"AND MOST OF ALL WOULD I FLY FROM THE CRUEL MADNESS OF LOVE"
It was Adrea--Adrea herself! She stood there in the shadow of the
doorway, with her lips slightly parted, and her great eyes, soft and
brilliant, flashing in the ruddy firelight. It was no vision; it was
she beyond a doubt!
Even when the first shock had passed away, he found himself without
words; the wonder of it had dazed him. He had thought of her so often
in that quaint, dainty little chamber in Grey Street that to see her
here so unexpectedly, without the least warning or anticipation, was
like being suddenly confronted with a picture which had stepped out
of its frame. And that she should be here, too, of all places, here
in this bleak corner of the kingdom, where blustering winds swept
bare the sullen moorland, and the sea was always grey and stormy. What
strange fate could have brought her here, away from all the warmth and
luxury of London, to this half-deserted old manor house on the verge
of the heath? His mind was too confused in those first few moments to
follow out any definite train of thought. The most natural conclusion,
that she had come to him, did not enter his imagination.
His first impulse, as his senses became clearer, was to glance around
for the woman who had called Adrea her step-daughter. She was gone.
She must have stepped out of the room by the opposite doorway; and
with the knowledge that they were alone, he breathed freer.
"Adrea!" he said, "it is really you, then!"
His words, necessarily commonplace, dissolved the situation. She
laughed softly, and came further into the room.
"It is I," she said. "Did you think that I was an elf from
spirit-land?"
He had never shaken hands with her,--it was a thing which had never
occurred to either of them; but a sudden impulse came to him then. He
took a hasty step forward, and clasped both her little white hands in
his. So they stood for another minute in silence, and a strange, soft
light flashed in her upturned eyes. She was very near to him, and
there was an indefinable sense of yielding in her manner, amounting
almost to a mute invitation. He felt that he had only to open his
arms, and that strange, beautiful face, with its mocking, quivering
mouth, would be very close to his. The old battle was forced upon him
to fight all over again; and, alas! he was no stronger.
It was almost as though she had seen the hesitation--the conflict in
him--for with a sudden, imperious gesture she withdrew her hands and
turned away from him. There was a scarlet flush creeping through the
deep olive of her cheeks, and her eyes were dry and brilliant. Paul,
who had never studied women or their ways, looked at her, surprised
and a little hurt.
"You are surprised to see me here, of course?" she said, sinking into
a low easy-chair, and taking up a fire-screen of peacocks' feathers,
as though to shield her face from the fire. "Well, it is quite an
accident. I wrote you rather a silly letter the other day; but you
must not think that I have followed you down here!"
"I did not think so," he answered hastily. "The idea never occurred,
never could have occurred to me!"
She continued, without heeding his interruption: "I will explain how
we came to take this cottage. A relative of mine came to me suddenly
from abroad. She was in great trouble, and was in search of a very
secluded dwelling-place, where she might live for a time unknown. I
also was in bad health, and the doctor had ordered me complete rest
and quiet. We went to a house agent, and told him what we wanted--to
get as far away from every one as possible. We did not care how lonely
the place was, or how far from London; the further the better. This
house was to let, furnished, and at a low figure. I did not know that
Vaux Abbey was in the same county even. It suited us, and we took it."
"I understand," Paul answered. "And now that you are here, are you not
afraid of finding it dull?"
She turned away from him, biting her lip. "You do not understand me!
You never will. No! I shall not be dull."
"I beg your pardon, Adrea. I----"
"Be quiet!" she interrupted impetuously. "You think that I am too
frivolous to live away from the glare and excitement of the city.
Of course! To you I am just the dancing girl, nothing more. Do not
contradict me. I hate your serious manner. I hate your patronage.
Don't contradict me, I say. Tell me this. How did you find me out? Why
are you here?"
"I have been out hunting, and I lost my way," Paul answered quietly.
"I know Major Harcourt, and, thinking he was still living here, I
called for a rest, and to put my horse up. Your step-mother has been
very kind and hospitable."
Adrea looked at him curiously. "Indeed! She has been kind to you, has
she? Who told you that she was my step-mother?"
"I thought I understood you to say so."
"Did I? Perhaps so; I don't remember. So she was kind to you, was she?
She has no cause to be."
"No cause to be! Why not?"
She shrugged her shoulders, "Oh, I don't know. I'm talking a little at
random, I think. You angered me, Monsieur Paul. I am a silly girl, am
I not? Do you know that I have thrown up all my engagements until next
season? I do not think that I shall dance again at all."
"I am glad to hear it."
"But I shall go on the stage."
"There is no necessity for that, is there?"
"Necessity! You mean that I have not to earn my bread. That may be
true, but what would you have me to do? I am not content to be one of
your English young ladies--to sit down, and learn to cook and darn,
and read silly books, until fate is kind enough to send me a husband.
