A Monk of Cruta Part 7

Paul and Arthur shared a bachelor residence in Mayfair; shared it, that is to say, insomuch as Paul had purchased it, and was the sole proprietor, and Arthur used it whenever he could get leave from his regiment. It was here Paul found his brother on the morning of his arrival in London.

They shook hands in silence; Paul did not wish to say anything for a moment. His brother's appearance had choked him. It was one o'clock, but he was still in his dressing-gown; with sunken, pale cheeks, save for one bright spot, and with faint, dark rims underneath his eyes.

There were a pile of blue papers and some ominous-looking envelopes on the table before him, and Paul could not help noticing the intense pallor of the hand which rested upon them.

"I wish you would let a fellow know what time you were coming," Arthur said, rather peevishly, but with an attempt at a smile. "I didn't expect you till evening, so I was having a shack before dressing. I was late last night!"

Paul banished his gravity, as far as possible, and stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the mantel-piece. He heartily disliked the part of mentor, and he did not wish to play it, unless he were obliged.

"It was beastly early to get up," he said, "but the connection at Normanton is so much better. One has to wait two hours by the late train, and Normanton is such a hole. I don't know that I should have come up to town at all, just yet," he continued after a slight pause, "only that I'm on the committee at the club this term, you know, and I haven't attended a single meeting yet. Besides, I promised Westover to put him up this time, and the half-yearly meeting's to-morrow, you know. Got any engagement? If not, you might dine with me there. Always a full night election time, you know!"

"Beastly sorry! but my leave's up to night," Arthur answered ruefully.

"I shall have to go down to Aldershot by the four o'clock train, and do a week's close grind."

Paul nodded. "I'm sorry; I'd have liked you to run down home with me for a few days, and see the mater. The Westovers have some very nice people coming to the Castle, and are going to get up some theatricals.

Lady May says they must have you! Will you come in a week, if I work the Colonel?"

"I'm afraid I can't," Arthur answered, with a slight flush in his cheeks. "I have some engagements for next week, and--and--I'm sure I can't manage it."

"The mater'll be disappointed," Paul said quietly. "She is counting on seeing you, and it's some time since you were down, isn't it? Tell you what, old man! I'd try and manage it, if I were you!"

"I can't promise! I will, if I can manage it! I'll write you from Aldershot!"

"You don't look quite the thing," Paul said kindly. "Nothing the matter, is there?"

"Nothing at all," Arthur a.s.sured him hastily. "I'm quite well. A bit of a head, that's all."

"Not too many of those bits of paper about, eh?" Paul asked, pointing to an oblong strip of blue paper which lay, face uppermost, on the table.

Arthur coloured, and threw a book over it.

"I am sorry I saw it," Paul went on; "but it was there to be seen, wasn't it?"

"Oh, yes! that's all right! I oughtn't to have left it about, that's all. I'm not exactly a Croesus, like you, you know, Paul, and now and then I'm obliged to raise the wind somehow. Yes! I know what you're going to say. My allowance is a good one, and I ought to make it do. But, you see, sometimes I can't."

"I hope you won't mind my asking, Arthur, but is that an acceptance of your own?"

Arthur nodded. "There are a few accounts which I must pay," he said.

"So I'm going to ask Plimsoll to do it for me. He's a decent fellow of his sort, you know! Lots of fellows go to him!"

Paul stretched out his hand. "Give it to me," he said, "and I will discount it for you. Thanks!"

Paul took it, and, just glancing at the amount, threw it into the fire. "I haven't my cheque book here," he said, "but we will call at the bank on our way to the club, and I can get the money. I'm glad I saw it!"

"It's awfully good of you," Arthur said hesitatingly. "I shouldn't have thought of asking you. I must owe you an awful lot already."

"Never mind what you owe me! I'll write it all off, Arthur, and this last amount too, if you'll do me a favour. Come down home with me next week, as soon as you can get leave."

Arthur rose to his feet, and then, leaning against the mantel-board, buried his face in his hands. "I can't leave London, Paul!--or, if I did, it could only be for a day," he said in a low tone. "I wish I could tell you why, but I can't; you wouldn't understand!"

"I think I know," Paul said quietly. "There is some one whom you do not care to leave! Is that not it?"

Arthur looked up quickly. His face was very white, and his lip was quivering.

"Who told you that? What do you know?"

"I know nothing! I want you to tell me. Perhaps I could help you.

There is a--lady in the case, isn't there?"

Arthur stood up on the hearthrug, and spoke, with a subdued pa.s.sion trembling in his tone.

"Yes! it's Adrea Kiros, the dancer! I daresay you've heard all about it! I don't see why you shouldn't! I can't leave her! I know all that you would say! It doesn't make any difference. She isn't good! Well!

