CHAPTER XXVI

"LATE THOU COMEST, CRUEL THOU HAST BEEN"

"'I sped through England and across the Continent southwards as fast as express train and steamer could carry me. Count Hirsfeld shared the special which carried me from our nearest country station to the Great Northern junction, from whence the Scotch mail bore us to London. Here we parted company, travelling the remainder of the way separately. On the evening of the second day, the steamer which I had hired at Palermo dropped anchor in the bay of Cruta, under the shadow of the grim, black castle; and a small rowing-boat landed me beneath the cliffs before night fell.

"'I made my way up the narrow, winding path alone, and passing across the paved courtyard, rang the hoarse, brazen bell at the principal entrance. A servant, bearing a torch, had opened the door, and was beckoning me to follow him long before its echoes had died away.

"'"Mademoiselle Irene!" I asked him, in a hushed, anxious tone. "She lives?"

"'"She lives!" he repeated sombrely.

"'I followed him along the wide stone corridors, and up countless steps. At last he paused before a door, and after listening for a moment, knocked softly at it.

"'It was opened by a monk, whose face was hidden by the folds of his deep cowl. He motioned me to enter, and immediately closed the door.

"'I found myself in a spacious, lofty bedchamber, bare and dimly lit. Facing me two pale, solemn-visaged monks stood on either side of a drawn curtain, as though guarding the plain iron bed which lay beyond, and towards which I had taken one impulsive step forward. Their presence, and an indefinable gloom,—beyond even the gloom of a chamber of death,—which in the dim twilight seemed to hang about the very air of the place, chilled me. There was little furniture, and no pictures hung upon the walls, save a wooden cross near the foot of the bed, before which two candles were burning. I looked around for some one to whom I could address myself, but there was no one beyond these dark-coated, silent monks, who seemed more like shadows from another world.

"'While I stood in the middle of the room, hesitating, the priest who had admitted me passed by and took up his station at the foot of the bed. He motioned me to stand a little nearer, and suddenly the drear silence of the room was broken by the low, monotonous chant of prayers. I bowed my head, and kneeling by the bedside I took up the responses, and once for a moment clasped the white, cold hand which lay upon the coverlet, and which was all that I could see of the woman whom I was making my wife.

"'The ceremony seems to me now like some far-distant dream, of which I retain only the vaguest recollection. When it was all over, I laid my hand upon the curtain to draw it back, but the monk nearest to me held my hand in a vise-like grip, and before I could move, a voice from the other end of the room, where the shadows were deepest, arrested me.

"'"Touch that curtain, or dare to look upon my daughter's face, Martin de Vaux, and you die! For her soul's sake I have permitted this! Now go!"

"'I peered through the darkness, and I saw the tall, gaunt frame of the Count of Cruta standing near the entrance. I hesitated for a moment.

"'"Irene is my wife," I answered. "I offer no excuse to you for my conduct, but at least I have the right to try and win her forgiveness."

"'He moved a step forward, and his voice shook with passion. "You have no rights! You are dishonoured! You are a villain! What! you to reason with me under my own roof! Away! Out of my sight, lest I forget my word and deal you out your deserts!"

"'My heart was hot with shame and anger, but I lingered. "Let her speak," I answered, pointing to the bed. "It is she against whom I have sinned, and her word I will obey. Irene! may I not stay by your side? Tell me that you forgive!"

"'I clutched passionately at the curtain, resolved to tear it aside, and plead with Irene upon my knees. But I was held from behind in a strong, vise-like grasp, and one of the monks who stood there on guard sternly wrested the curtain from my hands.

"'"Away with him!" cried the Count, his voice shaking with passion. "Rudolph, do you hear!"

"'I nerved myself for a struggle, but in that moment's pause a thin, white hand stole from behind the curtain and held mine for a moment.

"'"Martin, go quickly!" said a faint, weak voice, so altered that I scarcely recognised it as the voice of Irene. "It is my wish—my command."

"'"One word, Irene!" I cried, struggling to free myself. "Just one word!"

"'"Farewell!"

"'"Irene, you are my wife. Have you nothing else to say to me?"

"'"Farewell!"

"'There was no sweetness, no regret in that single word. I bowed my head in despair and went.'"

There was a long pause. Father Adrian was leaning back in his chair with half-closed eyes, as though exhausted. Paul, standing opposite to him, motionless and silent as a figure of stone, was listening to every word with grave, anxious face.

