CHAPTER VI
"AN ASHEN GREY DELIGHT"
"Mr. de Vaux!"
Paul turned quickly around in his saddle towards the young lady whohad addressed him. He looked into a fair, thoughtful face, whosegeneral amiability was discounted, just then, by a decided frown.
"I beg your pardon, Lady May! Didn't you say something just now?"
"Didn't I say something just now!" she repeated, with fine scorn."Upon my word, Mr. de Vaux, I think that you must have left your witsin London! What is the matter with you?"
"The matter! Why, nothing! I'm sorry----"
"Oh! pray don't apologise!" she interrupted hastily. "I think I'llride on and catch papa up."
He laid his hand upon her rein. "Please don't, Lady May," he begged."I know I've been inattentive! I'm very sorry--really I am. Let me tryand make up for it!"
She looked into his face, and she was mollified. He was evidently inearnest.
"Oh! very well," she said. "You mustn't think that I complainedwithout due cause, though, for I spoke to you three times before youanswered me. Oh, it's all right," she went on, as he commenced toframe another apology. "I don't mind now, but I really should like toknow what is the matter with you. You have ridden all day like a manwho valued neither his own life nor his horse's. Some of your jumpswere simply reckless! I have heard other people say so, too! I likebold riding, but there is a limit; and though I've ridden two houndssince papa gave me my first pony, I've never seen any one try to jumpAnnisforth brook below the bridge, before,--and don't want to again,"she added, with a little shudder. "I know you ride fine horses, butyou are not generally foolhardy. I saw your dark bay mare being takenhome at Colbourne Spinneys, and I don't think she'll be fit to rideagain this season. Old Harrison had tears in his eyes when he sawher!"
"Harrison is an old woman about horses! I never touched Meg with thespurs. She was as fresh as paint, and there was no holding her."
"You can't deceive me or yourself," Lady May continued calmly. "Youhave been riding for a fall, all day, and you may think yourselfpretty fortunate that you haven't a broken neck. It seemed as thoughyou were trying for one. And now that you haven't succeeded, you havenearly ridden ten miles alone with me, and scarcely opened your mouth.You are very provoking, Mr. de Vaux. I wish I had ridden home withCaptain Fellowes."
He was on the point of reminding her that the arrangement had not beenof his making, but he checked himself. After all, Lady May had somegrounds for her irritation. They had been friends since they had beenchildren, and Paul knew that every one expected him, someday, to askLady May to become the mistress of Vaux Abbey. There had been a littlemore than intimacy even in their friendship up till twelve months ago;and Paul had certain recollections of their last interview, which hadmade him more than once a trifle uneasy. As a matter of fact, Lady Mayhad quite made up her mind that Paul de Vaux would certainly ask herto marry him some time; and she had, on his account, refused two veryeligible offers. Their people desired it, and, in her heart, Lady Maywas conscious that Paul was a little more to her than any other mancould be. So she felt herself at first, aggrieved by his long silenceduring their ride home, which, to tell the truth, she had carefullyplanned for, and afterwards was just on the verge of being seriouslyoffended.
"Don't be angry with me, please," he said quietly. "You are right;something is the matter. I am worried."
She was sympathetic and kindly at once. "I'm so sorry. Please forgiveme for bothering you. You used to tell me your troubles once! Are wetoo old now?"
He shook his head. "I hope we never shall be," he said. "I can't tellyou all, but one thing is this. I had a letter from a man in townto-day--a man whom I can trust--about Arthur. You know what animpressionable, sensitive boy he is. Anyone who once obtains aninfluence over him can do nearly what they like with him. He seems--somy correspondent tells me--to have become completely fascinated witha--a--dancer--Adrea Kiros I think she calls herself."
"I have heard of her," Lady May murmured. "She dances only at privatehouses, I think. Everyone says she is wonderful."
