A Monk of Cruta Part 9

"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 pa.s.sionate force of her fiery oriental nature, time seemed to stand still while she rested pa.s.sively 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 to have 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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sionately upon his.

"Adrea," he said, and his low, hoa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.s.ses 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, soiled and tarnished, for the sake of a brief, pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sion, and her face was as pale as death. Before her anger he bowed his head and was silent.

Against the sombre background 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.

CHAPTER X

"I AM BUT A SLAVE, AND YET I BID THEE COME"

"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 Leicesters.h.i.+re! May I have some more tea, mother?"

Mrs. de Vaux stretched out her hand for his cup, and smiled 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 of _bon comeradie_ between 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 altogether from 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, pa.s.sion-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 pa.s.sion, 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 tainted for 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 pa.s.sion. 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 pa.s.sive 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 his steadfast, 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 he held 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 cla.s.sical literature; 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 Maupa.s.sant. 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 her half-kneeling, half-crouching, before him, with her beautiful dark eyes, yearning and pa.s.sionate, 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.