A Monk of Cruta Part 25

She did not speak to me for a moment, but I saw the colour rising into her cheeks, and her fingers were trembling. It was foolish of me to have told her. A glance into her face showed me that she had heard something, she knew something of me. She was looking at me as at some object almost beneath her contempt. Yet she spoke quite calmly.

"You are Adrea Kiros, the dancing girl!"

I answered her quite coolly--I believe respectfully. She was Paul's mother. Yet I could see that she was going to be very rude to me.

"You can have nothing to say to my son," she declared. "It is infamous that you should have followed him here--to his own house. Be so good as to quit it at once. Mr. de Vaux shall be informed later of the honour of your visit, and if he has anything to say to you, he can find other means save an interview under this roof. Richards!"

She pointed across the hall towards the entrance. I stood quite still, struggling with my pa.s.sion. If she had been any other woman, I should have struck her across the lips.

"I shall remain!" I answered. "I am here to see Mr. de Vaux; I shall see him! Don't dare to touch me, man!" I added fiercely, as Richards laid his hand upon my shoulder.

He shrank back hastily. I even believe that he muttered an apology.

Perhaps they saw that I was not to be trifled with, for Lady de Vaux suddenly changed her tactics.

"Follow me!" she said, sweeping round, with an imperious gesture. "You shall see my son! You shall hear from his own lips what he thinks of this--intrusion. Perhaps you will leave the Abbey at his bidding, if not at mine."

I followed her in silence, carrying myself proudly, but with fast-beating heart. What would he think of my coming? Would he call it an intrusion? At any rate he could not be pleased; for even if he received me kindly, he would have his mother's anger to face. Yet, how could I have kept away?

We halted, all three of us, before a closed door at the back of the hall. There was no answer to the man's somewhat ostentatious knock, and Lady de Vaux, after a moment's waiting, turned the handle of the door and swept into the room. I kept close behind her.

I can remember it now; I shall always remember it--the dim, peculiar light which tired our eyes the moment we had stepped inside. It was easy to discover the reason. The heavy velvet curtains were still drawn in front of the high windows, and on a distant table a lamp was only just flickering out. At first it seemed as though the great chamber was empty. There was no one to be seen, and it was not until we reached a deep recess at the further end that we discovered Paul.

At the sight of him we both stood still--Lady de Vaux moved in spite of her stately composure, and I spellbound. He was sitting before an oak writing desk covered with papers, and in the midst of them his head was resting upon his bowed arms. He neither spoke nor moved, nor seemed indeed in any way conscious of our approach. The window fronting him was, unlike all the others, uncurtained and wide open, and a flood of suns.h.i.+ne was streaming in upon his bowed head, and mingling with the sicklier light of the rest of the apartment. It was a strange and ghastly combination; not only in itself, but in the sort of halo it seemed to cast around his dark, bowed head. Ah! Paul, my love, my love! how my heart ached for you!

"He is asleep," Lady de Vaux said fearfully. "Paul!"

I held out my hand to check her. "Let him alone!" I whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "I will go away. Don't you see that he is resting."

She took no notice of me, nor of my backward movement, but leaned over towards him as though to touch his arm. A sort of fury came upon me.

I knew that the Paul whom she was trying to recall from the land of unconsciousness would never again be the Paul of the past. Father Adrian had kept his word. The blow which he had threatened had fallen.

Paul! I looked at your dear bowed head until the tears dimmed my eyes, and the great room swam around me. For in my heart I felt that it was I who had brought this thing upon you; I who could have saved you by a single word.

"Paul, wake up! It is I, your mother."

I s.n.a.t.c.hed hold of her hand, and drew it away. "Let him rest," I cried, fiercely. "He will waken soon enough."

She looked at me in dignified astonishment. "How dare you presume to dictate to me in this fas.h.i.+on?" she exclaimed. "And why should he not be awakened? It is past mid-day. Paul!"

The crouching figure moved. He had heard, then! I held my breath, longing to escape, yet compelled to watch with fascinated eyes the rising of that bowed head. There was no start, or hurried awakening, if indeed he had been asleep at all. He simply turned his head, and looked at us with surprise, without any emotion of any sort.

I hid my face in my hands, and sobbed. Lady de Vaux was silent with horror. For there was something inexpressibly, awfully moving in the silent, pa.s.sionless sorrow which seemed written with an unsparing hand onto that white face. All combativeness had pa.s.sed away, but resignation had not come to take its place. And, apart from the outward evidence of the agony through which he had pa.s.sed, its physical traces were very apparent. Deep, black lines seemed furrowed into the flesh under his dull eyes, and the firm, handsome mouth was drawn and quivering. It was such a change as might have been worked by some deadly Eastern poison, eating away the corporal frame. To think that it had worked from within--that burning and terrible sorrow had caused it--was horrible.

Lady de Vaux was the first to speak. The icy composure of her manner was gone. Her voice was strained and anxious.

"Why, Paul, what have you been doing here all night? Do you know that it is past mid-day? Has anything happened? Are you ill?"

"Ill? No; I think not." He seemed to be speaking from a great way off. Nothing about him was natural. He was on his feet, but I expected every moment to see him reel and fall.

"But, Paul, what have you been doing--writing?" Lady de Vaux asked anxiously. Then, as though warned by his strange appearance, she checked his mechanical answer. "Never mind, never mind! You are tired, I can see. Won't you go and lie down for awhile? Come, I will go with you."

She had forgotten me, until she found that he paid no heed to her words; that his eyes travelled past her, and remained fixed upon me.

Then she turned swiftly upon me.

"You had better go," she said in a low, imperative whisper. "Ask them to show you into my room, and wait there for me."

I took no notice of her. My eyes were fixed upon Paul. I felt that he was going to speak to me; and he did.

"Adrea! Adrea!" he said slowly. "How is it that you are here? You did not come with him, did you? No! no! of course not. And yet, how is it that you are here?"

"I feared Father Adrian and his threats, and I was alone, quite alone, and--and I could bear it no longer. I was obliged to come."

His face grew a trifle more animated; I could see that he was recovering. The dumb stupor which had held his features rigid was pa.s.sing away.

"Yes, I am glad you are here. I want to talk to you. I had some important business which kept me writing here all night, and must have fallen asleep. I will go and change my things and come back to you."

He looked down at his crumpled s.h.i.+rt-front and disordered tie, and then moved slowly towards the door. Lady de Vaux hesitated for a moment, with a dark frown upon her face, and then laid her hand upon his arm.

"Your explanation should surely have been addressed to me, Paul," she said coldly. "Who is this young lady?"

"She is a friend of mine," Paul answered, "and----"

"I heard you call her 'Adrea,'" Lady de Vaux continued. "May I ask whether it is indeed Miss Adrea Kiros?"

"I have told you that is my name, Lady de Vaux," I answered promptly.

"You have possibly heard of me."

Lady de Vaux turned her back upon both of us, and left the room without a word.

CHAPTER XXIX

"ADREA'S DIARY"

"Love, blossoming in the roses, holds a dagger in her hands."

We were alone, Paul and I, in that great, solemn room, full of pale, phantom-like lights and quivering shadows. He was standing a few yards away from me, with his head half averted, and his eyes full of a great, hopeless despair. In silence I approached him, and took his death-cold hand in mine.

"It is no matter," I whispered; "I do not care for your mother!

Her words are nothing! I will not leave you--not till you tell me everything."

"Everything!" He echoed the word, and looked at me helplessly.

"Everything! Tell you everything!"

Suddenly there was a change. The numbed, helpless look left his face, and his features were relaxed. He was himself again; a strong, brave man, only shaken by the storm.