I felt my face grow hot with passion as I turned swiftly round towards Father Adrian. "It is you who should go," I cried. "Why have you come here? Why are you always creeping across my life like a dark, noisome shadow? Go away! Begone! I will not be left with you!"
He turned a shade paler, but he did not sacrifice his dignity, as I hoped that he would, by answering me with anger. He did not even answer me at all. He looked over my head at my lover.
"To-morrow night!" he said calmly.
"To-morrow night!" Paul answered.
I stood between them, angry but helpless. A log of wood had just fallen from the fire on to the hearth, and in its sudden blaze I could see their faces distinctly. The utter contrast between the two men threw each into strong relief. Paul, in his scarlet coat and riding clothes, pale and impassive, butdébonnaire; and Father Adrian, his strange black garb mud-bespattered and disordered, and his dark, angry face livid with the passion so hardly suppressed. It was odd to think of them as creatures of the same species. Odder still to think that there should be this link between them.
I walked with Paul to the door, holding to his arm, and talking, half-gaily, half-reproachfully, all the way. We stood on the step together while his horse was beingbrought round, and in the half-lights he stooped down and kissed me. But his manner had changed. Even his lips were cold, and his eyes were no longer bright. There was a far-away look in them, and his face was white and set. There were tears in my eyes as I watched him ride away on his great brown horse, and listened to the distant thunder of hoofs across the moor. His face had told its own story. He was nerving himself to face some expected danger. From whose hands? Surely from Father Adrian's.
The thought worked within me. I stood for a moment, trying to quiet my passion. As I turned away I heard the stable-yard doors open, and a carriage, laden with luggage, drove slowly out, and, without coming to the front at all, turned down the avenue. I ran out, heedless of my slippers, and called to it to stop. The man obeyed me, and I caught it up, breathless. The blinds were closely drawn, but I opened the door. As I expected, it was she who sat inside, closely veiled and weeping.
"You were going, then, without a single word of farewell!" I cried reproachfully. "Is that kind? Have I deserved it from you?"
She threw up her veil. Her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. She looked at me pleadingly.
"Do not blame me more than you can help!" shesaid. "It was a great shock to me to see you—with the son of Martin de Vaux. It was more than a shock; it was a horror to me! He is like his father! He is very like his father!"
I knew that she had passed through a fiery sea of suffering, and I kept back the anger which threatened me. I pointed upwards.
"We cannot keep the dark clouds from gathering in the sky, nor can we make love come and go at our bidding. We are but creatures; it is fate which ordains!"
She bowed her head. "Fate, or the unknown God! I am not your judge, child! I do not leave you in anger!"
"Why do you go, then, and leave me here alone? It is not kind! It is not what I should expect from you!"
The tears started again into her eyes, but she shook them away. "I cannot explain as yet," she said. "You will think me ungrateful, I fear! I cannot help it! I must go. Farewell, Adrea!"
A sudden thought came to me. It was an inspiration. "You are not going of your own free will," I cried. "Some one has been influencing you!"
Her face was suddenly full of nervous terror. "Hush! hush!" she cried. "He will hear you! Let me go now! Let me go, I beseech you!"
I held her hands. "It is Father Adrian who is sending you away," I cried passionately. "He is my enemy. I hate him! Why should you obey him? Stay with me! Do, do stay!"
She looked at me as one would look at an ignorant child who blasphemes. "You are talking wildly! Father Adrian is far from being your enemy. You do not understand!"
Her voice had changed; the note of sympathy had died away. I turned away from the carriage door in despair. Father Adrian's power was greater than mine.
"You can go!" I said bitterly. "You would have left me here without one word, at his bidding. As you say, I do not understand."
She leaned forward, with a strange light in her eyes. "Child," she whispered, "I am going to Cruta."
The carriage drove away and I walked back to the house. The air seemed full of voices, and the grey rising mists loomed into strange shapes. Cruta! She was going to Cruta! What power had this man in his hands to send my lover from me with a heart like a stone, and this woman back into the living hell from which she had just freed herself. It was my turn now! Would he be able to subdue me to his bidding? The thought made me shudder.
I ran upstairs into my room, and bathed my forehead,and re-arranged my gown. Then I set my teeth together, and went down to him. It was to be a battle! Well! I was prepared!
