A Monk of Cruta

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

"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 attitude 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 passionate 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 hell, 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 button-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.