upon his cheek, and her eyes maddened him. A curiously faint perfume from her clothes floated upon the air, and oppressed him with its peculiar richness. He was a strong man but at that moment he faltered. It seemed as though some unseen hand were weaving a spell upon him, as though his whole environment was being drawn in around him, and he himself were powerless. Yet, even in that moment of intoxication, his reason did not altogether desert him. He knew that if he opened his arms to receive that clinging figure, and drew the delicate, tear-stained face, full of mute invitation, down to his, to be covered with passionate kisses,—he knew that at that moment he would sign the death-warrant to all that had seemed fair and sweet and comely in his life. Forever he must live without self-respect, a dishonoured man in his own eyes, perhaps some day in hers,—for he had no more faith in her love than in his.
He held her hands tightly in his,—he had unwound them gently from his neck,—and stood up face to face with her upon the hearthrug. The soft fire-light threw up strange, ruddy gleams, which glowed around her and shown in her dark eyes, fixed so earnestly and so passionately upon his.
"Adrea," he said, and his low, hoarse tone sounded harsh and unfamiliar to his ears, "you do not know——"
She interrupted him, she threw her arms again around his neck, and her upturned face almost met his.
"I do know! I do know! I understand—everything! Only I—cannot live without you, Paul!"
Her head sank upon his shoulder; he could not thrust her away. Very gently he passed his arms around her, and drew her to him. He knew that he could trust himself. For him the battle was over. Even as she had crept into his arms, there had come to him a flash of memory—a sudden, swift vision. The walls of the dimly lit, dainty little chamber, with all its charm of faint perfume, soft lights, and luxurious drapings, had opened before him, and he looked out upon another world. A bare Northumbrian moor, with its tumbled masses of grey rock, its low-hanging, misty clouds and silent tarns, stretched away before his eyes. A strong, fresh breeze, salt-smelling and bracing, cooled his hot face. The roar of a great ocean thundered in his ears, and an angry sunset burned strange colours into the western sky. And with these actual memories came a healthier tone of feeling—something, indeed, of the old North-country puritanism which was in his blood. The sea spoke to him of the vastness of life, and dared him to cast his away, soiledand tarnished, for the sake of a brief, passionate delight. The breeze, nature's very voice, whispered to him to stand true to himself, and taste once more and for ever the deep joy of pure and perfect communion with her. The voices of his past life spoke to him in one long, sweet chorus, and held up to him those ideals to which he had been ever true. And blended with all were memories, faint but sweet, of a fair womanly face, into whose clear grey eyes he could never dare to look again if he yielded now to this fierce temptation. A new strength came upon him, and brought with it a great tenderness.
"Adrea, my child," he said softly, "you make me almost forget that I am your guardian and you are my ward. Sit down here! I want to talk to you."
He led her, dumb and unresisting, to a chair, and stood by her side.
"Adrea——"
She interrupted him, throwing his arms roughly from her shoulder, and springing to her feet.
"How dare you touch me! How dare you stand there and mock me! Oh! how I hate you! hate you! hate you!"
Her voice and every limb trembled with passion, and her face was as pale as death. Before her anger he bowed his head and was silent. Against the sombrebackground of dark curtains, her slim form seemed to gain an added strength and dignity.
"You have insulted me, Paul de Vaux! Do I not owe you enough already, without putting this to the score! Dare you think that it was indeed my love I offered you—you who stood by and saw my father murdered that you might be spared from shame and disgrace! Bah! Listen to me and go! You have a brother? Good! I shall ruin him, shall break his heart; and, when the task is over, I shall cast him away like an old glove! Oh, it will be easy, never fear! I shall do it. Arthur is no cold hypocrite, like you. He is my slave. And when I have ruined him, have set my foot upon him, it will be your turn, Monsieur Paul de Vaux. Listen! I will know my father's secret! I will know why he was murdered! I will discover everything! Some day the whole world shall know—from me. Now go! Out of my sight, I say! Go! go! go!"
With bowed head and face as white as death Paul walked out of the room, with her words ringing in his ears like the mocking echoes of some hideous nightmare.