It is over now. I know his strength, and I know his weakness. What passed between us I shall put down to-morrow. To-night I am weary.
This is exactly what happened after I regained the house. I went upstairs for a few minutes to arrange my hair and bathe my eyes. Then I walked straight down to the drawing-room, and I told myself that I was prepared for anything that might take place.
Father Adrian did not hear me enter, so I had the advantage at the onset of taking him by surprise. He was standing in the centre of the hearthrug, with his arms folded and his eyes cast down upon the ground. His eyebrows almost met in a black frown, and a curious grey pallor had spread itself over his face. When I entered, noiselessly moving the curtains, from the outer chamber, he was muttering to himself, and I strained my hearing to catch the meaning of his words.
"To-night must end it!" I heard him say. "She herself shall decide. Greater men have travelled the path before me! As for him, my pity has grown faint!It is the will of the Church! I myself am but the instrument. He stands between the Church and her rights! Between me and—her!"
His cheeks flushed, and his expression suddenly changed. He whispered a name! It was mine! His eyes were soft, and his lips were parted. The priest had vanished. His face was human and manly. I saw it, but my heart was as cold as steel.
"Father Adrian," I said quietly, "I am here."
He started, and looked towards me. If my heart could have been softened even to pity, it would have been softened by that look. But a woman's great selfishness was upon me! The man I loved was in some sort of danger at his hands. There was no room in my heart for any other thought. I was adamant.
He was silent for a moment, then he faced me steadily, and spoke. "So you have learned to love this Englishman, this De Vaux, the son of old Martin de Vaux! Answer me simply, Yes or No!"
"I have!"
I did not hesitate. What need was there for hesitation? I answered him defiantly, and without faltering.
"You will never marry him! You will not even become his mistress!"
I made no answer at first; I laughed! that was all.
"Who will prevent me?"
"I shall!"
"How?"
"The means are ready to my hand!"
My heart sank, but I forced a smile. "What are they?"
He considered a moment. "I can strip Paul de Vaux of every acre and every penny he possesses! I can break his mother's heart! I can proclaim his father a murderer!"
"I do not understand! I do not believe!"
The words left me boldly enough, but there was a lump in my throat, and my heart was sick.
"Listen!" He drew a small gold crucifix from his breast, and solemnly kissed it. Then, holding it in his hand, he repeated,—
"I can beggar Paul de Vaux by my proven word. I can take from him everything precious in life! I can take from him his name and his honours! I can break his mother's heart! I can proclaim his father a murderer! All this I can and will do, save you listen to me!"
He kissed the crucifix, and replaced it in his inner pocket. I had begun to tremble. The stamp of truth was upon his words. Still I tried to face him boldly.
"Even if this is so, what has it to do with me?" I cried.
"You know!" he answered. "In your heart you know! Yet, if you will—listen!" he continued, in a low tone. "You love Paul de Vaux!"
"It is true!"
"And you believe that he loves you?"
"I do!"
"Listen, then! Three nights ago I lifted that curtain, by the side of one who has left you for ever, and I saw you in his arms. I followed him out of the house; I walked by his side to Vaux Abbey, and I told him what I have told you. I wasted no time in idle threats. I told him what power was mine, and I said 'Choose!' He was silent!"
"Choose between what?" I interrupted.
"I bade him swear that he would never willingly look upon your face again, or prepare himself to face all the evils which it was in my power to bring upon him."
"And he?"
"He asked for time—for a week!"
A storm of anger was suddenly stirred up within me. I turned upon him with flashing eyes and quivering lips. Discretion and restraint were gone; I was like a tigress. I lacked only the power to kill.
"And by what right did you dare to thrust yourself between us?" I cried. "What have I to do with you, or you with me?"
He held up his hands for a moment, as though to shut out the sight of my face, ablaze with scorn and hatred. There was a short silence. Then he spoke in a low tone, vibrating with intensity of feeling.
"You know! In your heart you know!" he said. "Into my life has come the greatest humiliation which can befall such as I am! In sorrow and bitterness it has eaten itself into my heart. I am accursed in my own sight, and in the sight of God!"
