A Monk of Cruta Read online

  CHAPTER II

  "THE NEW ART"

  A tall, fair young man stood in the small alcove of Lady Swindon'sdrawing-room, with his eyes fixed upon the door. He was accuratelydressed in the afternoon garb of a London man about town, and carriedin his hand, or rather in his hands, for they were crossed behind him,that hall-mark of Western civilization--a well-brushed, immaculatesilk hat. Neither in his clothes nor personal appearance was there anystriking difference between him and the crowd of other young men whothronged the rooms, except perhaps that he was a trifle better made,and pleasanter to look at than most of them, and that the air ofboredom, so apparent on most of their faces and in their manners, wasin his case perfectly natural. As a matter of fact, he hated afternoonreceptions, and was only waiting for a favourable opportunity to makehis exit unnoticed.

  "Paul, my boy, you don't look happy," exclaimed a voice in his ear.

  Paul de Vaux turned upon the new-comer sharply. "Not likely to,Arthur. You know I hate all this sort of thing, and, as far as I cansee, it's just a repetition of the usual performance--stale speeches,lionizing, gossip, and weak tea. I consider you've brought me hereunder false pretences. Where's the startling novelty you promised me?"

  "All in good time," was the cool reply. "You'll thank your starsyou're here in a minute or two."

  Paul de Vaux looked at his brother incredulously. "Some sell of yours,I suppose," he remarked. "At any rate, no one here whom I have spokento seems to be expecting anything unusual."

  Arthur--no one ever called him anything else--laughed, and beat animpatient tattoo upon the floor with his foot. He was several inchesshorter than his brother, and altogether unlike him. Yet he, too, wasgood-looking, in a certain way.

  "That's just the beauty of it," he said. "Lady Swindon has prepareda little surprise for her guests. She's just that sort of woman, youknow. Denison told me about it at the club, a few minutes before youcame in for lunch. I shouldn't have bothered you to come if I hadn'tknown there was something good on."

  "I dislike surprises," his brother answered wearily. "Half thepleasure of a thing lies in anticipation, and surprises rob one ofthat. Let us go, Arthur; there are plenty here to enjoy this novelty,whatever it is. Come and have a weed at my rooms, and we'll talk oversomething for to-night."

  Arthur shook his head and laid his hand upon Paul's coat-sleeve."You don't know what's coming off, old fellow; I wouldn't miss it foranything. Great Scott! there's the bishop. Wonder how he'll like it?and there's Lady May over there, Paul. You're booked, old man, if shelooks this way."

  Paul leant forward with a faint show of interest, and looked inthe direction indicated. "I thought that the Westovers went Northyesterday," he remarked. "Lady May said that they expected it."

  "Likely enough. 'Gad! the performance is going to commence," Arthurexclaimed, quickly. "Paul, you are going to have a new sensation. Youare going to see the most beautiful woman in the world."

  There was a little hush, and every one had turned towards the upperend of the room. Some heavy curtains had been rolled aside, disclosinga space, only a few yards square, which had been covered by a tightlystretched drugget. There was a little curious anticipation amongst theuninitiated. Then the comparative silence was broken by the strainsof a waltz from a violin, somewhere in the background. No one hadever heard it before. There was a wilder, dreamier air with it,than anything Waldteufel had ever written. And, while every one waswondering whose music it could be, a woman glided out from behind ascreen, and stood for a second swaying herself slightly in the centreof the drugget. Even that slight rhythmical motion of her body seemedto bring her into perfect sympathy with the curious melody which wasfilling the hushed room. And while the people watched her, already, invarying degrees, under the spell of that curious fascination which herpersonality and the exercise of her art seldom failed to excite, shecommenced to dance.

  Long afterwards Paul de Vaux tried to describe in words, that dance,and found that he could not, for there was indeed a charm beyondexpression or portrayal in the slow, almost languid movements, full ofinfinite and inexpressible witchery. Every limb of her body and everyfeature of her face followed, with a sort of effortless grace,the movements of her feet. Yet the general effect of the whole wassuggestive of a sweet and dainty repose, voluptuous yet refined,glowing with life, yet dreamily restful. In a certain sense herphysical movements, even her body itself, seemed merged and lost inthe artistic ideal created and born of her performance. And so itwas that he carried away that day no vivid thought-portrait of herfeatures, only a confused dream of a beautiful dusky face, risingabove a cloud of amber draperies, the lips slightly parted in awonderful smile, and a pair of heavily-lidded eyes, which, more thanonce, had rested upon him, soft, dark, and lustrous. After all, it wasbut a tangled web of memories, yet, such as it was, it became woveninto the pattern of his life, wonderfully soft and brilliant besidesome of those dark, gloomy threads which fate had spun for him.

  The performance ended, as such performance should end, suddenly,and without repetition. Her disappearance was so swift and yet sograceful, that for a moment or two people scarcely realized that shewas gone. It was wonderful what a difference her absence made to theroom. The little stretch of drugget looked mean and bare. To Paul deVaux it seemed as though some warm, beautiful light, omniscient andrichly coloured, had suddenly burnt out, and left a damp chilliness inthe air. The silence was gloomy enough after that wonderful music, butthe babble of tongues which presently arose was a hundred timesworse. He found himself chafing and angry at the commonplacisms whicheverywhere greeted his ear. Lady Swindon's afternoon entertainment hadbeen a great success, and every one was telling her so, more orless volubly. There were some there, a handful of artists and a fewthoughtful men, who were silent, or who spoke of it only amongstthemselves in subdued voices. They recognised, in what had happenedthat afternoon, the dawn of a new art, or rather the regeneration ofan old one, and they discussed in whispers its possible significanceand influence. She was an artist, that woman. No one doubted it. Butthe woman was there as well as the artist. Who was she? Would sherealize the sanctity of her mission, and keep herself fit and pure forits accomplishment? Had she character to sustain her, and imaginationto idealize her calling? She was on a pinnacle now, but it was apinnacle as dangerous as the feet of woman could press. If only shecould keep herself unspotted from the world, which would do its bestto drag her down, they all felt, painter, poet, and musician, that herinfluence with the age might rank with their own. But was it possible?A certain Diana-like coldness had been apparent to those who had theeyes to see it, even in her most voluptuous movements. They knewthat it was not assumed for the sake of adding piquancy to herperformance--it was there indeed. But side by side with it therewere unprobed depths of passion in her soft, deep eyes; a slumberingpassion even in the sinuous, graceful movements of every limb. Someday the struggle would come, even if it had not already commenced.The woman against the artist--the woman tempted and flattered by athousand tongues, and dazzled with visions of all those things sonaturally sweet to her, her own nature even, so keenly susceptible tolove and sympathy, siding with the enemy. This, all against what? Onlythat inward worshipping of all things sweet and pure and lofty, whichis the artist's second life. The odds were heavy indeed. No wonderthat the select few who spoke of her that afternoon should shake theirheads and look grave.