I know it! She doesn't care for me! I don't believe she does. She's as cruel as a woman can be. Sometimes, when I am away from her, the thought of going back makes me shudder; and yet, I could no more keep away than lift the roof from this house. Of course, this sounds like rigmarole to you. You think I'm raving! I don't blame you. Only it is so, and I can't help it! I am as much a prisoner as any poor devil in Newgate."

Paul laid his hand upon his brother's shoulder, and looked kindly into his face. "Arthur, I'm very sorry! And don't think I don't understand!

I do! I do not know much of A--of Adrea Kiros, but I know enough to tell me that she is a very dangerous woman. Can't I help you, somehow?"

"I--I don't think you can! I don't think any one can," Arthur exclaimed unsteadily. He had been prepared for a lecture, for good advice, for a little contempt even; but his brother's att.i.tude was unexpected, and it almost unnerved him. "It is the uncertainty of it all that is so tormenting," he went on. "Sometimes she is so kind, and sweet, and thoughtful, that I could almost worship her. And then, without any cause, she will suddenly become cold, and hard, and cruel, till I hate myself for bearing quietly all that she says. But I do! I can't help it! I am never quite happy even when she is in one of her sweetest moods, for I never know how long it will last. The moment I leave her I begin to get anxious, and wonder how she will be the next day."

"Try what a change will do, Arthur!" his brother begged.

Arthur shook his head. "It's no use; I've tried! If I went away I should only be miserable, and hurry back by the first train. Oh, if only I could make you understand!" he cried, with a little pa.s.sionate gesture, which gained pathos and almost dignity from the expression on his white, sorrowing face. "Adrea is as necessary to me as the air we breathe! The sun has no light, and the day no ending, till I have seen her! She is the measure of all things to me: joy, grief, happiness, misery, it is her hand that deals them out to me! She can play upon the chords of my being as she chooses. A look or word from her can pull me down into h.e.l.l, or transport me into a seventh heaven! Who gave her this power, I cannot tell! But she has it! she has it!"

Paul said no more. Perhaps he recognised that, for the present at any rate, it was useless. He walked up and down the room for a few minutes, in sympathetic silence. When he spoke again he made no reference to the subject, but Arthur understood. "Get your things on, and come out to lunch with me," he said pleasantly. "I am too hungry to be sympathetic, and we can call at Coutts' on the way."

Arthur nodded and disappeared. Paul took his chair for a while, and, as he sat there gazing into the fire, his face grew grey and haggard.

Was Adrea Kiros seeking vengeance on the son of her father's murderer?

he wondered. If so, it seemed as though she were indeed succeeding.

How could he save Arthur? and what would happen if those rumours should reach his mother's ears, as some day they certainly would? At any rate, he would see Adrea himself before he left London. He had made up his mind that, if Arthur refused to listen to him, that should be his course.

Things somehow seemed brighter when they walked down to the club together. Dress makes so much difference to a man, and Arthur, spruce and _debonair_, with a gardenia in his b.u.t.ton-hole, and every part of his attire almost "faultily faultless," according to the canons of London fashion, presented a very different appearance to the tragical-looking personage of half an hour ago. There was a slight air of subdued feverishness about him, though, not altogether healthy, and the dark rims had not quite vanished from underneath his eyes.

"Paul, I wonder whether you will do something for me?" he asked, as they were crossing Pickadilly. "I hate asking you!"

"I'll try," Paul answered. "What is it?"

"I don't believe you'll like it, but--the fact is, Adrea wants you to go and see her. I promised that I would do my best to get you to call with me this afternoon. If you don't mind, I wish you would," he added wistfully.

"I will go with you certainly, if you wish it," Paul answered, not too cordially, for he did not wish his brother to know that it was what he had already planned to do. "Did she tell you that we had already a slight acquaintance?"

"Yes! You rode home in a cab together from Lady Swindon's, didn't you?

There was only one, and it was raining, so you shared it. Adrea told me that."

Paul nodded. He meant, after he had seen Adrea, to consider whether it would not be best to tell his brother everything. But, for the present, her story was enough. They turned into Pall Mall, and, almost immediately, Arthur's hat was in his hand, and he was on the edge of the pavement, colouring with pleasure. A small victoria had pulled up by the side, and Paul found himself face to face with Adrea.

She was m.u.f.fled up in rich brown furs, and almost invisible, but her dark eyes flashed into his from underneath her thick veil. After the first greeting she scarcely noticed Arthur; it was Paul upon whom her eyes were bent.

"You are in London again, then, Mr. de Vaux," she remarked. "Have you discovered that, after all, the country is a little _triste_ in this land of damp and fogs--the country in November, I mean--or is it only important business which has brought you up!"