I mocked at him. "I am not your confessor!" I laughed. "Go and tell your sins to those of your own order! I am a woman and you are a priest! Why do you look at me with that light in your eyes? Am I a prayer-book? Is there anything saintly in my face, that you should keep your eyes fixed upon it so steadily?"
I had hoped that my words would madden him, and he would lose his self-control. To my surprise, they had but little effect. He seemed scarcely to have heard.
"What have you to do with me, or I with you?" he repeated, in a voice which was rapidly gaining strength and passion. "God knows! Yet as surely as we bothlive, our lots are intertwined the one with the other."
"A godly priest!" I laughed. "What have you to do with me? What of your vows? Oh, how dare you try to play the lover with me! You hypocrite!"
He shrank back as though in pain. I laughed outright, glad that I had made him feel.
"Adrea!" he said slowly. "I was never a hypocrite to you. In your presence I have never breathed a word of my religion. Think for a moment of those days at Cruta. Did I not refuse to confess you? Why? You know! Because of those long, dreamy days we spent together, not as priest and penitent, but as man and woman. Do you remember them—the cliffs, with their giant shadows standing out across the blue waters of the harbour; the hollows, where we sat amongst the perfumed wild flowers, gazing across the sea, and watching the white sails in the distance; the nights, with their white moonlight and silent grandeur! Ay, Adrea! look me in the face, if you can, and tell me that you have forgotten them! You cannot! You dare not! It was you who brought me those books of wild, passionate poetry whose music entered into my very soul! It was you who tempted me with soft words, with your music, with your beauty, into that world of sense which holds me prisoner for ever. What I once was, I can never be again! It is you who worked the change—you whoawoke my man's heart, and set it beating for ever at your touch, at your movements, at the sight of you. It is you who taught me how to love—who opened to me the rose-covered gates of hell! There is no drawing back! You, who have dragged me down, shall share my fall with me, for better or for worse! You shall not escape! No other man shall have you! I have paid the price, and I will have you!"
I wrenched myself free from the arms which were closing around me, and stood trembling before him.
"Fool!" I cried. "You have dared to think of me like that because I chose to make use of you at Cruta! Make use of you! Yes, that is what I did! I wanted to escape! You and she were the only ones who could help me! Save for that, I had never wasted a moment upon you. I never thought of you as a man; you were only a priest. I never wished to see you again! You are in my way now; you stand between me and the man I love! I hate you!"
His dark eyes were lit up with a sudden fire and a deep flush stained his cheeks. For the first time I seemed to see the man in him as well as the priest, and I saw that he was handsome. It did not interest me; I noticed it only as an incident.
"I do not believe it!" he exclaimed. "You are not so false as you would have me believe, Adrea!"
His hand was on my wrist, and his dark eyes, strangely softened, were fixed pleadingly upon mine. Something in his manner, even in his tone, seemed to remind me of Paul. I was magnetized! For a moment I could not move, and during that moment his hands closed upon mine.
"Adrea, is such a love as I can offer you worth nothing? What did you tell me once was your life's ideal? Was it not the love of a strong, true man, always faithful, always loving? No one could love you more tenderly than I, no one could be more faithful. Until I saw you, no woman's face had dwelt in my thoughts for a single instant. In my heart you reign alone, Adrea! No one has been there before—no one will come after! Such as it is, it is a kingdom of your own!"
"I do not understand you," I said slowly, withdrawing my hands. "You talk to me of a man's love, a man's faithfulness! What do you know of it? You are a priest!"
He threw up his hands with a sudden cry of agony. His face was white and blanched.
"Do I not know it?" he exclaimed in a low, fierce tone. "Do you think I yielded easily to the poisoned web you have woven around me? The horror of it all has darkened my days, and made hideous my nights. And yet you can taunt me with it—you, for whom Iyield up conscience and future—you, for whom I give my soul! No other man could love as I love, Adrea!"
I looked him straight in the face and I did not spare him. What was the use? The truth was best!
"It is folly!" I said. "If your religion is worth anything to you, let it help you now! Let it teach you to forget me! Go away from here, and leave unharmed the man I love. If you do not, I shall hate you!"
He caught hold of my dress. He was on his knees before me—a bent, imploring figure.
