E. Phillips Oppenheim

"Spring blossoms on the land, and anguish in the heart."

To-night I shall close my diary for a long while, very likely for ever. I am heartily thankful for it. These last few days have been so wretched, full of so much miserable uncertainty, that their record has grown to be a wearisome task. It has ceased to give me any relief; it has become nothing but a burden. How could it be otherwise, when the days themselves have been so grey, so full of shadows and disappointments? You have been a relief to me sometimes, my silent friend; 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 night then, and it is night now. All that lies between seems phantasmagoric and unreal. I ask myself whether it has really happened; and when the day's events rise slowly up before my memory, I almost fail to recognise them. Yet I have but to close my eyes and lean back, and it all crowds in upon me. In the future I know that this day will stand out clear and distinct from all the rest of my life.

It was early in the morning when I started for Vaux Abbey across the moorland road. So long have I seen this bleak county wrapped in mists and sea fogs that to-day I scarcely recognised it. There was a clear blue sky, streaked with little patches of white, wind-swept clouds, and the sun—actually the sun—was shining brilliantly. How it changed everything! The grey, hungry sea, which I had never been able to look upon without a shudder, seemed to have caught the colouring of the sky, and a million little scintillations of glistening light rose and fell at every moment on the bosom of the tiny, white-crested waves. And the moorland, too, was transformed. Its bare, rock-strewn undulations lost all their harshness of outline and colouring in the sweet, glancing sunlight; and afar off the line of rugged hills, which I had never seen save with their heads wreathed in a cloud of white mist, stood out clear and distinct against the distant horizon, tinged with a dim, purple light.

Why did it all make such an impression upon me, I wonder? I cannot say; 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 blood when I started, I think; but before my walk was half over, it had increased a thousand-fold. Every little sound and sight seemed to aggravate it. I missed the dull sighing and moaning of the wind in the black copses—a sound which had somehow endeared itself to me during these last few days—and in its place the soft murmur of what seemed almost a summer breeze amongst the tall pine-tops stirred in me an unreasonable anger. The face of the whole country seemed smiling at me. What mockery! What right had the earth to rejoice when grief and anxiety were driving me mad? For it was indeed a sort of madness which laid hold of me. I clenched my hands, and muttered to myself as I walked swiftly along. The road was deserted, and I met no one. Once a dark bush away off seemed to me to take a man's shape. I stopped short. Could it be Father Adrian returning to the Abbey? I felt my breath 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 it tightly between my fingers. Then I moved stealthily on, and the thing defined itself. After all, it was only a bush, not a man at all. I tossed my weapon on one side with a strained little laugh. The sense of excitement passed away, but it left an odd flavour behind it. I found myself deliberating as to what I had meant to do with that stone if it had really been Father Adrian, and if I had succeeded in stealing silently up behind him. Perhaps I scarcely realized my full intention, but a dim sense of it remained with me. It was the development of a new instinct born of this swiftly-built-up hatred. I have my reasons for writing of this. I wish to distinctly mark the period of the event which I have just recorded.

There was no fear of my mistaking the way to Vaux Abbey, for it stood upon a hill, and had been within sight ever since I had taken the moorland road. I was unused to walking, and the road was rough; but I do not remember once feeling in any way fatigued or footsore, although one of my shoes had a great hole in it, and was almost in strips. My mind was too full of the end of my journey to be conscious of such things. I had only one fear: that I should be too late; that somehow the threatened blow would have been struck, and Paul in some way removed from me. It was fear more than hope which buoyed me up. But anyhow, it answered its purpose, for in less than three hours after I had started I found myself before the great hall-door of Vaux Abbey.

A deep, hollow peal followed my nerveless little pull at the chain bell-rope, and almost immediately the door opened. A grey-haired manservant, 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 he is engaged on some important business, and has given orders that no one is to disturb him. Lady de Vaux is at home."

"My business is with Mr. Paul de Vaux," I said. "Will you tell him that it is some one from the Hermitage, and I think that he will see me."

The man did not answer me in words, but motioned me to follow him. My courage was failing me a little, and I was certainly inclined not to look around, but nevertheless the place made an impression on me. The great hall which we were crossing was like the interior of some richly decorated church. The ceiling was dome-shaped, and the base of the cupola was surrounded by stained glass windows, which cast a dim light down upon the interior. The white stone flags were here and there covered by Eastern rugs, thrown carelessly down, but for the most part were bare, and as slippery as marble; so slippery that once I nearly fell, and only saved myself by catching at an oak bench. Just as I recovered myself, I saw the figure of a woman descending the huge double oak staircase which terminated opposite to us. My guide paused when 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 forced to lean a good deal on a gold-mounted, black ebony stick. And, as I looked at her, I thought of Father Adrian's words: "I can break his mother's heart;" and I leant eagerly forward in the chastened twilight with 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 evidently expected me to address her. For a moment I could not. A little gasp of relief had quivered upon my lips, and my eyes were suddenly dim. To look into Lady de Vaux's face, stately, calm, and kind, seemed like a strong antidote to my fears of Father Adrian. It was quite evident that nothing unexpected had happened during the last twenty-four hours. Father Adrian's threat had been an empty one. In the presence of Lady de Vaux, the fears which had been consuming me departed. She was so unmoved, so indifferent. How could a little Jesuit priest hurt such a one as she?