"She is--wonderful," Paul said slowly. He was about to say more, buthe checked himself. Lady May was watching him, and he knew that hecould not speak of Adrea Kiros unmoved. So he went on:--
"I am not complaining, for after all it is perfectly natural, butArthur is certainly his mother's favorite son. You know how strict sheis in some of her notions; so you can understand what a shock it wouldbe to her if any rumors were to reach her ears. It would be a terribleblow to her. But, apart from that, the thing is serious in itself.Arthur was always delicate, and Cis--my friend--speaks of him aslooking ghastly ill. The girl is probably only amusing herself,although she seems to have given him plenty of encouragement. But Iknow Ad--Adrea Kiros. She is no ordinary girl of her class. In thewhole world I doubt if there breathes a more dangerous woman," hewound up, in a low tone.
Lady May was quite sympathetic now, but a little mystified. "I am sosorry," she said softly. "Ought you not to go to London, and try whatyour influence can do with him? That is disinterested advice, at anyrate," she added, with a little laugh, "for I don't want you to go.But Arthur always seemed to look up to you so! You might be able toget him away. Don't you think it would be a good thing if you couldget him down here? We would make it as lively as possible for him upat the Castle; and, I don't know how your preserves are, but ourshave been scarcely touched yet. Between the two of us, at any rate, hecould have as much shooting as he liked. And I would ask the Fergussongirls to come and stay," she went on, getting more and more in lovewith her plan. "He was so much taken with Amy, you know, when theywere down here before. We could get up some theatricals, or something,and have quite a good time. What do you think of my plan?"
He was thankful for her long speech, for it had enabled him to getover the slight agitation which the thought of that unavoidablejourney to London had called up in him. From the first he had feltthat it was his duty to go. He had received this disquieting lettertwo days ago, and since then he had telegraphed twice and written toArthur without getting any reply. Yes, he must go. And mingled withthat reluctance and nameless apprehension which he felt at the thoughtof returning into her neighbourhood, he was acutely conscious, all thetime, of a certain vague but sweet pleasure at the thought that fatehad so ordained it. Perhaps it would be necessary for him to seeher! A thrill of pleasure passed through him at the thought, followedalmost immediately by a reaction of keen and bitter disgust withhimself. He set his teeth, and quite unconsciously dug his spurs intohis horse's sides, with the natural result that she reared up, almostunseating him, and then plunged forward. He had to gallop her alongthe road for a few hundred yards, and then turned round and rejoinedLady May. Fortunately she had not seen the commencement of the littleepisode.
"Whatever was the matter?" she asked.
"I fancy my spurs must have pricked her," he said apologetically. "Iwas riding quite carelessly."
"Well, please don't let it happen again," she begged, eyeing hismare's flanks suspiciously. "Dandy is very tired now, and is generallygood tempered; but I don't think he would stand much of that sort ofthing."
"I'm really very sorry," he said.
She nodded. "All right. And now, what do you think of my plan? Are yougoing to London?"
"I think your plan is a very good one indeed, and I shall run upto town to-morrow," he said. "It is very good of you to be sointerested."
He looked down into her face, a fair, sweet face it was, and thenglanced away over the bare moorland which stretched on one side ofthem. It was a late November afternoon, and a faint yellow lightwas lingering in the west, where the sun had just set, colouring theclouds which stretched across the sky in long, level streaks. A fresh,healthy breeze, strong with the perfume of the sea, blew in theirteeth, and afar off they could hear the waves dashing against theiron-bound line of northern cliffs. Inland, the country was morecultivated, but hilly and broken up with masses of lichen-coveredrock, and little clumps of thin fir trees. H
e knew the scenery sowell. The rugged, barren country, with its great stretches of moorlandand little patches of cultivated land, with its silent tarns, itsdesolation, and the ever-varying music of the sea, they all meant hometo him, and he loved them. It had always been so, and yet he felt itat that moment as he had never felt it before. The prospect of thatjourney to London was suddenly loathsome to him. The clear, physicalhealthfulness of his North-country home was triumphant, for themoment, over that other passion, which seemed to him then weak andartificial. It seemed to him also, looking down into Lady May'sfresh, thoughtful face, that she was somehow in accord with thesesurroundings,--that she was, indeed, the link, the safeguard whichshould bind him to them, the good influence which should keep him fitto breathe God's pure air, and to keep himself, as he had ever strivento, _sans peur et sans reproche_. Paul was no sentimentalist, in theidle and common sense of the word. In his attitude to every-daylife, he was essentially practical, sometimes perhaps a little toopractical. But he was capable of strong feeling, and it came then witha rush. He leant over towards Lady May, and laid his hand upon hersaddle.