"Too late! too late!" he cried. "My religion has gone! When love for you crept into my heart, I became worse than a heretic. It was sin, and the sin has spread. Oh! have mercy upon me, Adrea, have mercy upon me! Just a little of your love. It may not be much at first, but it will grow. Adrea, you must try—you shall try!"
I shook my gown from his trembling fingers, and looked down upon him with contempt in my heart, and contempt in my face. The flickering firelight cast a faint glow upon his blanched, wan features, and their utter humility filled me with an unreasoning and unreasonable loathing. I did not try to soften my words. I spoke out just as I felt, and watched him rise slowly to his feet, like a hunted and stricken animal, withouta pitying word or glance. As he rose upright, his head dropped. He did not look at me; he did not speak a single word. He walked slowly to the door with steps that faltered a little, and walked out of the room, and out of the house.
I watched him down the avenue, wondering at his strange silence. It had a curious effect upon me. I would rather have heard threats—even a torrent of anger. There was something curiously ominous in that slow, wordless exit. I watched him uneasily, full of dim, shapeless fears.
Outside the gate he paused in the middle of the road. To the left was the monastery where he had stayed; to the right was Vaux Abbey. I heard my heart beat while he paused, and my face was pressed against the window. For nearly a minute he stood quite still, with downcast head, thinking. Then he turned deliberately to the right, and set his face towards Vaux Abbey.
That was early in the evening yesterday—twenty-four hours ago. Since then not a soul has been near the house. Early this morning I saw Father Adrian coming along the road from Vaux. I ran upstairs, and locked myself in my room, after forbidding the servants to let him enter. From the windows Iwatched him. To my surprise he never even glanced in. He walked past the gates, and took the road to the monastery. I saw him slowly ascend the hill and vanish out of sight in the darkening twilight. Once, just before he reached the summit, he paused and looked steadily down here. I could not see his face, but I saw him raise his right hand for a moment toward the sky. Then he turned round and pursued his way.
If some one does not come to me soon, I shall go mad. Another hour has passed. My mind is made up; I shall go to Vaux Abbey.
An early darkness had fallen upon the earth. Black clouds had sailed across the young moon, and the evening breeze had changed into a gale. There was no rain as yet, but every prospect of it near at hand. A mass of lurid, yellowish clouds hung low down over the bending woods, and the wind whistled drearily amongst the fir trees. Paul de Vaux wrapped his cloak tightly around him, and, standing on the turf-covered floor of the ruined chapel, peered forward into the darkness, looking for the man whom he had come to meet. Even then he heard his voice before he could distinguish the dim outline of Father Adrian standing by his side.
"So you have come, Paul de Vaux, and in good time! It is well!"
"I am here!" Paul answered shortly. "If what you have to say to me will take long, come up to the house. It is dark and cold, and there is a storm rising."
The priest shook his head. "I have no wish to find shelter under the roof of Vaux Abbey," he said coldly. "You are well protected against the weather, and so am I. Let us stay here!"
Paul strove to look into his face, but the darkness baffled him. He could only see its outline, nothing of his expression. "As you will," he answered. "Speak! I am ready."
"I have dealt in no idle threats, Paul de Vaux," was the stern answer. "I gave you a chance, and you have thrown it away. Perhaps I did ill ever to offer it to you. But, at any rate, remember this: it is no idle vengeance which I am dealing out to you this night; it is our holy and despoiled Church calling for justice. I speak in her name!"
There was a moment's silence. Paul knew by his companion's bowed head and laboured utterance that he was suffering from some sort of emotion. But the darkness hid from him the workings of his pale features. When he spoke, his voice was low and solemn.
"Paul de Vaux, turn back in your mind to another night such as this, when the thunder of sea and wind shook the air, and the anger of God seemed fallen upon the earth. On that night your father lay dying in the island monastery of Cruta; and while you were risking your life in the storm to reach him, I knelt by his sidepraying for his soul, that it might not sink down amongst the damned in hell. He was a brave man, but with the icy hand of death closing around him fear touched his heart. It was no craven fear! He lay there still and quiet, but his heart was troubled. In the midst of my prayers he stopped me, and took the crucifix into his own hand.