"Were there any letters for me this morning, mother?" Paul asked.
"Only one for you, I think," Mrs. de Vaux answered from across the tea-tray. "I believe you will find it in the library. Shall I send for it?"
Paul shook his head. "It will keep," he answered lightly. "I can get it on my way upstairs. Have we anything left to tell, Lady May?"
"I think not," Lady May replied, from the depths of an easy chair drawn up to the fire. "Altogether it has been a glorious day, and such a scent! I don't know when I have enjoyed anything so much."
"Nor I!" Paul answered heartily. "The going was superb, and that second fox took us over a grand stretch of country. Really, if it hadn't been for the walls here and there, we might have been in Leicestershire! May I have some more tea, mother?"
Mrs. de Vaux stretched out her hand for his cup, andsmiled gently at their enthusiasm. She had been a hunting woman all her life; and, though she seldom even drove to a meet now, she liked to have her son come in to afternoon tea with her, and talk over the run. Of late, too, he had seemed so pale and listless that she had been getting a little anxious. She had begun to fear that he must be out of health, or that the monotony of Vaux Abbey was wearying him, and that he would be leaving her again soon. But to-day she had watched him ride up the avenue, with Lady May, and it seemed to her that there was a change in his bearing—a change for the better; and, looking at him now, she was sure of it. A faint glow was in his cheeks, and his eyes were brighter. His manner, too, to Lady May pleased her more. He had ridden home with her; from their conversation, they seemed to have been together almost all day; and there seemed to be a spirit ofbon comeradiebetween the two, as they talked over their doings, which certainly pointed to a good understanding. Altogether Mrs. de Vaux was pleased and hopeful.
And, indeed, she had reason to be, for his long day in the open country with Lady May had been like a strong, sweet tonic to Paul. For the first time since his return to Vaux Abbey he had felt that a time might come when he would be able to escape altogetherfrom those lingering, bitter-sweet memories which were all that remained to him now of Adrea. On the bare, windy moor, with the glow of physical exercise and excitement coursing through his veins, and Lady May's pleasant voice in his ears, that little scene in the rose-lit chamber seemed for a moment very far away. Adrea, with her soft, passion-lit eyes, and dusky, oriental face, her lithe, voluptuous figure and the faint perfumes of her rustling draperies, seemed less to him then than a short while ago he could have believed possible. He could not think of that scene without a shudder,—it had left its mark in a certain way for ever,—but it was not so constantly present to him. He knew that, for the first time, a woman had tempted him sorely. He knew, too, and he alone, how nearly he had yielded. His sudden passion, her strange Eastern beauty, and the fascination which it had exercised over him, together with the soft sensuousness of her surroundings, had formed a strong coalition, and to-day he recognised, for the first time, how much he owed his victory to the girl who was riding by his side. Even in those breathless moments of hesitation he had found time to consider that if he yielded to Adrea's pleading, he could never again take Lady May's hand, or meet her frank, open gaze. The pure healthfulness of life which had been so dear to him would be taintedfor ever. The moorland breezes of his northern home would never strike the same chords in his nature again. All these recollections had flashed across his mind at that critical moment, lending strength to resist and crush his passion. And to-day he had commenced to reap his reward. To-day he had tasted once more the sweets of these things, and found how dear they still were to him. He could still look into Lady May's fair, pure face unshamed, and find all the old pleasure in listening to her frank, girlish talk; and he could still bare his head to the sweeping winds, and lift his face to the sun and gaze with silent admiration at the faint, deepening colours in the western sky, as Lady May and he rode homeward across the moor in the late afternoon. All these joys would have been lost to him for ever,—these and many others. Adrea could never have repaid him for their loss.
So Paul, who had come home from London pale and silent, with the marks of a great struggle upon him, lay back in an arm chair and watched the firelight play upon Lady May's fair face with more than a passive interest. Mrs. de Vaux's cherished scheme had never been so near its accomplishment; for if she could have read Paul's thoughts she would have known that he was thinking of Lady May more tenderly than he had ever done before. Meeting hissteadfast, almost wistful, gaze, she became almost confused, and suddenly rising, she shook out the skirts of her riding habit, and took up her hat and whip.
