At the sight of him we both stood still—Lady de Vaux moved in spite of her stately composure, and I spellbound. He was sitting before an oak writing desk covered with papers, and in the midst of them his head was resting upon his bowed arms. He neither spoke nor moved, nor seemed indeed in any way conscious of our approach. The window fronting him was, unlike all the others, uncurtained and wide open, and a flood of sunshine was streaming in upon his bowed head, and mingling with the sicklier light of the rest of the apartment. It was a strange and ghastly combination; not only in itself, but in the sort of halo it seemed to cast around his dark, bowed head. Ah! Paul, my love, my love! how my heart ached for you!
"He is asleep," Lady de Vaux said fearfully. "Paul!"
I held out my hand to check her. "Let him alone!" I whispered hoarsely. "I will go away. Don't you see that he is resting."
She took no notice of me, nor of my backward movement, but leaned over towards him as though to touch his arm. A sort of fury came upon me. I knew that the Paul whom she was trying to recall from the land of unconsciousness would never again be the Paul of the past. Father Adrian had kept his word. The blow which he had threatened had fallen. Paul! I looked at your dear bowed head until the tears dimmed my eyes, and the great room swam around me. For in my heart I felt that it was I who had brought this thing upon you; I who could have saved you by a single word.
"Paul, wake up! It is I, your mother."
I snatched hold of her hand, and drew it away. "Let him rest," I cried, fiercely. "He will waken soon enough."
She looked at me in dignified astonishment. "How dare you presume to dictate to me in this fashion?" she exclaimed. "And why should he not be awakened? It is past mid-day. Paul!"
The crouching figure moved. He had heard, then! I held my breath, longing to escape, yet compelled to watch with fascinated eyes the rising of that bowed head. There was no start, or hurried awakening, if indeed he had been asleep at all. He simply turned his head, and looked at us with surprise, without any emotion of any sort.
I hid my face in my hands, and sobbed. Lady de Vaux was silent with horror. For there was something inexpressibly, awfully moving in the silent, passionless sorrow which seemed written with an unsparing hand onto that white face. All combativeness had passed away, but resignation had not come to take its place. And, apart from the outward evidence of the agony through which he had passed, its physical traces were very apparent. Deep, black lines seemed furrowed into the flesh under his dull eyes, and the firm, handsome mouth was drawn and quivering. It was such a change as might have been worked by some deadly Eastern poison, eating away the corporal frame. To think that it had worked from within—that burning and terrible sorrow had caused it—was horrible.
Lady de Vaux was the first to speak. The icy composure of her manner was gone. Her voice was strained and anxious.