E. Phillips Oppenheim

"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.

"Adrea, forgive me! Did you think that I was going mad? I have had a terrible shock, and I have been up all night listening to a story which brings great suffering and misery upon me!"

His eyes had suddenly a far-away look in them, so sad that I felt the tears rush into mine. I pressed his hand to let him know that I understood; but I kept my face turned from him. Ah! love is a strange thing, indeed! If I had not cared, Paul, I could have sympathised with you so nicely, and made so many pretty speeches. But I love you, and it made me feel very strange and solemn. I had nothing to say; my heart was too full. Did you understand, I wonder? Will you ever understand? Paul, my love! my love! It is so sweet to say that over and over to myself in this dark chamber, where there is no one to hear me, or to see me looking so foolish. You make me feel so different, Paul! That is because you yourself are so different from all the men I know; from all the men I have ever seen.

We stood there, quite silent, for some moments. Then he drew a quick, stifled breath, and caught hold of my hands. "I cannot breathe in this place," he said, looking half fearfully around; "the very air seems tainted with that horrible story, and its ghosts are lurking in every corner!"

"Let me draw the curtains," I whispered. "The sunlight will banish them. You are dazed."

He held my hand tightly, and drew me towards the window. "Never mind the curtains! We will go out; out over the moor."

He was feverishly impatient to be gone, but I held him back. "Your clothes!" I reminded him. "And you have no hat!"

He looked down doubtfully at his disordered evening dress, and then released my hands. "Wait for me, here," he begged. "Promise that you will not go away; that nothing shall make you go."

I promised.

"See! I shall lock the door," he continued, as he reached the threshold. "No one can come in and disturb you!"

"Please to have some tea and a bath!" I begged. "I do not mind waiting. You will be ill, if you do not mind."

He was gone about half an hour. Once, some one came and tried the door, but I took no notice. At last I heard the key turn in the lock, and he entered. "Did you think that I was long?" he asked, coming up to me with a smile.

I shook my head; my eyes were full of tears, and there was a lump in my throat. I could not speak. He had changed all his clothes, and was carefully dressed in a brown tweed shooting suit and gaiters, but the correctness and order of his external appearance seemed only to emphasize the ravages which one single night's suffering had wrought upon his strong, handsome face. Hard, cruel lines had furrowed their way across his forehead, and under his eyes were deep black marks. His bronze cheeks were white and sunken, and a bright red spot burned on one of them. But it was a change of which the details could give no idea. His face had caught the inflection of his inward agony, and retained it. It was there, if not for the world to see, at any rate terribly evident to me, to those who loved him.

He was quite calm now, however. It was as though the fires of suffering had burnt themselves out, leaving behind them a silent, charred desolation. He took my arm, and together we left the room, passing through the high French windows and along an open terrace until we reached the gardens. We turned down a broad walk bordered by high yew hedges, at the bottom of which was a little gate leading into the park. The air was fragrant with the perfume of violets, and early stocks and hyacinths, mingled every now and then with a more delicate perfume from the greenhouses on the other side of the red-brick wall. How beautiful it all seemed, in that sweet, dancing sunlight!—the songs of the birds, the blossoming fruit-trees, and pink-budded chestnuts, the scents which floated about on the soft west breeze, and the constant humming of bees and other winged insects. Only in England could there have been so sudden a change from the grey mists and leaden skies of yesterday. Even in that moment of extreme tension I could not help an exclamation of admiration as we came to an end of the gravelled walk, and Paul held open for me a little iron gate.

"How beautiful your home is!" I cried. "How you must love it!"

A look almost of agony passed across his face. It came and went in a moment. "Yes! I love it!" he answered, "but it is not my home. Henceforth I have no home. I may well be thankful that I have even a name!"

I looked at him, waiting for an explanation, but he walked on in silence. It was not until we were half-way across the park that I spoke. "I do not understand!" I said softly. "Will you not tell me something of your trouble?"

"I would that I could, Adrea!" he answered. His voice was so gentle, and yet his face was so stern. "But no, I cannot. It is a secret. It is only a blotted page of our family history made clear to me. But it alters everything!"

"Does it make you poorer?" I asked falteringly.

He looked down in my eyes bravely; but his voice shook as he answered: "If it be true—as I scarcely doubt—it takes from me everything: my money, my home, my future. It brings everything but disgrace upon us, Adrea, and even that must touch our name. Even though the living are spared, the memory of the dead must suffer!"

I felt the tears flowing down my cheeks, but I dashed them away. "I do not understand. I——"

"Of course not! and I cannot explain. Yet it is simple! I have an elder brother, of whom I never heard, to whom everything belongs. I am going to find him!"

"Where is he?" I cried. He shook his head. "That I cannot tell. Father Adrian knows, but he will not speak. I am going in search of him myself. I am going to Cruta!"

To Cruta! The name rang in my ears, and earth and trees and sky seemed reeling before me. Then I clutched him by the arm, and cried out hysterically,—

"You shall not go there! The place is horrible! You shall not go!"

He stood still, and looked at me in wonderment. We had crossed the park now, and were on the edge of the bare moorland. His figure alone stood out in solitary relief against the sky. I was half mad with fear and dismay. He did not understand. How could he?

"It is at Cruta that I can learn all that there still is for me to learn," he said. "I shall start for there to-night."

Oh! it was horrible! What could I say? How was I to stop him? How much dare I tell? I caught hold of his hands, and held them tightly.

"Paul, I want to ask you something! When you heard from the convent that relations had claimed me and taken me away, and then, a year afterwards, you found me there—in London—a dancing girl, what did you think?"

He answered me at once and without hesitation. "I thought that you had misled the Lady Superior,—that you were weary of your life there, and had run away."