"It has been such a delightful rest," she said, looking away from Paul and speaking to his mother. "I shall never forget how good that tea tasted! But I really must go, Mrs. de Vaux! My poor animal is quite done up, and I shall have to walk all the way home."
"I don't know whether I did right," Paul said, rising, "but I sent your groom straight on home with the mare, and ordered a brougham for you. She has had a long day, and I thought it would be more comfortable for you."
She flashed a grateful glance at him. "How thoughtful and how kind you are! Of course it will be nicer! I was beginning to feel a little selfish, too, for keeping Betty out of her stable so long."
"As a reward we will keep you a little longer," he remarked. "It is only six o'clock!"
She shook her head. "No I won't stop, thanks! There are some tiresome people coming to dine to-night, and I must go home. Good-bye, Lady de Vaux!"
Paul strolled down the hall with her and handed her into the carriage. For the first time in his life heheld her hand a little tighter and a little longer than was necessary.
"Shall you be at home to-morrow afternoon, Lady May?" he asked quietly.
She looked up at him for a moment, and then her eyes drooped, and her heart beat a little faster. She understood him.
"Yes!" she answered softly.
"I shall ride over then! Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!"
He lingered on the doorstep for a minute, watching the carriage roll down the avenue. When it had disappeared, he turned back into the hall, and after a moment's hesitation, entered the library.
It was a large, sombre-looking apartment, scarcely ever entered by anyone save Paul. The bookcases reached only half-way up the walls, the upper portion of which was hung with oil portraits, selected from the picture gallery. At the lower end of the room the shelves had been built out at right angles to the wall, lined with books, and in one of the recesses so-formed—almost as large as an ordinary-sized chamber—Paul had his writing-table surrounded by his favourite volumes. It was a delightful little miniature library. Facing him, six rows of black oak shelves held a fine collection of classicalliterature; on his left, the lower shelves contained rare editions of the early English dramatists, and the upper ones were given up to poetry, from Chaucer to Swinburne. The right-hand shelves were wholly French, from quaint volumes of troubadours' poetry to Alfred de Musset and De Maupassant. It was here Paul spent most of his time when at the Abbey.
The meet had been rather a long way off that morning, and he had left before the arrival of the post-bag from the neighbouring town. Mrs. de Vaux had distributed the letters, and the one she had spoken of lay at the edge of the table. He stretched out his hand to take it up—without any presentiments, without any thought as to whom it might be from. An invitation, doubtless, or a begging letter he imagined, as he caught sight of the large square envelope. But suddenly, before his fingers had closed upon it, he started and stood quite still, leaning over the back of his chair. His heart was beating fast, and there was a mist before his eyes—a mist through which he saw, as though in a dream, the walls of his library melt away, to be replaced by the dainty interior of that little room in Grey Street, with all the dim luxury of its soft colouring and adornment. He saw her too, the centre of the picture—saw her as she seemed to him before that final scene—saw herhalf-kneeling, half-crouching, before him, with her beautiful dark eyes, yearning and passionate, fixed upon his in mute, but wonderfully eloquent, pleading. Oh! it was folly, but it was sweet, marvellously sweet. Every nerve seemed thrilled with the exquisite pleasure of the memory so suddenly called up to him, and his lips quivered with the thought of what he might have said to her. The strange, voluptuous perfume which crept upwards from that letter seemed in a measure to have paralysed him. He stood there like a man entranced, with the dim firelight on one side and the low horned moon through the high window on his left, casting a strange, vivid light on his pale face—paler even than usual against the scarlet of his hunting-coat. That letter! What could it contain? Was it a recall, or a fresh torrent of anger? He stood there quite still, leaning over the back of the high-backed oak chair emblazoned with the De Vaux arms, and making no motion towards taking it up.
A sound from outside—the low rumbling of a gong—roused him at last, and he pushed the chair hastily away from him. His first impulse was one of anger, of shame, that he, a strong man, as he had deemed himself, should have been so moved by a simple flood of memories. It seemed ignoble to himand a frown gathered on his forehead as he reached forward and picked up the letter. Yet his fingers trembled as they tore it open, and his eyes ran over the contents rapidly.