"'Father,' he said, 'I have no faith in dying repentances. I have scouted religion all my life, and on my deathbed I will not cry for comfort to a Divinity which is a myth to me. Yet, as man to man, listen while I tell you a secret; and when I have finished, do you pray for me.'
"Shall I go on, Paul de Vaux? Shall I tell you all that your father's dying lips faltered out to me?"
"All! every word! Keep nothing back!" Paul spoke quickly, almost feverishly. He knew a little, but something told him that this priest knew more. He began dimly to suspect the nature of the revelation which was to come.
"You shall know everything," Father Adrian continued, in the same hushed tone, so low that Paul had to bend forward to catch the words as they fell from his lips. "If Martin de Vaux had been of our religion, and had sought me as a priest of the Church a seal would have been set upon my mouth. But itwas not so! Despite all my ministrations, he died as he had lived, in heresy and grievous sin. After all, it is only right that you, his son, should know what he forebore to tell you. Yet, in my weakness I might have spared you, if you yourself had not brought down this blow upon your head."
Paul raised his hand, and Father Adrian paused. "Listen," he said, in a low, deep tone. "There are secret pages in the lives of most of us—pages blurred and scarred with misery and suffering and sin. But there is a difference—a great difference. Some are turned over with firm and penitent fingers, and, although their scarlet record may never be blotted out, yet, by sacrifice and atonement, the fruits of the sin itself may die, and, dying, cast no shadow into the future. A sin against humanity can often be righted by human justice. Towards the close of my father's days, I knew for the first time that there was in his life one of those disfigured pages. He told me nothing. I sought to know nothing. Father Adrian," Paul went on, with a sudden strain of passion in his tone, and a gesture half unseen in the darkness, "if the shadow of his sin rests upon any human being, if it still lives upon the earth, then tell me all that is in your heart to tell, for there is work to be done. But if that page be locked andsealed, if those who suffered through it are dead, and the burden which darkened my father's days is his alone, then spare his memory! Strike at me, if you will! Deal out your promised vengeance, but let it fall on me alone!"
Paul ended his speech with a little burst of passion ringing in those last few words. He was conscious of a deep and fervent desire to hear nothing, to listen to nothing, which could teach him to hold less dear his father's memory. He shrank, with a human and perfectly natural feeling, from hearing evil of the dead. That last evil deed, the murder in that grim, bare chamber of death, had haunted him with vivid and painful intensity. But it was a crime by itself. It was horrible to imagine that it might indeed be the culmination of a life of license and contempt of all human laws. He had tried to think of it as something outside his father's life, something done in a momentary fit of madness, and that the man who suffered by it was some monster unfit for the companionship of his fellows—unfit to live. There were still tales to be heard in the county, and about town even, of the wild doings of Martin de Vaux in his younger days; but none of these had reached his son's ears. He would have been the last person likely to hear of them.
There was a short silence, and before Father Adrian spoke again the low-lying clouds were swept over their heads by a gale from seaward, and the wind commenced to whistle and shriek in the pine wood, and roar amongst the crumbling ruins, which scarcely afforded them protection from the blinding rain. Any further conversation was impossible. Paul lifted up his voice, and shouted in his companion's ear—
"These walls are not safe! We must go into the house. Will you come?"
Father Adrian hesitated, and then assented, wrapping his cloak around him. In a few moments they were inside the library, having entered through a private door and met no one. Breathless, Paul threw off his cloak, which was dripping with rain, and turned round almost fiercely upon his companion.
"Now speak!" he said. "I am ready to hear all."
The priest looked at him steadily for a moment, and then, with his pale face turned towards the fire, he commenced to speak.
"Sin is everlasting!" he said slowly. "Your father's sin lives, and on you the burden must fall! If you had kept the covenant which I placed before you, I might have spared you. You yourself have chosen. You must hear all! Listen!
"It was by chance that I was spending two monthsin charge of the monastery of St. Jerome, at Cruta, when your father arrived," he continued, without any pause. "He sought our hospitality and he at once obtained it. For two days he dwelt with us, spending his time for the most part in idle fashion, wandering about along the seashore or on the cliffs, but always with the look on his face of a man who does but dally with some fixed purpose. His doings were nothing to me, but by chance, from one of the brethren, I learnt that he was no stranger to the island—that once, many years ago, he had been the guest of the lord who ruled the little territory, and whose castle overshadows the monastery.
