A Monk of Cruta

  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 thetea-tray. "I believe you will find it in the library. Shall I send forit?"

  Paul shook his head. "It will keep," he answered lightly. "I can getit on my way upstairs. Have we anything left to tell, Lady May?"

  "I think not," Lady May replied, from the depths of an easy chairdrawn up to the fire. "Altogether it has been a glorious day, and sucha scent! I don't know when I have enjoyed anything so much."

  "Nor I!" Paul answered heartily. "The going was superb, and thatsecond fox took us over a grand stretch of country. Really, if ithadn't been for the walls here and there, we might have been inLeicestershire! May I have some more tea, mother?"

  Mrs. de Vaux stretched out her hand for his cup, and smiled gentlyat 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 soncome 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 alittle 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 wouldbe leaving her again soon. But to-day she had watched him ride up theavenue, with Lady May, and it seemed to her that there was a change inhis bearing--a change for the better; and, looking at him now, shewas sure of it. A faint glow was in his cheeks, and his eyes werebrighter. His manner, too, to Lady May pleased her more. He had riddenhome with her; from their conversation, they seemed to have beentogether almost all day; and there seemed to be a spirit of _boncomeradie_ between the two, as they talked over their doings, whichcertainly pointed to a good understanding. Altogether Mrs. de Vaux waspleased and hopeful.

  And, indeed, she had reason to be, for his long day in the opencountry with Lady May had been like a strong, sweet tonic to Paul. Forthe first time since his return to Vaux Abbey he had felt that atime might come when he would be able to escape altogether from thoselingering, bitter-sweet memories which were all that remained tohim now of Adrea. On the bare, windy moor, with the glow of physicalexercise and excitement coursing through his veins, and Lady May'spleasant voice in his ears, that little scene in the rose-lit chamberseemed for a moment very far away. Adrea, with her soft, passion-liteyes, and dusky, oriental face, her lithe, voluptuous figure and thefaint perfumes of her rustling draperies, seemed less to him then thana short while ago he could have believed possible. He could not thinkof that scene without a shudder,--it had left its mark in a certainway for ever,--but it was not so constantly present to him. He knewthat, for the first time, a woman had tempted him sorely. He knew,too, and he alone, how nearly he had yielded. His sudden passion, herstrange Eastern beauty, and the fascination which it had exercisedover him, together with the soft sensuousness of her surroundings,had formed a strong coalition, and to-day he recognised, for the firsttime, how much he owed his victory to the girl who was riding by hisside. Even in those breathless moments of hesitation he had found timeto consider that if he yielded to Adrea's pleading, he could neveragain take Lady May's hand, or meet her frank, open gaze. The purehealthfulness of life which had been so dear to him would be taintedfor ever. The moorland breezes of his northern home would never strikethe same chords in his nature again. All these recollections hadflashed across his mind at that critical moment, lending strength toresist and crush his passion. And to-day he had commenced to reap hisreward. To-day he had tasted once more the sweets of these things, andfound how dear they still were to him. He could still look into LadyMay's fair, pure face unshamed, and find all the old pleasure inlistening to her frank, girlish talk; and he could still bare hishead to the sweeping winds, and lift his face to the sun and gaze withsilent admiration at the faint, deepening colours in the westernsky, as Lady May and he rode homeward across the moor in the lateafternoon. All these joys would have been lost to him for ever,--theseand many others. Adrea could never have repaid him for their loss.

  So Paul, who had come home from London pale and silent, with the marksof a great struggle upon him, lay back in an arm chair and watchedthe firelight play upon Lady May's fair face with more than a passiveinterest. Mrs. de Vaux's cherished scheme had never been so near itsaccomplishment; for if she could have read Paul's thoughts she wouldhave known that he was thinking of Lady May more tenderly than he hadever done before. Meeting his steadfast, almost wistful, gaze, shebecame almost confused, and suddenly rising, she shook out the skirtsof her riding habit, and took up her hat and whip.

  "It has been such a delightful rest," she said, looking away from Pauland speaking to his mother. "I shall never forget how good that teatasted! But I really must go, Mrs. de Vaux! My poor animal is quitedone up, and I shall have to walk all the way home."

  "I don't know whether I did right," Paul said, rising, "but I sentyour groom straight on home with the mare, and ordered a broughamfor you. She has had a long day, and I thought it would be morecomfortable for you."

  She flashed a grateful glance at him. "How thoughtful and how kindyou are! Of course it will be nicer! I was beginning to feel a littleselfish, too, for keeping Betty out of her stable so long."

  "As a reward we will keep you a little longer," he remarked. "It isonly six o'clock!"

  She shook her head. "No I won't stop, thanks! There are some tiresomepeople coming to dine to-night, and I must go home. Good-bye, Lady deVaux!"

  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 alittle longer than was necessary.

  "Shall you be at home to-morrow afternoon, Lady May?" he askedquietly.

  She looked up at him for a moment, and then her eyes drooped, and herheart 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 rolldown the avenue. When it had disappeared, he turned back into thehall, and after a moment's hesitation, entered the library.

  It was a large, sombre-looking apartment, scarcely ever entered byanyone save Paul. The bookcases reached only half-way up the walls,the upper portion of which was hung with oil portraits, selected fromthe picture gallery. At the lower end of the room the shelves had beenbuilt out at right angles to the wall, lined with books, and in oneof the recesses so-formed--almost as large as an ordinary-sizedchamber--Paul had his writing-table surrounded by his favouritevolumes. 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 editionsof the early English dramatists, and the upper ones were given up topoetry, from Chaucer to Swinburne. The right-hand shelves were whollyFrench, from quaint volumes of troubadours' poetry to Alfred de Mussetand De Maupassant. It was here Paul spent most of his time when at theAbbey.

  The meet had been rather a long way off that morning, and he had leftbefore the arrival of the post-bag from the neighbouring town. Mrs. deVaux had distributed the letters, and the one she had spoken of layat the edge of the table. He stretched out his hand to take itup--without any presentiments, without any thought as to whom it mightbe from. An invitation, doubtless, or a begging letter he imagined, ashe caught sight of the large square envelope. But suddenly, before hisfingers had closed upon it, he started and stood quite still, leaningover the back of his chair. His heart was beating fast, and there wasa mist before his eyes--a mist through which he saw, as though ina dream, the walls of his library melt away, to be replaced by thedainty interior of that little room in Grey Street, with all the dimluxury of its soft colouring and adornment. He saw her too, thecentre of the picture--saw her as she seemed to him before that finalscene--saw her half-kneeling, half-crouching, before him, with herbeautiful dark eyes, yearning and
passionate, fixed upon his in mute,but wonderfully eloquent, pleading. Oh! it was folly, but it wassweet, marvellously sweet. Every nerve seemed thrilled with theexquisite pleasure of the memory so suddenly called up to him, and hislips quivered with the thought of what he might have said to her.The strange, voluptuous perfume which crept upwards from that letterseemed in a measure to have paralysed him. He stood there like a manentranced, with the dim firelight on one side and the low horned moonthrough the high window on his left, casting a strange, vivid lighton his pale face--paler even than usual against the scarlet of hishunting-coat. That letter! What could it contain? Was it a recall, ora fresh torrent of anger? He stood there quite still, leaning over theback 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 impulsewas one of anger, of shame, that he, a strong man, as he had deemedhimself, should have been so moved by a simple flood of memories.It seemed ignoble to him and a frown gathered on his forehead as hereached forward and picked up the letter. Yet his fingers trembled asthey 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 and let 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."