"18 GREY STREET, LONDON, W.,Thursday."Monsieur Paul, my hand trembles a little when I sit down to write to you, and think of our last parting. But write to you I must! I am very humble now, and very, very much ashamed! Shall I go on and say that I am very sad and lonely,—for it is so! I am miserable! I have been miserable every moment since that day! Forgive me, Monsieur Paul, forgive me! my guardian. I behaved quite dreadfully, and I deserved to be punished. Believe me! I am punished. I have had scarcely any sleep, and my eyes are swollen with weeping. I have cancelled all my engagements this week, and I have closed my doors to everybody. Oh! be generous, Monsieur Paul! be generous and forgive me! I have suffered so much,—it is right that I should, for I was much to blame. Will you not let fall some kindly veil of memory over that afternoon. I was mad. Let what I said be unsaid! Let me be again just what you called me,—your ward. I ask for nothing more! Be cold, if you will, and stern! Scold me! and I will but say that I have deserved it! Only come to me! Come andlet me hear your own lips tell me that I am forgiven. I will do everything that you ask! I will not see Arthur if he calls,—you shall tell me yourself how to answer his letters,—I have a little pile of them here. Monsieur Paul, you must come! You must come, or I shall be driven to—but no! I will not threaten. You would not care whatever happened to me, would you? I am very, very lonely. I wish that I could have telegraphed all this, and had you here to-night! But you would not have come! Yet, perhaps you would, out of kindness to a solitary girl. I like to think that you would have!"Monsieur Paul, you have been good to the 'little brown girl,' as you used to call her, all your life! Do not forsake her now. She has been very mad and wicked, but she is very, very penitent. Celeste tells me that I am looking thin and ill, and my looking-glass says the same. It is because I am unhappy; it is because my guardian is angry with me, and he is so far away. Oh! Monsieur Paul, come, come, come to me! It shall be all as you wish! I will obey you in everything. Only forgive!"Yours,"ADREA."
"18 GREY STREET, LONDON, W.,Thursday.
"Monsieur Paul, my hand trembles a little when I sit down to write to you, and think of our last parting. But write to you I must! I am very humble now, and very, very much ashamed! Shall I go on and say that I am very sad and lonely,—for it is so! I am miserable! I have been miserable every moment since that day! Forgive me, Monsieur Paul, forgive me! my guardian. I behaved quite dreadfully, and I deserved to be punished. Believe me! I am punished. I have had scarcely any sleep, and my eyes are swollen with weeping. I have cancelled all my engagements this week, and I have closed my doors to everybody. Oh! be generous, Monsieur Paul! be generous and forgive me! I have suffered so much,—it is right that I should, for I was much to blame. Will you not let fall some kindly veil of memory over that afternoon. I was mad. Let what I said be unsaid! Let me be again just what you called me,—your ward. I ask for nothing more! Be cold, if you will, and stern! Scold me! and I will but say that I have deserved it! Only come to me! Come andlet me hear your own lips tell me that I am forgiven. I will do everything that you ask! I will not see Arthur if he calls,—you shall tell me yourself how to answer his letters,—I have a little pile of them here. Monsieur Paul, you must come! You must come, or I shall be driven to—but no! I will not threaten. You would not care whatever happened to me, would you? I am very, very lonely. I wish that I could have telegraphed all this, and had you here to-night! But you would not have come! Yet, perhaps you would, out of kindness to a solitary girl. I like to think that you would have!
"Monsieur Paul, you have been good to the 'little brown girl,' as you used to call her, all your life! Do not forsake her now. She has been very mad and wicked, but she is very, very penitent. Celeste tells me that I am looking thin and ill, and my looking-glass says the same. It is because I am unhappy; it is because my guardian is angry with me, and he is so far away. Oh! Monsieur Paul, come, come, come to me! It shall be all as you wish! I will obey you in everything. Only forgive!
"Yours,
"ADREA."