CHAPTER XXVIII
"ADREA'S DIARY"
"Spring blossoms on the land, and anguish in the heart."
To-night I shall close my diary for a long while, very likely forever. I am heartily thankful for it. These last few days have been sowretched, full of so much miserable uncertainty, that their record hasgrown to be a wearisome task. It has ceased to give me any relief; ithas become nothing but a burden. How could it be otherwise, whenthe days themselves have been so grey, so full of shadows anddisappointments? You have been a relief to me sometimes, my silentfriend; but what lies before me is not to be recorded in your pages.
Twenty-four hours have passed since I made my last entry. It was nightthen, and it is night now. All that lies between seems phantasmagoricand unreal. I ask myself whether it has really happened; and whenthe day's events rise slowly up before my memory, I almost fail torecognise them. Yet I have but to close my eyes and lean back, and itall crowds in upon me. In the future I know that this day will standout clear and distinct from all the rest of my life.
It was early in the morning when I started for Vaux Abbey across themoorland road. So long have I seen this bleak county wrapped in mistsand sea fogs that to-day I scarcely recognised it. There was a clearblue sky, streaked with little patches of white, wind-swept clouds,and the sun--actually the sun--was shining brilliantly. How it changedeverything! The grey, hungry sea, which I had never been able to lookupon without a shudder, seemed to have caught the colouring of thesky, and a million little scintillations of glistening light rose andfell at every moment on the bosom of the tiny, white-crested waves.And the moorland, too, was transformed. Its bare, rock-strewnundulations lost all their harshness of outline and colouring in thesweet, glancing sunlight; and afar off the line of rugged hills, whichI had never seen save with their heads wreathed in a cloud of whitemist, stood out clear and distinct against the distant horizon, tingedwith a dim, purple light.
Why did it all make such an impression upon me, I wonder? I cannotsay; but nothing in all my life ever struck so deep a note of sadness.I feel it now; I shall feel it always. There was madness in my bloodwhen I started, I think; but before my walk was half over, it hadincreased a thousand-fold. Every little sound and sight seemed toaggravate it. I missed the dull sighing and moaning of the wind in theblack copses--a sound which had somehow endeared itself to me duringthese last few days--and in its place the soft murmur of what seemedalmost a summer breeze amongst the tall pine-tops stirred in me anunreasonable anger. The face of the whole country seemed smiling atme. What mockery! What right had the earth to rejoice when grief andanxiety were driving me mad? For it was indeed a sort of madness whichlaid hold of me. I clenched my hands, and muttered to myself as Iwalked swiftly along. The road was deserted, and I met no one. Oncea dark bush away off seemed to me to take a man's shape. I stoppedshort. Could it be Father Adrian returning to the Abbey? I felt mybreath come quickly as I stood there waiting. The idea excited me.I found myself trembling with a passion that was not of fear, and,suddenly stooping down, I picked up a sharp flint, and grasped ittightly between my fingers. Then I moved stealthily on, and the thingdefined itself. After all, it was only a bush, not a man at all. Itossed my weapon on one side with a strained little laugh. The senseof excitement passed away, but it left an odd flavour behind it. Ifound myself deliberating as to what I had meant to do with thatstone if it had really been Father Adrian, and if I had succeeded instealing silently up behind him. Perhaps I scarcely realized myfull intention, but a dim sense of it remained with me. It was thedevelopment of a new instinct born of this swiftly-built-up hatred.I have my reasons for writing of this. I wish to distinctly mark theperiod of the event which I have just recorded.
There was no fear of my mistaking the way to Vaux Abbey, for it stoodupon a hill, and had been within sight ever since I had taken themoorland road. I was unused to walking, and the road was rough; but Ido not remember once feeling in any way fatigued or footsore, althoughone of my shoes had a great hole in it, and was almost in strips. Mymind was too full of the end of my journey to be conscious of suchthings. I had only one fear: that I should be too late; that somehowthe threatened blow would have been struck, and Paul in some wayremoved from me. It was fear more than hope which buoyed me up. Butanyhow, it answered its purpose, for in less than three hours after Ihad started I found myself before the great hall-door of Vaux Abbey.
