CHAPTER V
"THE FAR-OFF MUTTERING OF THE STORM TO COME"
"Paul!"
Paul had walked unannounced into his mother's favourite littlesitting-room at Vaux Court, tired and travel-stained. She rose to herfeet 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 thematter. London was boring me, that's all, and I thought I'd run downhere 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 seeher eldest son. She was a fine, white-haired old lady, dignified andhandsome, but with very few soft lines about her comely face.
"I am delighted to see you, of course, Paul! The meet is at Dytchleywoods to-morrow! I hope you'll have a good day. Take your coat off. Ihave rung for some tea."
"Thanks! How bright and cheerful the fire seems. I walked from thestation, and it was miserably cold."
"Of course it was. I wish I had known you were coming. We have solittle work for the carriage horses."
"I did not make up my mind until half an hour before the trainstarted," Paul answered. "Dick Carruthers wanted me to run over toParis 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 acharm 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 allowedto see over the Abbey. I always give permission when you are away, andthere is no one stopping here."
Paul drank his tea, and stretched himself out in his low chair with anair of comfort.
"I am glad you let them see the place, mother," he said. "It is onlyright. What class of people do you have, as a rule? Clergymen andecclesiastical 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 thecloisters 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 facewas.
"Paul, are you ill?" she asked anxiously. "What is the matter withyou?"
"Nothing. I am only tired. It is a long journey, you know,--and thewalk 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'sface had frightened her.
"You look just as your poor father used to look sometimes," she saidsoftly. "It always frightened me. It was as though you had a painsomewhere, or had suddenly seen a ghost. You are sure you are well?"
"Quite, mother! You need have no fear. Arthur and I have yourconstitution, I think."
His tone was deeper, almost hollow. He still kept his chair backamongst the shadows. Mrs. de Vaux was only partially satisfied.
"I am afraid you have been keeping too late hours, Paul, or readingtoo much. Lord Westover was saying the other day that you were in avery 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. Thereis another class of people, though, whose headquarters are in London,far more cultured, and quite as exclusive, with whom association is afar greater distinction. I can go anywhere in the first set, becauseI am Paul de Vaux, of Vaux Abbey, and have forty thousand a year. Iam permitted to enter the other only as the author of an unfashionablenovel, which a few of them have thought leniently of. Which seem theworthier conditions?"
"I am answered, Paul. Of course, in a sense, you are right. I aman old woman, and the twaddle of a London drawing-room would fallstrangely upon my ears now, but I had my share of it before Arthur wasborn. If I were a man, I should want variety,--a little sauce,--andyou 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 wouldrefresh you. Shall I ring for Reynolds? I suppose you have not broughtyour own man?"
He stretched out his hand, and arrested her fingers upon the bell. "Ina moment, mother. It is so comfortable here, and I really think it ismy favourite room."
He looked round approvingly. It was a curious, hexagonal chamber, withan oak-beamed ceiling, curving into a dome. The walls were hung witha wonderful tapestry of a soft, rich colour, and every piece offurniture in the room was of the Louis Quinze period. There wasscarcely a single anachronism. The Martin de Vaux of forty years agohad been an artist, and a man of taste; and when he had brought homehis bride, a duke's daughter, he had spent a small fortune on thisapartment. Since then it had always been her favourite, and she wasalways glad to hear any one praise it.
"I seldom sit in any other," she remarked complacently. "The bluedrawing-room is open to-night, but that is because Lord and LadyWestover 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 lingeringhere, and it had nothing to do with May Westover's health. There wasa little information he wished to obtain without exciting his mother'scuriosity. 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 veryinteresting."
"You would think so if you saw some of them. They are a great deal tooinquisitive and familiar for Reynolds. He detests them. It is far moreinteresting to think of that Catholic priest who was here the otherday. He lingered about the place as though he had known it all hislife, and loved it; and, Reynolds says, he prayed for two hours in thechapel."
"Did you see him yourself?"
