CHAPTER XXVII

"GRIM FIGURES TRACED BY SORROW'S FIERY HAND"

The lamp which stood on Paul's writing-table had gone out, and only a few dull red embers remained in the grate. By moving a single yard backwards, Paul was almost lost in the deep shadows which hung about the room, whilst such light as there was fell directly upon the priest's pale face. During those last few moments his voice had grown a shade more solemn—more intense. Paul, who stood looking out at him from the darkness with dazed senses, like a man in a dream, never doubted for an instant, although perhaps he scarcely realized the full meaning of the story to which he was listening.

"It must have been in this very room," Father Adrian continued, looking around him, "that your father and Count Hirsfeld stood face to face. But you are naturally impatient. I will take up the story again in your father's own words to me.

"'It was several moments before I could collect myself sufficiently to answer Count Hirsfeld. Everything seemed dim and unreal around me. Only that calm, mocking face remained steadfast, and his words rang in my ears.

"'"It is a lie!" I gasped. "We stood together by her grave! She is dead!"

"'The calmness suddenly vanished from my tormentor's face and manner. His eyes were ablaze with mingled triumph and hate. "You thought so, you poor fool!" he hissed out at me across the table. "Bah! you were a fool! You were easily deceived! Listen!

"'"You thought it a light thing to carry off the only daughter of the last Count of Cruta. 'Twas easily done, no doubt; but you made for yourself enemies of men from whose vengeance you were bound to suffer. One was the Count whose daughter you had dishonoured, and whose proud name you disgraced; the other was myself, the man whom she was to have married—myself, who loved her! Do you think that because I did not seek you out and shoot you as you deserved, that I forgot? There were men on the island who loved their lord, and who at the word from him would have hunted you down and murdered you. If he restrained them, do you imagine he was willing to bear this great dishonour without striking a blow? Bah! it was my word that said 'wait,' my counsel which saved you from death as too light a punishment. There is another way, I said. So we waited.

"'"It was my persuasions which induced Irene to leave you and return to her father. It was I who pointed out to her your great selfishness, and raised in her the longing for revenge! It was I who laid the plot into which you fell.

"'"A few words more! It is all so simple! Irene was about to become a mother; and you, believing her to be on her deathbed, married her. The child was born on the next day—your son and heir! Meanwhile, Irene's waiting maid, who had been for long in a consumption, died. It was her funeral which you attended with such interesting penitence. Irene herself was fast recovering; she was never in any real danger. She lives with her old father, and the boy lives with her. We waited! We read of your marriage, and the Count cried, 'Let us strike!' But I said, 'No, let us wait!' Time went on. We read again of the birth of a son and heir to you, and of the great rejoicings. Irene held your boy in her arms, and she frowned. 'Go now,' she commanded, 'tell Martin de Vaux that his son and heir is here, and his wife is here! Tell him that they are weary of his absence.' So I came!"

"'There was a dead silence. My throat and lips were dry; I could not speak. Count Hirsfeld watched me with folded arms. It was his vengeance!

"'"It is not true!" I stammered out at last. "I will not believe it. Irene is dead!"

"'I tried to speak confidently, but I failed. In my heart I believed the Count.

"'He shrugged his shoulders. "You have reason," he remarked. "Why should you believe me? Come to Cruta, and you will see for yourself. You can see the headstone at the foot of the grave: 'Sacred to the memory of Marie, faithful servant of Irene of Cruta.' You can see the doctor who attended her and your wife at the same time! Better still, you can see your wife and your infant son! What do you say?"

"'"I will not go!" I cried passionately. "I will not see them! It was base treachery!"

"'"One must use the weapons of craft against villains," he said. "There is no baseness to equal yours. You are repaid in your own coin; that is all."

"'I sank into a chair. The insult moved me to no fit of anger. I was numbed.

"'"If this be true," I asked, "what does Irene ask for? I will not go back to her, or see her, or acknowledge her in any way. She can have money, that is all!"