A deep, hollow peal followed my nerveless little pull at the chainbell-rope, and almost immediately the door opened. A grey-hairedmanservant, in black livery, looked down at me in surprise.
"I wish to see Mr. Paul de Vaux!" I announced. "Is he in?"
The man hesitated. "I believe so, miss," he said doubtfully; "but heis engaged on some important business, and has given orders that noone is to disturb him. Lady de Vaux is at home."
"My business is with Mr. Paul de Vaux," I said. "Will you tell himthat it is some one from the Hermitage, and I think that he will seeme."
The man did not answer me in words, but motioned me to follow him. Mycourage was failing me a little, and I was certainly inclined not tolook around, but nevertheless the place made an impression on me. Thegreat hall which we were crossing was like the interior of some richlydecorated church. The ceiling was dome-shaped, and the base of thecupola was surrounded by stained glass windows, which cast a dim lightdown upon the interior. The white stone flags were here and therecovered by Eastern rugs, thrown carelessly down, but for the most partwere bare, and as slippery as marble; so slippery that once I nearlyfell, and only saved myself by catching at an oak bench. Just as Irecovered myself, I saw the figure of a woman descending the hugedouble oak staircase which terminated opposite to us. My guide pausedwhen he saw her, and I was also compelled to.
"Here is her ladyship!" he said.
I watched her slowly advance toward us, a fine, stately old lady,carrying herself with unmistakable dignity, although she was forcedto lean a good deal on a gold-mounted, black ebony stick. And, as Ilooked at her, I thought of Father Adrian's words: "I can break hismother's heart;" and I leant eagerly forward in the chastened twilightwith my eyes anxiously fixed upon her. She came slowly on towards me,and when she was a few yards away she spoke to the servant.
"Does this young lady wish to see me, Richards?"
She spoke to the man, but she looked towards me, and evidentlyexpected me to address her. For a moment I could not. A little gaspof relief had quivered upon my lips, and my eyes were suddenly dim. Tolook into Lady de Vaux's face, stately, calm, and kind, seemed likea strong antidote to my fears of Father Adrian. It was quite evidentthat nothing unexpected had happened during the last twenty-fourhours. Father Adrian's threat had been an empty one. In the presenceof Lady de Vaux, the fears which had been consuming me departed. Shewas so unmoved, so indifferent. How could a little Jesuit priest hurtsuch a one as she?
The thoughts chased one another quickly through my mind; but still myhesitation was apparent. After waiting in vain for me to speak, theservant who was conducting me answered Lady de Vaux's question.
"The young lady asked for Mr. Paul, your ladyship. It was doubtfulwhether I might disturb him."
"For Mr. Paul?" Lady de Vaux looked at me, leaning forward onher stick, and with her eyebrows a little uplifted. "My son isparticularly engaged, and has left word that he does not wish to bedisturbed for several hours," she said. "If you have anything to sayto him, you can say it to me. I am Lady de Vaux!"
"Thank you! I must wait and see your son," I answered.
She moved away with a slight and distinctly haughty inclination of herhead. "You can show this young lady into the waiting-room, Richards,"she directed. "Take her name in to Mr. Paul when he rings. By thebye," she added, pausing in her slow progress over the hall, andlooking me once more steadily in the face, "what is your name?"
"You would not know it," I answered. "I have come from theHermitage--near here."
She did not speak to me for a moment, but I saw the colour rising intoher cheeks
, and her fingers were trembling. It was foolish of me tohave told her. A glance into her face showed me that she had heardsomething, she knew something of me. She was looking at me as at someobject 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'smother. 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 infamousthat you should have followed him here--to his own house. Be so goodas to quit it at once. Mr. de Vaux shall be informed later of thehonour of your visit, and if he has anything to say to you, he canfind other means save an interview under this roof. Richards!"
She pointed across the hall towards the entrance. I stood quite still,struggling with my passion. If she had been any other woman, I shouldhave struck her across the lips.
"I shall remain!" I answered. "I am here to see Mr. de Vaux; I shallsee him! Don't dare to touch me, man!" I added fiercely, as Richardslaid 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 Vauxsuddenly changed her tactics.