"Yes, in the distance. I did not notice him particularly. I wishedafterwards that I had. Reynolds' report of him pleased me so much. Idaresay he was conjuring up pictures of the days when the old Abbeywas full of grey-hooded monks, and the chapel was echoing day andnight to their solemn chants and prayers. Sometimes, in the gloaming,I can almost fancy myself that I see them kneeling in long rows inthose rich stalls, and hear the rustle of their gowns as they passslowly down the aisles. I think he must have found it sad to lingerabout in that beautiful chapel, so cold, and empty, and bare. Thatis why I like Roman Catholics. They have such a strong reverentialaffection for their places of worship, and take such a delight inadorning 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 onlyremember that he was tall. You seem very much interested in him. Nodoubt 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 Vauxturned to him.
"Reynolds, Mr. Paul is interested in hearing about the priest whospent so much time looking over the Abbey yesterday. Can you describehim?"
Reynolds set down the lamp and turned respectfully around. "Not verywell, I'm afraid, sir," he said doubtfully. "They all seem so muchalike, 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 anythingelse, except that he spoke in rather a foreign accent."
"You are sure he was a priest, I suppose," Paul asked carelessly. "Wehear so much now of impostors, and of things being stolen from placesof interest, that it makes one feel suspicious."
"I am quite sure he was no impostor, sir." Reynolds answeredconfidently. "He was too interested in the place for that. He k
new itshistory better than any one who has ever been here in my day. If hehad been one of those sneaking sort of fellows, looking about for whathe could get, he would have offered me money, and tried to get rid ofme 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 wasafraid of missing something worth seeing. Besides, he did not ask tocome into the house at all, not even to see the pictures. He spent allhis time in the ruins.
"That ends the matter, of course," Paul answered shortly. "There isnothing out there to attract pilferers. Sorry I said anything aboutit."
"He asked whether you spent much of your time here, and when you wouldbe down again, sir," Reynolds remarked, as he turned to quit the room.
Paul looked up, and then stood quite still for a moment withoutspeaking. A great fear had fallen upon him. Out of the shadows ofthe past, he seemed to see again that deathbed scene, and the tragedywhich had brought down the curtain upon two lives. Almost he couldfancy himself again upon his yacht, with the salt sea spray beatingagainst his face, and the white breakers hissing and seething aroundhim, as they made the dangerous passage towards that faint light,which flickered and gleamed in the distant monastery tower. They aresafe! They reach the land; they are hurried into that great, gloomybed-chamber, where chill draughts rustled ghost-like amongst theheavy, faded hangings, and the feeble candlelight left weird shadowsmoving across the floor and upon the walls. Again he heard therattling 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 picturehad formed itself in his memory, he saw the deed itself. He sawthe white, stricken face suddenly ablaze with that last effort ofpassionate life; he saw the outstretched arm, the line of fire, andthe sudden change in the countenance of the man who stood at the footof the bed. He saw the cool cynicism replaced by a spasm of ghastlyfear, and he heard the low, gurgling cry dying away into a faint moanof 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 hairand tear-stained face, clasping the dead body and glaring at every onein the room, with a storm of hatred and impotent fury in her flashingeyes. And that last recollection brought him, like a flash, backto the present,--brought him swift, bewildering memories of Adrea,shaking his heart, and bringing the hot colour streaming into hisface. He remembered where he was, and why he had left London. Heremembered, too, that he was not alone, and with a little start heawoke 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 withoutflinching.
"Paul," she said slowly, "you are in trouble."
He shook his head. "It is nothing, mother--nothing at all. I ought tobeg your pardon for letting my thoughts run away with me so."
She was too proud to ask him for his confidence, and at that momentthe rumbling of a gong reached them from the distant hall. Mrs. deVaux 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 Vauxstayed to speak to the housekeeper for a moment, and Paul ascendedthe broad staircase alone. On the first corridor he paused, standingbefore the deep-cushioned sill of a high-arched window, and gazing atthe ruined portion of the abbey. The air outside was frosty and clear,and though the moon as yet was only faintly yellow, every arch andcloister was clearly visible. Paul gazed down at them, as he had doneall his life, with reverent eyes. There was something almost awesomein the graceful yet bold outline, and in the great age of thoserugged, moss-grown pillars and arches, so ecclesiastical in theirshape and suggestiveness,--as indeed they might well be, for they werepractically the ruins of the old monastery chapel. But, as he looked,the expression in his eyes suddenly changed. A dark figure had passedslowly out from the shadow of the arches, and stood looking up towardsthe house, rigid, solemn, and motionless. Paul covered his face withhis hands, and sank down upon the cushioned window-sill.