"THE POISON OF HONEY FLOWERS"
The recognition was not immediately simultaneous. Gomez, standing on
the step, was in the full light of the hall lamp, but Paul was still
amongst the shadows.
"Don't you know me, Gomez?" Paul asked, stepping forward. "I am Paul
de Vaux."
A shade passed across the man's face, and he laid his hand quickly
upon his heart, as though to cease some sudden pain. Then he stood on
one side, holding the door open.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Paul; I could not see your face out there.
Won't you walk in, sir?"
Paul dropped his mare's bridle and stepped inside. The polished
white stone hall, with its huge fire in the centre, looked warm and
comfortable, and away in the distance there was a cheerful rattle of
teacups.
"What are you doing here, Gomez?" Paul asked, shaking the wet from
his hat. "I understood that you were going to take the under-bailiff's
place."
"Higgs has not left yet, sir," Gomez answered. "I have been living
here as caretaker for Major Harcourt."
"Caretaker! Isn't he at home then?"
Gomez shook his head, looking keenly at Paul all the time. "Major
Harcourt does not winter here now, sir. He has let the place,
furnished."
"What a confounded nuisance! To whom has he let it?" Paul asked
quickly. "You see my plight, and my horse is worse off still. We lost
our way going home from Dunston Spinnies."
"Major Harcourt's tenant is a lady," Gomez answered, after a moment's
hesitation. "She only arrived yesterday."
Paul shrugged his shoulders. He was annoyed, but there was no help for
it.
"Well, will you see her at once and represent matters? I want a loose
box for the night for my horse, and a rest for myself, and afterwards
a conveyance for the Abbey, if possible. Tell her my name. I daresay
she won't mind. Who is she?"
Gomez said nothing for a moment. Then he drew Paul back to the door,
and pointed out into the darkness.
"Mr. Paul," he said, in a quick, hoarse whisper, "at the back of that
hedge there is a road which leads straight up to the Abbey. It is
a matter of six miles or so, I know, and you are tired; but that is
nothing. Take my advice, sir, and believe me it is for your good. Get
out of this house as soon as you can, and go home, though you have to
walk every step. I'll look after your horse, and you can send for it
in the morning."
Paul looked into the man's face astonished. "What nonsense, Gomez!"
he exclaimed. "Do you know what you are talking about! Why, I'm tired
out, and almost starved. Here I am and here I shall stop, unless your
mistress is as inhospitable as you are."
Gomez bowed, and closed the door. "Very good, sir; you will have your
own way, of course. But remember in the future that I was faithful,
I warned you. Come this way, sir. I will send your horse round to the
stables. The name of the lady of the house is Madame de Merteuill."
A little uneasy and very much mystified, Paul followed him across the
hall, and was silently ushered into a long, low drawing-room, a room
of nooks and corners, furnished in old-fashioned style, but with
perfect taste, and dimly lit with soft, shaded lamps. There was a
bright fire blazing on the hearth, and a pleasant sense of warmth in
the air.
At first it seemed as though the room was empty, but in a moment a
tall, pale-faced lady, with wonderfully dark eyes and grey hair,
rose from an easy chair behind the piano, and looked at him, at first
questioningly.
"I am afraid that you will consider this an unwarrantable intrusion,"
Paul said, bowing; "but the fact is, I lost my way riding home from
the hunt, and my horse cannot go a yard further. As for myself,
you can see what state I am in. I saw your lights, and have some
acquaintance with Major Harcourt, and not knowing that he had left,
I ventured here to throw myself upon his hospitality. My name is De
Vaux--Paul de Vaux; and although it is some distance to the Abbey, I
believe that we are next-door neighbours."
It was beginning to dawn upon Paul that he had somehow stumbled upon a
very strange household. During the whole of his speech, the lady whom
he was addressing had stood silent and transfixed, with wide-open eyes
and a terrible shrinking look of fear upon her face. She must be mad,
Paul concluded swiftly. What an ass Gomez was not to have told him!
While he was wondering how to get away, she spoke.
"Your name de Vaux, Paul de Vaux, near Vaux Abbey?"
