CHAPTER XV

"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.