"Follow me!" she said, sweeping round, with an imperious gesture. "Youshall see my son! You shall hear from his own lips what he thinks ofthis--intrusion. Perhaps you will leave the Abbey at his bidding, ifnot at mine."
I followed her in silence, carrying myself proudly, but withfast-beating heart. What would he think of my coming? Would he callit an intrusion? At any rate he could not be pleased; for even if hereceived me kindly, he would have his mother's anger to face. Yet, howcould I have kept away?
We halted, all three of us, before a closed door at the back of thehall. There was no answer to the man's somewhat ostentatious knock,and Lady de Vaux, after a moment's waiting, turned the handle of thedoor and swept into the room. I kept close behind her.
I can remember it now; I shall always remember it--the dim, peculiarlight which tired our eyes the moment we had stepped inside. It waseasy to discover the reason. The heavy velvet curtains were stilldrawn in front of the high windows, and on a distant table a lampwas only just flickering out. At first it seemed as though the greatchamber was empty. There was no one to be seen, and it was not untilwe 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 spiteof her stately composure, and I spellbound. He was sitting before anoak writing desk covered with papers, and in the midst of them hishead was resting upon his bowed arms. He neither spoke nor moved,nor seemed indeed in any way conscious of our approach. The windowfronting him was, unlike all the others, uncurtained and wide open,and a flood of sunshine was streaming in upon his bowed head, andmingling with the sicklier light of the rest of the apartment. It wasa strange and ghastly combination; not only in itself, but in the sortof halo it seemed to cast around his dark, bowed head. Ah! Paul, mylove, 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 whisperedhoarsely. "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 overtowards 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 ofunconsciousness would never again be the Paul of the past. FatherAdrian 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 wasI who had brought this thing upon you; I who could have saved you by asingle word.
"Paul, wake up! It is I, your mother."
I snatched hold of her hand, and drew it away. "Let him rest," Icried, fiercely. "He will waken soon enough."
She looked at me in dignified astonishment. "How dare you presume todictate to me in this fashion?" she exclaimed. "And why should he notbe 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 therising of that bowed head. There was no start, or hurried awakening,if indeed he had been asleep at all. He simply turned his head, andlooked at us with surprise, without any emotion of any sort.
I hid my face in my hands, and sobbed. Lady de Vaux was silent withhorror. For there was something inexpressibly, awfully moving in thesilent, passionless sorrow which seemed written with an unsparinghand onto that white face. All combativeness had passed away, butresignation had not come to take its place. And, apart from theoutward evidence of the agony through which he had passed, itsphysical traces were very apparent. Deep, black lines seemed furrowedinto the flesh under his dull eyes, and the firm, handsome mouth wasdrawn and quivering. It was such a change as might have been worked bysome deadly Eastern poison, eating away the corporal frame. To thinkthat it had worked from within--that burning and terrible sorrow hadcaused it--was horrible.
Lady de Vaux was the first to speak. The icy composure of her mannerwas gone. Her voice was strained and anxious.
"Why, Paul, what have you been doing here all night? Do you know thatit is past mid-day? Has anything happened? Are you ill?"
"Ill? No; I think not." He seemed to be speaking from a great wayoff. Nothing about him was natural. He was on his feet, but I expectedevery moment to see him reel and fall.
"But, Paul, what have you been doing--writing?" Lady de Vaux askedanxiously. Then, as though warned by his strange appearance, shechecked 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 withyou."
She had forgotten me, until she found that he paid no heed to herwords; 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 themto 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 hewas going to speak to me; and he did.
"Adrea! Adrea!" he said slowly. "How is it that you are here? You didnot come with him, did you? No! no! of course not. And yet, how is itthat 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 wasrecovering. The dumb stupor which had held his features rigid waspassing away.
"Yes, I am glad you are here. I want to talk to you. I had someimportant business which kept me writing here all night, and must havefallen asleep. I will go and change my things and come back to you."
He looked down at his crumpled shirt-front and disordered tie, andthen moved slowly towards the door. Lady de Vaux hesitated for amoment, with a dark frown upon her face, and then laid her hand uponhis arm.
"Your explanation should surely have been addressed to me, Paul," shesaid 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 askwhether 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 roomwithout a word.