I shook my head. "I knew that you thought so and I never denied it. But it was not so! I was not unhappy at the convent, but one day I was sent for and bidden prepare for a journey. Some relatives had sent for me, and I was to go. And to where? It was to Cruta! Paul, it was old Count of Cruta who claimed me. I cannot tell you anything of the time I spent there, shut up in the gloomy castle; it was horrible beyond all words. Even the memory of it makes me shudder. If only I could tell you! But I must not! I can tell you this, though. In less than six months I felt myself going mad; and one night I stole down to the beach and unfastened a small boat and rowed away, scarcely caring what happened to me so that I could but escape from that awful place. It was a desperate chance. I was out all day without food or water, rowing and drifting until Cruta lay like a speck in the distance. Then by chance I was picked up by an English yacht, and they brought me to London. I arrived there helpless and miserable, and, ah! how lonely! I dared not go back to the convent for fear I should be sent back to Cruta. There was only you. I went to your bankers, and they told me that you were abroad—on the Continent. By chance they asked me there my name, and by chance again I told them it truthfully. They told me that they had money for me there. I had only to sign a receipt, and they gave me more than I asked for—ten times more. Then I remembered the address of an English girl who had been at the convent with me, and she gave me a home for a time. It was through her dancing mistress that I became—a dancing girl. I have told you this, Paul, because I want you to promise me not to go to Cruta. It is an evil place. They are mad there. Promise me!"

He looked at me gravely and very tenderly; but his tone was firm. "Adrea, it is necessary that I go there," he said. "I cannot rest for a moment until I know for certain whether a story which I have just been told is a true one. The proof lies in Cruta! It is no whim which is taking me there! I must go!"

My heart was sick with dread. Yet what could I do? I said nothing; only I covered my face with my hands and wept.

"Adrea, you are a foolish child!" he said, bending over me. "What is there for me to fear at Cruta? Look up and tell me!"

I shook my head. "You would not heed me," I answered sadly. "I dare not tell you. But there is one thing," I added hastily. "Will you do it for me simply because I ask you?"

"If it be possible, yes!"

I stood still on a little hillock, and faced him eagerly. "Then do not go to Cruta until to-morrow!" I begged. "It will make no difference to you."

"And what difference will it make to you, he asked, perplexed.

"Never mind! promise!" He hesitated for a moment, with a frown on his forehead, and his face turned seaward.

"Well! I will promise then!"

I caught hold of his hand, and held it tightly. "You are very good to me!" I said. "Allons! let us move onward!"

We had reached the Hermitage, and I had spoken scarcely a single word of comfort. An icy coldness seemed to have stolen into my heart. I had ceased to think of Paul, or of my love. There was something else; another passion which made me blind. Yet I let him come in with me, and yielded myself up for a while to the dream of loving and being loved by him. While I lay in his arms, with my head upon his shoulder, and every now and then felt his light, caressing touch upon my face,—why then, the world for me was bounded by that little room, and I had no thoughts which travelled outside it. But it lasted only while he was with me. When he stood up, and said that he must go, I did not seek to keep him.

"Shall I come again?" he asked, as we stood hand in hand before the door.

I shook my head. "Not to-night love! I shall be better alone. I am weary, and I have my things to collect."

I knew he would be surprised. He withdrew his hand, and manlike, was almost angry. "I forgot. You will leave here, I suppose!"

I shrugged my shoulders. "What should keep me, Paul? I could not live here alone. Every stone and tree would be full of barren memories. No! to-morrow I go to London. I have sent all the servants away to-day, except Gomez. You will be with me early!"

"I will be outside your window before you are up!" he promised with a touch of gaiety in his tone. "See that Gomez has breakfast for two!"

He passed down the avenue, and out of sight. I closed the door with a little shudder and turned round. Gomez was by my side. Through the gloom I could see that his dark eyes were full of fire, and his olive features were set and grim.

"What do you want Gomez?" I asked quickly.

He drew close to my side. "The priest," he muttered, "has he—has he dared——"

His breath was coming quickly. He spoke English but slightly, and in the excitement the words seemed to stick in his throat.

I interrupted him. "He has told Mr. de Vaux some strange, horrible story. What do you know of it?"

"All! All! All! I was there—in the chamber! My master's words to him—I heard them all. He has told, then! He has threatened! Oh! if only I had known when he was here!"

The man's fierce face and gesture told their own tale. I beckoned him to follow me into the room where Paul and I had been sitting, and closed the door.

"You were Martin de Vaux's faithful servant," I said. "Do you want to see his son driven from his home and robbed of his lands?"

The man moved his lips, making a curious sound, and drew a long, gurgling breath. He was shaking with excitement.

"Who should do it?"

"The priest!" I answered softly.

"Because of the words, the story of which my master spoke to him at his death in the monastery?"

"Yes! because of that."

"Ah!" He stole up to my side with a noiseless, animal movement, and whispered in my ear. His eyes were burning; his face was full of evil meaning. Yet I did not shrink from him. I welcomed him with a smile. He whispered into my ear. It was like the hiss of a snake; but I smiled. I whispered back again. He nodded. Ah! the way before me was growing clear at last. Was it not fate that had brought Gomez ready to my hand? Ay! fate! A good fate! A kind fate! We stood close together in that dimly lit room; and though we were alone in the house, we spoke in whispers to one another. When I moved to the door, Gomez followed me.

I came down in ten minutes, clad in a long, dark cloak, with a small hat and a thick veil. I took a stick from the rack, and there was something else in my deep pocket.

"Alone!" he whispered, as I moved towards the door.

"Alone!" I answered. "Make a good fire in the drawing-room, and let there be food and wine there."

"For two?" he asked with an evil smile.

"For two!"