A Monk of Cruta

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

She handed him his tea in silence; and Paul, who would have been ashamed to have called himself curious, but who was by this time not a little puzzled at her manner, made one more effort at conversation.

"I think you said that you were quite strange to this part of the country," he remarked. "We, who have lived here all our lives, are fond of it; but I'm afraid you'll find it rather dull at first. There is very little society."

"We do not desire any," she said hastily. "We came here—at least I came here—for the sake of indulging in absolute seclusion. It is the same with my step-daughter. In London she had been forced to keep late hours, and her health has suffered. The doctor prescribed complete rest; I, too, desired rest, so we came here. A London house agent arranged it for us."

So there was a step-daughter who lived in London, and who went out a great deal. The mention of her gave Paul an opportunity.

"I wonder if I have ever met your daughter in town," he said pleasantly. "I am there a good deal, and I have rather a large circle of acquaintances."

The implied question seemed to disconcert her. She coloured, and then grew suddenly pale. Her eyes no longer looked into his; they were fixed steadfastly upon the fire.

"It is not at all probable," she said, nervously lacing and interlacing her slim white fingers. "No, it is scarcely possible. You would not be likely to meet her. Your friends would not be her friends. She knows so few people. Ah!"

She started quickly. The door had opened, but it was only Gomez, who had come in with a tray for the empty tea-things. There was a dead silence whilst he removed them. Paul scarcely knew what to say. His hostess puzzled him completely. Perhaps this step-daughter, whose name, together with her own, she seemed so anxious to conceal, was mad, and she had brought her down here instead of sending her to an asylum; or perhaps she herself was mad. He glanced at her furtively, and at once dismissed the latter idea. Her face, careworn and curiously pallid though it was, was the face of no madwoman. It was the face of a woman who had passed through a fiery sea of this world's trouble and suffering—suffering which had left its marks stamped upon her features; but, of his own accord, he would never have put it down as the face of a weak or erring woman.