He bowed, looking at her with fresh interest. His name seemed familiar
to her. In a moment or two the unnatural lethargy left her, and she
spoke to him, though still in a curiously suppressed tone.
"I beg your pardon. You are welcome. I was a little startled at
first."
She rang the bell. Gomez answered it.
"Bring some fresh tea, and some sandwiches and wine," she ordered.
"Tell them in the stables to see that this gentleman's horse has every
attention."
Gomez received his orders in silence, and withdrew with darkening
face. Paul looked after him with surprise.
"Gomez does not seem particularly pleased to see me again," he
remarked. "What is the matter with the man, I wonder?"
"It is only his manner, I think," she said softly. "He was your
father's servant, was he not?"
"Yes. How did you know that?" he asked quickly. "Ah, I beg your
pardon; he told you, of course. You will find him a faithful servant."
She bowed her head, but made no reply. Indeed, Paul found it very
difficult to start a conversation of any sort with his new neighbour.
To all his remarks she returned only monosyllabic answers, looking at
him steadily all the while out of her full, dark eyes in a far-away,
wistful manner, as though she saw in his face something which carried
her thoughts into another world. It was a little uncomfortable for
Paul, and he was not sorry when Gomez reappeared, bearing a tray with
refreshments.
She handed him his tea in silence; and Paul, who would have been
ashamed to have called himself curious, but who was by this time not a
little puzzled at her manner, made one more effort at conversation.
"I think you said that you were quite strange to this part of the
country," he remarked. "We, who have lived here all our lives, are
fond of it; but I'm afraid you'll find it rather dull at first. There
is very little society."
"We do not desire any," she said hastily. "We came here--at least I
came here--for the sake of indulging in absolute seclusion. It is the
same with my step-daughter. In London she had been forced to keep late
hours, and her health has suffered. The doctor prescribed complete
rest; I, too, desired rest, so we came here. A London house agent
arranged it for us."
So there was a step-daughter who lived in London, and who went out a
great deal. The mention of her gave Paul an opportunity.
"I wonder if I have ever met your daughter in town," he said
pleasantly. "I am there a good deal, and I have rather a large circle
of acquaintances."
The implied question seemed to disconcert her. She coloured, and then
grew suddenly pale. Her eyes no longer looked into his; they were
fixed steadfastly upon the fire.
"It is not at all probable," she said, nervously lacing and
interlacing her slim white fingers. "No, it is scarcely possible.
You would not be likely to meet her. Your friends would not be her
friends. She knows so few people. Ah!"
She started quickly. The door had opened, but it was only Gomez, who
had come in with a tray for the empty tea-things. There was a dead
silence whilst he removed them. Paul scarcely knew what to say. His
hostess puzzled him completely. Perhaps this step-daughter, whose
name, together with her own, she seemed so anxious to conceal, was
mad, and she had brought her down here instead of sending her to an
asylum; or perhaps she herself was mad. He glanced at her furtively,
and at once dismissed the latter idea. Her face, careworn and
curiously pallid though it was, was the face of no madwoman. It was
the face of a woman who had passed through a fiery sea of this world's
trouble and suffering--suffering which had left its marks stamped upon
her features; but, of his own accord, he would never have put it down
as the face of a weak or erring woman.
There was a mystery--of that he felt sure; but it was no part of his
business to seek to unravel it. The best thing he could do, he felt,
was to get up and go. He could scarcely maintain a conversation
without asking or implying questions which seemed to painfully
embarrass his hostess.
"I'm very much obliged to you," he said, rising and holding out his
hand. "I feel quite a new man! If you don't mind I'd like to leave
my mare here until to-morrow. She really isn't fit to travel. My man
shall come for her early."
"Pray do!" she answered quickly. "Ah!"
She had started, and clutched at the back of her chair with trembling
fingers. Her eyes, wide open and startled, were fixed upon the door.
Paul, too, turned round, and uttered a little cry. His heart beat
fast, and the room swam before him. He stood for a moment perfectly
still, with his eyes fastened upon the figure in the doorway.