"On the third day of his stay, he remained within his guest-chamber until sundown, writing. As the vesper-bell rang I met him in the corridor, dressed for walking, and from his countenance I judged that whatever his mission to the island might be, he was about to bring it to an end. He passed me without speech, almost as though he had not seen me, and left the monastery. A few minutes afterwards, looking down from the windows to watch the brethren come in from their field tasks, I saw him take the road up to the castle.
"It was in the middle of the night when he returned. Midnight had come and gone, and every one in the monastery was asleep, when the hoarse, clangingbell down in the yard rang slightly, as though pulled by feeble fingers. I threw my cloak over my shoulders, and descended to admit him. When the last of the huge bolts had been withdrawn, and I threw the door open, I found him leaning against the wall, with his fingers clutched together in agony, and his bloodless features convulsed with pain. The moonlight was falling right across his face, pale and ghastly with pain, and by its light I seemed to see something dark dropping from him on the white flags. I leaned forward, horror-stricken, and I saw that it was blood."
"My God!"
Paul was standing very still and rigid, with his eyes fastened upon the priest. As yet, he scarcely realized anything more than that he was being told a very horrible story. But he was conscious of a feverish impatience, quite beyond his control. When Father Adrian paused at his exclamation, he beat the ground with his foot impatiently. "Go on! Go on!" he said hoarsely.
"I had no time to ask questions," the priest continued quietly. "Directly he left the support of the wall, and endeavoured to move towards me, your father threw up his arms with a sharp cry of pain, and almost fell upon his face. I was just in time to catch him, and exerting all my strength—for he was a powerful man—I dragged him up the steps and along the corridorto the nearest empty cell. There I laid him down upon a bed of ferns, and then hurried out to summon one of the brethren who was skilled in medicine.
"In a few moments he returned with me. By his direction, I gave your father brandy and other restoratives, while he cut open his coat to find out, if he could, the nature of the wound. It was easily discovered. He had been stabbed by a long dagger just below the heart. Had the dagger entered one-sixteenth of an inch higher, he must have bled to death upon the spot.
"We bound up the hurt as well as we could, and with the help of other of the monks, we carried him up to the guest-chamber, and put him to bed. In about half an hour he recovered consciousness, and called me to his side.
"'Pencil, paper,' he whispered.
"I handed him both. After several futile efforts he succeeded in writing a few words. Then he folded up the note, and handed it to me.
"'If you will send it without delay,' he whispered, 'I will give one hundred pounds to the monastery.'
"I never hesitated, for our funds were in a desperate state; but first I glanced at the direction. It was addressed to—
PAUL DE VAUX, Esq.,c/o The English Consul,Palermo.
"I promised that it should be sent, and, as you know, it was. Then I sent the others out of the room, and inquired about his hurt. He set his lips firm, and shook his head.
"'It was an accident,' he faltered. 'No one was to blame.'
"I told him briefly that it was impossible. The nature of his wound was such that it was clearly the work of an assassin. In a certain sense we were the upholders of the law on the island, and I pointed this out to him sternly. He only shook his head and closed his eyes. Neither then nor at any other time could I gain from him one single word as to his doings on that night. He would tell me nothing."
"You saw him going toward the castle," Paul interrupted. "Did you make inquiries there?"
The priest shook his head slowly. "No, I made no inquiries," he answered. "It was no matter for my interference. The castle, although it is a huge place, was deserted save for a few native servants, whosepatoiswas unintelligible to me. There were only two who dwelt there—the old Count himself, and one other—to whom I could have gone. Several nights after your father's illness I left the monastery, and tried to see the Count. He would not even have me admitted, and on my return, your father, who had guessed the reason of my absence, sent for me. He judged of the illsuccess of my mission, by my face, and he instantly appeared relieved. He then called me to the bedside, and made me an offer. He would give me, as a further contribution to our exhausted funds, a large sum of money on this condition—that I took no further steps in any direction towards ascertaining the nature of his accident, as he chose to call it, and that I should not mention it to you as the cause of his illness, or refer to it in any way if you arrived while he was there. I hesitated for some time, but in the end I consented. The money in itself was a great temptation—you see, I am frank with you—and, apart from that, your father at that time was on the verge of his fever, and at such a critical time I feared the ill results of not falling in with his wishes. So I promised, and I kept my promise; no one—not even you—knew that he died from that dagger thrust, and during the remainder of my stay on the island, I asked no questions concerning his visit to the castle."