"You are very kind and sympathetic," he said softly. "You are alwayskind."
She looked up at him, pleased, and with a soft look in her deep greyeyes. "You do not give me very much opportunity," she said quietly."At one time you used to tell me all your troubles; do you remember?"
"Yes! I remember," he answered, almost in a whisper, for they wereriding up a grass-grown avenue,--a back way to the Abbey,--and theirhorses' hoofs sank noiselessly into the soft turf. "Sometimes I havedared to hope that those days may come again."
She was silent, and her head was turned away lest he might see thetears trembling in her eyes. So they rode on for a moment or two,walking their horses in the dim twilight; she in the shadow of thegrey wall and the overhanging trees, and he very close to her, withhis hand still upon her saddle and his reins loose in his hand.
"If ever they did, if ever I was so fortunate," he went on in a lowtone, "you would find your office no sinecure. I have troubles, orrather, one trouble, and a great one, May."
She looked at him for a moment, her eyes full of sympathy. She dimlyremembered the time when strange stories were current in the county ofMartin de Vaux, and their echo had remained for years. It was not forher to inquire about them, and she never had done so. But that theirburden should have fallen upon Paul; it was hard! Her heart was sorewith the injustice of it. A woman is a swift and censorious judge ofany one who brings trouble upon the man she loves.
He was a little closer to her still; and suddenly the hand whichcarried her small whip felt itself grasped in strong fingers and heldtightly.
"May----"
It was not his fault this time that his mare stood still, and then ranbackwards, dislodging the topmost stones from the grey stone wall withher hind quarters, and then plunging violently. This time there wascause for her alarm. A tall, forbidding-looking figure stood in themiddle of the avenue, grasping the rein of Lady May's terrified horse.He had come out of the twilight so suddenly, and his attire wasso unusual, that Paul and Lady May were almost as surprised as theanimals. Paul's first instinct was one of anger.
"What the----"
He stopped short. The man who had startled them so had quieted LadyMay's horse with a few soothing words, and now stood out of the deepshade of the overhanging trees into the centre of the avenue. Evenhere his face was scarcely visible, but his figure and attire weresufficient. He wore the long robes and shovel hat of a Roman Catholicpriest.
Paul broke off in the middle of his exclamation, and the arm which hadbeen grasping his whip tightly sank nervelessly to his side. He wasthankful for the twilight, which concealed the grey shade which hadstolen into his face. Yet now that the blow had fallen, he was calmerthan he had been in some of his anticipations of it. For it hadindeed fallen! In the dusky twilight he had recognised the face of thepriest, changed though it was. He rode up, and addressed him.
"Have you lost your way?" he asked quietly. "This is a private road,and the gate at the other end is locked."
The priest looked at him steadily for a moment, and then drew on oneside, as though to let them pass.
"I am sorry that I startled your horses," he said, in a soft, pleasantvoice, marked with a strong foreign accent; "I was standing with myback to you, waiting for the moon to rise behind the ruins there,and the soft ground made your approach noiseless. And, if I amtrespassing, I am sorry. The steward at the Abbey yonder gave mepermission to wander anywhere around the ruins. I have perhapsexceeded a little his bounds."
"It is of no consequence," Paul said. "You find the ruins interesting,then?"
"Very."
"There are some pictures in the Abbey you might care to see--mostlymodern, but there is a Rubens and two Giorgiones."
The priest removed his hat. "I thank you, but I am only interested inecclesiastical art. These ruins are more to me than any pictures--savethose which Rome alone possesses," he added. "I spend all my eveningshere, and hope to be allowed to, for the short time that I remain inthe neighbourhood."
"You have my permission to come and go as you please. I am Mr. deVaux," Paul said, touching his horse with the whip. "Good-evening!"
"Good-evening, sir! Good-evening, madam! I thank you!"
They rode on down the avenue, Paul silent and absorbed, and making noattempt to pursue the conversation. At the bend of the lane he turnedround in his saddle. The priest was standing with his back to them,motionless and silent as a figure of stone.