"Will you hear the rest of the story now?" the priest asked after a prolonged silence.

Paul bowed his head. "I am waiting," he said simply.

"I will continue, then, in your father's own words as near as possible. This is what he told me."

"'I lingered in the island for several days, staying at the monastery, unwilling to go away, and yet frustrated in every attempt I made to enter the castle. On the fourth day, at sunrise, I was awakened suddenly by the deep tolling of the castle bell. I dressed hastily, and hurried up there; but I was thrust from the door, and forbidden to enter. I learned the truth, however, from one of the servants. Irene was dead. On the next day I saw the little funeral procession start from the castle, and directly they entered the grounds of the monastery I joined them. The old Count, bowed and aged with grief, stayed the ceremony, and bade them, with a sudden flash of his old anger, thrust me from the place. But the priest by whose side I had taken my stand raised his hand, and forbade them to touch me. I was in sanctuary,—my feet were on holy ground—and though the Count of Cruta, and Count Hirsfeld who knelt by his side, trembled with anger at my presence, I remained, and on my knees by my wife's grave I uttered the first prayer my lips had framed since childhood. Through the pine trees which fringed the cliffs, I could see the path where she and I had met in the days when I was her father's guest, and when I had knelt at her feet a passionate lover. The sunlight flashed upon the blue waters below, and the seabirds flew screaming around our heads. It was all just as it had been in the old days; the same for me, but never more for her. The long black coffin was lowered into the grave, and reverently Count Hirsfeld stepped forward and covered it with armfuls of exquisite white flowers, whose perfume made faint the odorous air. And I had no flowers to throw, nothing but the tribute of a passionate grief, and a heart well-nigh broken with sorrow and remorse.

"'The ceremony was over, and the black-robed monks and priest had passed away in a long, solemn procession. Her father, Count Hirsfeld, and I remained there alone; and over Irene's grave I leaned forward, speaking gently and humbly to him, praying for one word of forgiveness. His only answer was a look of scorn, and he turned away from me with loathing. He would not hear me speak. To him, I was his daughter's murderer.

"'I left the island that night, and returned to England. For several years I lived a very retired life, attending to my duties upon the estate and seldom travelling beyond it. The memory of Irene seemed to haunt me. But as time went on, a change came over my spirits. I was young; and although I still bitterly regretted the past, its influence became weaker and weaker. What was done could not be undone; such reparation as was possible I had made. Brooding over my sin would never make it the less. I reasoned thus with myself, and the final result was inevitable. I commenced to mix more with my fellows, to look up my old friends in town,—in fact, to take up again the threads of my life, which I had once regarded as broken for ever.

"'After a while I married; and then, more than ever, Irene and that portion of my past which was bound up with her seemed like some vague, far-distant nightmare, fast assuming a very remote place in my thoughts. I loved my wife as I had never loved Irene, and for a time I was intensely happy. A son was born to me, and in my joy I feasted half the county at Vaux Abbey. I had desired nothing so much as this, for the De Vaux estates and mines, immense as they are, are all strictly entailed. A son was wanted to complete my happiness, and a son I had. But already, although I knew it not, a storm was gathering for me.

"'It was about a fortnight after the festivities, and I had just come in with some friends from an afternoon's shooting, when I was told that a gentleman from abroad—the servant believed—was waiting to see me in the library. Even as he spoke the words I seemed to know who it was. My heart sank, and the presentiment of some coming evil was strong upon me. I hesitated, and then, feverishly anxious to know the worst, I turned away with some careless excuse to my guests and entered the library.

"'It was Count Hirsfeld who stood there waiting for my arrival, with a calm, evil smile upon his lips, which instinctively I felt to be the herald of some coming trouble for me. Yet my courage did not altogether desert me.

"'"Count Hirsfeld, your presence here demands an immediate explanation," I said sternly. "Had I been at home, you would not have been admitted."

"'"I come," he answered slowly, with his eyes fixed steadily upon my face, "as an ambassador from your wife."

"'"From my wife!" I repeated. "You do not know her! What do you mean?"

"'He shrugged his shoulders. "I regret that my meaning is not clear," he said. "I repeat that I come as an ambassador from your wife, Irene de Vaux. I have brought you a message from her."

"'"A message from the dead!" I gasped.

"'"Dead! By no means!" he answered, with a slow, cruel smile. "Irene is living! Is it possible that you did not know it?"'"