"But did you hear nothing? were there no reports?" Paul asked.
Father Adrian hesitated. "There were no reports about your father," he said, "but the castle itself was always the object of the most unbounded superstition on the part of the inhabitants. They told strange tales of midnight cries, of lights from blocked-up chambers, and of the old Count who still dwelt there, although hehad not been seen outside the castle walls for many a year. He was reported to have sold himself to the Evil One, and at the very mention of his name the people crossed themselves in terror, and glanced uneasily over their shoulders."
"Idle tales!" cried Paul angrily. "Tell me, Father Adrian, did you know this Count of Cruta?"
There was a moment's silence. Father Adrian's face was turned away, and he seemed in no hurry to answer. "Yes, I knew him."
"You knew him! What is he like? Tell me!"
The priest shook his head. "I have nothing to tell you," he said in a low tone.
"You mean that you will not tell me."
The priest inclined his head. Paul turned upon him fiercely, "He was my father's murderer," he cried.
"It may be so. But remember that nothing is known! Remember, too, that your father's last wish was to keep secret the manner of his death!"
Paul seemed scarcely to have heard him. He was walking restlessly up and down the apartment. Presently he stopped in front of Father Adrian's chair.
"You have told me what happened to my father on the island," he said; "now tell me the story of his life, which you say that he confided to you. I must know what took him there."
Paul had not thought of ringing for lights, and, save around the fireplace, the room was wrapped in solemn darkness. Father Adrian's chair had been amongst the shadows, and Paul had seen nothing save his outline since they had entered the room. But now, his curiosity stirred by the sudden silence of the priest, he caught up the poker, and broke the burning log in the grate, so that the flames threw a quick light on his face.
Its extreme pallor struck him forcibly. It was a perfectly bloodless face, and the dark eyes, as black as jet, accentuated its pallor. Yet there was no lack of nervous strength or emotion. The thin lips were quivering, and the eyes were soft with feeling. Somehow, it seemed to Paul that this man's interest in the story which he had come to tell was no casual one; that he himself was mixed up in it, in a manner which as yet he had chosen to conceal. His colourless face was alight with human interest and sympathies. Who wasthis priest, and why had he come so far to tell his story? Paul felt that a mystery lay behind it all.
"You must not think," Father Adrian commenced slowly, "that your father told me the whole history of his life. It was one episode only, the memory of which weighed heavily upon him as death drew near. He did not tell me all concerning it; what he did tell me I will try and repeat to you.
"It was late in the afternoon of the day before your arrival that he called me to his bedside. Only a few hours ago we had told him that he must die, and since then he had been very silent. I came and knelt before him, and was commencing a prayer, when he stopped me.
"'I want you to listen while I tell you one of the worst actions of my life,' he said in a low tone, weakened by the suffering through which he had passed. 'The memory of it has haunted me always; it is the memory of it which has brought me here. I am not confessing to you, mind! only after I have told you this story, I want you to pray for me.
"'Thirty years ago I was in Palermo, and was introduced there to the Count of Cruta. We met several times, and on his departure he invited me to come over here for a week's shooting. I was wandering about on pleasure, with no fixed plans, and I did not hesitate fora moment. I should like nothing better than to come, I told him, and accordingly we returned here together.
"'The Count was a widower with one daughter, Irene. For a young man I was not particularly impressionable, and up till then I had thought very little about women. Nevertheless,—perhaps, I should say, all the more for that reason,—I fell in love with Irene. In a week's time I had all but told her so; and finding myself alone with her father one night after dinner, I boldly asked him for her hand. Somewhat to my surprise,—for considering the difference in our years, we had become very friendly,—he refused me point-blank. The first reason which he gave staggered me: Irene was already engaged to a Roumanian nobleman, who would be coming soon to claim her. But apart from that, he went on, he would never have consented to the match on the score of our different religions. I tried to argue with him, but it was useless; he would not even discuss the matter. His daughter's hand was promised, and his word was passed.