The thoughts chased one another quickly through my mind; but still my hesitation was apparent. After waiting in vain for me to speak, the servant who was conducting me answered Lady de Vaux's question.

"The young lady asked for Mr. Paul, your ladyship. It was doubtful whether I might disturb him."

"For Mr. Paul?" Lady de Vaux looked at me, leaning forward on her stick, and with her eyebrows a little uplifted. "My son is particularly engaged, and has left word that he does not wish to be disturbed for several hours," she said. "If you have anything to say to 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 her head. "You can show this young lady into the waiting-room, Richards," she directed. "Take her name in to Mr. Paul when he rings. By the bye," she added, pausing in her slow progress over the hall, and looking me once more steadily in the face, "what is your name?"

"You would not know it," I answered. "I have come from the Hermitage—near here."

She did not speak to me for a moment, but I saw the colour rising into her cheeks, and her fingers were trembling. It was foolish of me to have told her. A glance into her face showed me that she had heard something, she knew something of me. She was looking at me as at some object 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's mother. 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 infamous that you should have followed him here—to his own house. Be so good as to quit it at once. Mr. de Vaux shall be informed later of the honour of your visit, and if he has anything to say to you, he can find 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 should have struck her across the lips.

"I shall remain!" I answered. "I am here to see Mr. de Vaux; I shall see him! Don't dare to touch me, man!" I added fiercely, as Richards laid 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 Vaux suddenly changed her tactics.

"Follow me!" she said, sweeping round, with an imperious gesture. "You shall see my son! You shall hear from his own lips what he thinks of this—intrusion. Perhaps you will leave the Abbey at his bidding, if not at mine."

I followed her in silence, carrying myself proudly, but with fast-beating heart. What would he think of my coming? Would he call it an intrusion? At any rate he could not be pleased; for even if he received me kindly, he would have his mother's anger to face. Yet, how could I have kept away?

We halted, all three of us, before a closed door at the back of the hall. There was no answer to the man's somewhat ostentatious knock, and Lady de Vaux, after a moment's waiting, turned the handle of the door and swept into the room. I kept close behind her.

I can remember it now; I shall always remember it—the dim, peculiar light which tired our eyes the moment we had stepped inside. It was easy to discover the reason. The heavy velvet curtains were still drawn in front of the high windows, and on a distant table a lamp was only just flickering out. At first it seemed as though the great chamber was empty. There was no one to be seen, and it was not until we 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 spite of her stately composure, and I spellbound. He was sitting before an oak writing desk covered with papers, and in the midst of them his head was resting upon his bowed arms. He neither spoke nor moved, nor seemed indeed in any way conscious of our approach. The window fronting him was, unlike all the others, uncurtained and wide open, and a flood of sunshine was streaming in upon his bowed head, and mingling with the sicklier light of the rest of the apartment. It was a strange and ghastly combination; not only in itself, but in the sort of halo it seemed to cast around his dark, bowed head. Ah! Paul, my love, 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 whispered hoarsely. "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 over towards 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 of unconsciousness would never again be the Paul of the past. Father Adrian 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 was I who had brought this thing upon you; I who could have saved you by a single word.

"Paul, wake up! It is I, your mother."

I snatched hold of her hand, and drew it away. "Let him rest," I cried, fiercely. "He will waken soon enough."

She looked at me in dignified astonishment. "How dare you presume to dictate to me in this fashion?" she exclaimed. "And why should he not be 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 the rising of that bowed head. There was no start, or hurried awakening, if indeed he had been asleep at all. He simply turned his head, and looked at us with surprise, without any emotion of any sort.

I hid my face in my hands, and sobbed. Lady de Vaux was silent with horror. For there was something inexpressibly, awfully moving in the silent, passionless sorrow which seemed written with an unsparing hand onto that white face. All combativeness had passed away, but resignation had not come to take its place. And, apart from the outward evidence of the agony through which he had passed, its physical traces were very apparent. Deep, black lines seemed furrowed into the flesh under his dull eyes, and the firm, handsome mouth was drawn and quivering. It was such a change as might have been worked by some deadly Eastern poison, eating away the corporal frame. To think that it had worked from within—that burning and terrible sorrow had caused it—was horrible.

Lady de Vaux was the first to speak. The icy composure of her manner was gone. Her voice was strained and anxious.

"Why, Paul, what have you been doing here all night? Do you know that it is past mid-day? Has anything happened? Are you ill?"

"Ill? No; I think not." He seemed to be speaking from a great way off. Nothing about him was natural. He was on his feet, but I expected every moment to see him reel and fall.

"But, Paul, what have you been doing—writing?" Lady de Vaux asked anxiously. Then, as though warned by his strange appearance, she checked 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 with you."

She had forgotten me, until she found that he paid no heed to her words; 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 them to 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 he was going to speak to me; and he did.

"Adrea! Adrea!" he said slowly. "How is it that you are here? You did not come with him, did you? No! no! of course not. And yet, how is it that 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 was recovering. The dumb stupor which had held his features rigid was passing away.

"Yes, I am glad you are here. I want to talk to you. I had some important business which kept me writing here all night, and must have fallen asleep. I will go and change my things and come back to you."

He looked down at his crumpled shirt-front and disordered tie, and then moved slowly towards the door. Lady de Vaux hesitated for a moment, with a dark frown upon her face, and then laid her hand upon his arm.

"Your explanation should surely have been addressed to me, Paul," she said 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 ask whether 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 room without a word.