Not so. I have ambition; I have an artist's instincts, although I may
not yet be an artist. I must live; I must have light and colour in my
life."
Paul was very grave. He did not understand this new phase in
Adrea's development. There was a curious hardness in her tone and a
recklessness in her speech which were strange to him. And with it
all he felt very helpless. He could not play the part of guardian and
reprove her; he scarcely knew how to argue with her. Women and their
ways were strange to him; and, besides, Adrea was so different.
He stood up on the hearthrug, toying with his long riding-whip,
puzzled and unhappy. Adrea was angry with him, he knew; and though he
was very anxious to set himself right with her, he felt that he was
treading on dangerous ground. He was neither sure of himself nor of
her.
"I am afraid I am a very poor counsellor, Adrea," he said slowly; "but
it seems to me that you want women friends. Your life has been too
lonely, too devoid of feminine interests."
She laughed--a mirthless, unpleasant little laugh. "Women friends!
Good! You say that I have none. It is true. There have been no
women who have offered me their friendship in this country. You call
yourself my guardian. Why do you not find me some?"
"You have made it very difficult," he reminded her.
She threw a scornful glance at him. "Good! That is generous. You mean
to say that I have made myself unfit for the friendship of the
women of your family. I thank you, Monsieur Paul. I think that our
conversation has lasted long enough. Let me pass; I am going to leave
you."
He moved quickly towards the door, and barred her passage. There was
a dark flush in his cheeks and a gleam in his eyes. Up till then his
manner had been a little deprecating, but at her last words it had
suddenly changed. He felt that she was unjust, and he was indignant.
"Adrea, you talk like a child," he said sternly. "I made no such
insinuation as you suggest! You know that I did not! Sit down!"
She obeyed him; the quick change in his manner had startled her, and
taken her at a disadvantage. She felt the force of his superior will,
and she yielded to it.
He leaned over her chair, and his voice grew softer. "Adrea, you are
very, very unjust to me," he said. "Do you wish to make me so unhappy,
I wonder? For a week I have been thinking of scarcely anything else
save our last parting, and now if I had not stopped you, almost by
force, you would have left me again in anger."
His tone had grown almost tender, and, as though unconsciously, his
hand had rested upon her gleaming coils of dark, braided hair. She
looked up at him, and in the firelight he could see that her eyes were
soft and dim.
"You have really thought of me?" she said in a low tone. "You have
really been unhappy on my account?"
"I have!" he admitted. "Very unhappy!"
Something in his tone--in the reluctance with which he made the
admission, angered her. She moved a little further away, and her voice
grew harder.
"Yes; you have been unhappy!" she said. "And why? It was because you
were ashamed to find yourself thinking of me; you, Paul de Vaux, a
citizen of the world and a man of culture, thinking of a poor dancing
girl with only her looks to recommend her! That was where the sting
lay! That was what reddened your cheek! You men! You are as selfish as
devils!"
She stamped her foot; her voice was shaking with passion. Paul stood
before her with a deep flush on his pale cheeks, silent, like a man
suddenly accused. Her words were not altogether true, but they were
winged with, at any rate, the semblance of truth.
She continued--a little more quietly, but with her tone and form still
vibrating.
"What do you fear? What is that you struggle against? I have seen
you when it has been your will to take me--into your arms, to hold my
hands. Then I have seen you conquer the desire, and you run away, as
though afraid of it. Why? Do you fear that I shall seek to compromise
you?--is not that the English word? Do you think that I want you to
marry me? Is it because you dare not, that you--you do not offer to
take my hand, even? Tell me now! Why is it?"
"For your own sake, Adrea!"
"For my own sake!" she repeated scornfully. "Do you believe it
yourself? Do you really think that it is true? I will tell you why
it is! It is because you have no thought, no imagination. You say to
yourself, she is not of my world. I cannot marry her."
There was a silence. A burning coal fell upon the hearth, and flamed
up; the glow reached Paul's face. He was very pale, and his eyes were
dry and brilliant. Suddenly he moved forward, and clasped Adrea's
hands tightly in his.
"But, Adrea! are you sure that you love me?"
A sudden change swept into her face. Her dark eyes grew wonderfully
soft.
"Yes!" she answered, looking up to him with a swift, brilliant smile.
"I am sure!"
He held out his arms; his resistance was at an end. It had grown
weaker and weaker during those last few moments; now it was all over,
swept away by a sudden, tumultuous passion, so strange and little akin
to the man that it startled even himself. Afar off in his mind he was
conscious of a dim sense of shame as he held her close in his arms and
felt her warm, trembling lips pressed against his. But it was like an
echo from a distant land. It seemed to him that a deep, widening gulf
lay now between him and all that had gone before. His old self was
dead! A new man had sprung up, with a new personality, and the time
had not yet come for regrets.