CHAPTER XIII

"THE PATH THAT LEADS TO MADMEN'S KINGDOMS"

A north-country storm of rain and wind had suddenly blown up from the sea, and the few remaining followers of the De Vaux hounds were dispersed right and left, making for home with all possible speed. The sky had looked dull and threatening all day long, and with the first shades of twilight the rain had commenced to fall in a sudden torrent. There had been some little hesitation on the part of the master about drawing this last cover, for the hounds had had a rough day, and the field was small; and directly the storm broke, the horn was blown without hesitation, the pack was re-called, and the huntsman, cracking his whip, started for home at a long, swinging trot. The day's sport was over.

There were only a handful of horsemen waiting outside when the signal was given, and with collars turned up to their ears, and cigars alight, they were very soon riding down the hill to the village whose lights were beginning to twinkle out from the darkness in the valley below. At the cross-roads, Paul, who had been riding in the midst of them, wheeled his horse round and took the road to Vaux Abbey amidst a chorus of farewells.

"Are you going for the Abbey, De Vaux?" Captain Westover asked, reining in his horse. "Better come home with me, and dine! I'll send you back to-night, and they'll look after your mare all right in the stables. Come along!"

Paul shook his head. "I'll get home, thanks!" he answered. "A wetting won't hurt me, and there's only a mile or two of it."

Captain Westover shrugged his shoulders. "Just as you like. My people would be very glad to see you! By the bye, you were to have called last week, weren't you? Lady May was asking where you were this morning! Come and dine to-morrow night!"

"Thanks! Unless I send word over to the contrary, I will, then! Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

Captain Westover cantered on after the others, and Paul turned off in the opposite direction, riding slowly, with bent head and loose bridle. In his pocket was Adrea's letter, scarcely a week old; and now that the physical excitement of the day was over, his thoughts, as usual, were full of it again. It was an uphill battle that he was fighting! All day long he had been striving to forget it! He had spared neither himself nor his horses in the desperate attempt to reach such a stage of physical exhaustion as should make his mind a blank—as should free it, at any rate, from those torturing memories, and the fierce restlessness which they begat. He had tried his utmost, and he had failed. His pink hunting-coat and tops, immaculate at the start, were covered with thick mud, and his horse (his second mount) was scarcely able to put one foot before the other. Yet he had failed utterly. Hunger and fatigue seemed things far away to him. Wherever he looked—out into the grey mists, which came rolling across the moor, soaking him with moisture, or down into the road, fast becoming a bog, or up into the dim sky—he seemed to see the pages of Adrea's letter standing out before him, word for word, phrase for phrase. Every sentence of it seemed to him as vivid and real as though it had been spoken in his ears; nay, he could almost fancy that he saw the great tears welling slowly out of those soft, dark eyes, and could hear the passionate quiver in her faltering tones. Day by day it had been a desperate struggle with him to resist the mad desire which prompted him to order a dogcart, drive to the nearest town, and catch the mail train to London. Beyond that—how she would receive him, what he would say to her—everything was chaos; he dared not trust himself to think about it.

Yet, whenever he suffered his thoughts to dwell upon this matter at all, the reverse side of it all sooner or later presented itself. Clear and insistent above the emotion which swayed him came ever that uncompromising question—where lay his duty in this matter? It was the true and manly side of his nature, developed by instinct and long training, and refusing now to be overborne and swept away by this surging tide of passion. It rang in his ears, and it demanded an answer. Away in the distance, on the opposite side of the valley, his vacant eyes rested idly upon the many lights and dim outline of Westover Castle. What place had Lady May in his heart? Was there room for her—and Adrea? Could he see Adrea day by day, and never pass the barrier which he himself had set up between them? What did he wish? What was right? Just then everything was to him so vague and chaotic.

He had been riding for nearly an hour, with his reins quite loose upon his horse's neck, and trusting entirely to her to take the homeward route. Suddenly his mare came to an abrupt halt, and Paul looked around him in surprise. At first he had not the faintest idea as to his whereabouts; then a dull roar, coming from across a narrow strip of moorland on his left, gave him a clue, and he saw what had happened. Instead of turning inland to Vaux Abbey, his horse had kept straight on, and had brought him almost to the sea—a good five miles out of his way.

The situation was not a cheerful one. They were ten miles from home, and Ironsides, completely done up, was trembling ominously at the knees, and looking around at him pitifully. Paul himself was wet to the skin; and as he dismounted for a moment to ease his stiff limbs, he was conscious of a distinct inclination to shiver. The grey mists were rolling up all round them; and directly Paul's feet touched the ground, he felt himself sink ankle-deep in the wet, soft sand. It was all horribly uncomfortable, and more than that, it was serious; for immediately he had passed his hand over his horse's flanks and felt her knees, Paul knew that she was not in a condition for him to mount her again. There was no hope of reaching Vaux Abbey without rest and refreshments, for Ironsides at any rate.

He looked steadily around him, and began to get some faint idea as to his whereabouts. His mare must have been deceived by following a private road which led to a cottage belonging to an old half-pay officer, Major Harcourt. They had evidently passed the cottage, and pursued the road almost to its termination, for where they now were it was little better than a sheep-track, leading through a closed gate a few yards in front of them into a scattered pine plantation and down to the sea. The only thing to do was to retrace their steps until they came to the cottage, and there beg shelter for a while.

"We've made a mess of it, old girl!" Paul said soothingly, patting his mare's neck, and passing his arm through the bridle. "Come on, then! We'll see whether we can't find an empty stall for you at Major Harcourt's."

They retraced their steps, the mare limping wearily along by Paul's side, and every now and then stopping to look at him in despair. Paul found a grim humour in the situation. It was the quagmire into which thoughts of Adrea had led him; a parable sent to show him the folly of such thoughts, and whither they tended. He laughed a little bitterly at the thought. Once, when a very young man, he had thought himself a fatalist. After all, perhaps it was the best thing to be! Conscience and duty were wearisome guides; a course of voluntary drifting would be rather a relief.

Suddenly the mare pricked up her ears, and neighed. Paul looked steadily through the mist, and quickened his pace. Scarcely a hundred yards ahead was the dim outline of the cottage, nestled up against a pine grove and facing the sea.

Paul was fairly well acquainted with Major Harcourt; and although he had seen nothing of him for some time, he had not the slightest compunction in claiming shelter for himself and his horse. He led her up the trim, winding drive to the front door, and rang the bell.

"Is Major Har——" Paul began, as the door was opened; then he broke off abruptly.

The man-servant who had opened the door, and was standing on the step, peering out into the darkness, was a familiar figure to him. It was Gomez!