"'On the morrow I appealed to Irene, and here I met with more success. She confessed that she loved me, and, to my surprise, she consented at once when I proposed that she should run away with me. Our arrangements were made in haste and secrecy. My yacht lay in the harbour, and at midnight Irene stoledown to the shore, where I met her, and rowed her on board. A few minutes later we weighed anchor and steamed away, with the rusty old guns from the castle firing useless shots high over our heads.
"'I want to make my story as short as I can, so I will not attempt to offer any excuses for my conduct, or to seek to palliate it in any way. Irene had trusted herself to me, and I betrayed her trust. I did not marry her. She did not leave me; she did not even openly upbraid me; but nevertheless it hung like a dark cloud over her life. By degrees, she became altered. She tried to drown her memory by frivolity, by all manner of gaiety and excitement, and our life in Paris afforded her many opportunities.
"'The old Count of Cruta made two efforts to rescue his daughter from me. The first time he came alone; and before his righteous fury I was for a moment abashed. "Give me back my daughter!" he thundered, with his back to my closed door, and a pistol pointed to my head. I rang the bell, and Irene came, dressed for the evening, and humming a light opera tune. Then I saw to what depths of callousness I had dragged her, and I shuddered. She listened to the old man's stormy eloquence, and when he had finished his passionate appeal, she shrugged her shoulders slightly. She was perfectly happy, she declared, and she would diesooner than go back to thattristeCruta. Had he had a pleasant journey? she asked, and would he stay and dine? I saw her father shudder, and the words seemed frozen upon his lips. He looked at her in perfect silence for a full minute—looked at her from head to foot, at her soft white dress, with its floating sea of dainty draperies, and at the diamonds on her neck and bosom. Then his eye seemed to blaze with anger.
"'"Girl!" he cried sternly, "you have dragged down into the mire one of the proudest names in Europe! Curse you for it! As for you, sir," he added, turning to me, "you are a dishonoured scoundrel! a cur!"
"'He was right! I was a blackguard. But had it not been for those last words of his, I should straight-way have offered to have married Irene on the morrow. The words were on my lips, but the contempt of that monosyllable maddened me. The better impulse passed away.
"'"You should have given her to me when I asked for her hand," I answered. "You cur!" he repeated. I looked at him steadily. "You are an old man," I said, "or I should throw you down my stairs. Now go! Irene has nothing to say to you, nor have I."
"'He lingered on the threshold for a moment, surveying us both with a calm dignity, before which I felt ashamed.
"'"As you remind me, I am an old man," he said quietly, "and I have, alas, no son to chastise you as you deserve. But the season of old age is the season of prophecy! Listen, Martin de Vaux," pointing towards me, "you shall taste the bitterest dregs of sorrow and remorse in the days to come, for this your evil deed. You may scoff, both of you,—you may say to yourselves that an old man's words are words of folly,—but the day will come! It is writ in the book of fate, and my eyes have seen it! Pile sin upon sin, and pleasure upon pleasure; say to yourselves, 'let us eat and be merry, for to-morrow we shall die!' For so it is written, and my eyes have seen it!"
"'He was gone almost before the echo of his words had died away. I called after him, but there was no answer but the sound of a shutting door. I looked at Irene; she was calmly buttoning her glove.
"'"The carriage is waiting," she reminded me coolly.
"'I gave her my arm, and laughed. We drove to the opera.'"
Midnight rang solemnly out from the Abbey clock. The priest paused in his story to count the strokes, and Paul drew out his watch with an incredulous gesture.
"You must stay here to-night," he said; "it will be too late for you to leave."
He rang the bell, and ordered a room to be prepared. Father Adrian, who had been lost in a fit of deep abstraction, looked up and shook his head as the servant quitted the room. "I shall not stay here," he said quietly. "It is impossible."
Paul pointed to the clock. "You have more to tell me," he said, "and it is already late. If you are staying at the monastery of St. Bernard, it is nearly eight miles away, and you cannot possibly return."
"I have not so far to go," Father Adrian answered, "and this is the hour I always choose for walking. Do you wish to hear the rest of your father's confession?"