"'"Naturally, she requires an allowance," Count Hirsfeld answered, "and a large one, to enable her to bring up her son in accordance with his position!"

"'"She shall have the allowance; she shall have what she asks for," I declared; "but I will never acknowledge the boy, or her. If he takes the name of De Vaux, or forces himself upon me in any way, it shall be open war. The English courts will annul that marriage."

"'"I think not," he answered coolly. "Besides, you married into a noble family, did you not—a duke's daughter? How pleasant her position would be while such a case was being tried! And your son——"

"'I stopped him angrily. "I repeat that I will not acknowledge them. Money they can have, and the boy's future shall be my care! But not if he ever dares to call himself De Vaux."

"'The Count shrugged his shoulders. "I am but an ambassador," he said. "I will convey what you have said to your wife. You shall hear her decision."

"'He went away, and for a fortnight I was left in misery. At the end of that time I had a letter signed "Irene." It was cold and short. It told me that, so far as she herself was concerned, she had no desire or intention of claiming her position as my wife. All she demanded was an allowance to be paid to her order at a certain bank in Palermo at regular intervals for the support of herself and for the proper education and bringing up of her son. As to his future, she could not pledge herself to anything; for when the time came, he should decide for himself. She would bring him up in ignorance; but on his twenty-fifth birthday she should tell him the whole story, and place all the necessary papers in his hands. If he chose to use them and claim the De Vaux estates, he would easily be able to do so. If, on the other hand, he decided to remain as he was, she should not attempt in any way to alter his decision!

"'The letter was a great relief to me. Five-and-twenty years was a long respite. The boy might die—a thousand things might happen before then. At any rate, I was enough of a philosopher to seal down that secret page in my history, and to live as though it had never existed.

"'Five-and-twenty years is a long time, but it passed away. It is the portion of my life which I look back upon with the most pleasure. I did my utmost to atone for a wasted youth, and in some measure I succeeded. My fears had grown fainter and fainter, and when the blow came it was like a thunderbolt falling from a clear sky. One morning I received a letter in Irene's writing, a little fainter and less firm than of old, but still familiar to me. It contained only a few lines. She had told her son all, and he elected to assert his rightful name and position. In future he intended to call himself "De Vaux" and on my death he would claim the estates.

"'I read the letter, and determined on instant action. In a week my son Paul and I were on board my yacht, starting for the Mediterranean. We made for Palermo, and here we separated,—Paul, at all hazard, to find Count Hirsfeld, to whom I made a splendid offer if he would aid me in inducing Irene to change her purpose; I for Cruta, to see Irene.'

"This is almost the end of your father's confession to me," Father Adrian continued. "At Cruta he sought the hospitality of the monastery, where he was taken ill. He wrote an urgent letter to you, and immediately he was able to walk he went up to the castle. I have already told you of the manner of return. Of that visit he told me scarcely anything, and he told me nothing at all concerning the wound which he received there. Only I gathered that he was more than ever anxious to see Count Hirsfeld. It was while waiting for your return that he made this confession to me. I have finished."

The white morning light was stealing into the room through the uncurtained windows. The fire had burnt out, and there was only a handful of ashes in the grate. Outside in the park a grey mist was hanging about in the hollows and over the tree-tops, and something of its damp chilliness seemed to have found its way into the apartment. Paul, who had been leaning heavily upon the mantelpiece, with his head buried in his hands, looked up and shivered. Then he glanced quickly across towards the opposite easy-chair. Father Adrian was still there, and at Paul's movement he rose to his feet.

"This has been a terrible night for you, I fear," he said quietly. "I am sorry to have given you so much pain. If I could I would have spared you."

"I thank you," Paul answered wearily. "It was right that I should know. Why did you not tell me at Cruta?"

"It seemed to me that your father's death was enough for you to bear! Perhaps I was wrong!"

Paul made no answer. His thoughts seemed suddenly to have travelled far away. Father Adrian watched his pale, stricken face with cold, pitiless eyes.

"You are weary," he said softly. "I shall leave you now, but I have something more to say to you on this matter. It is no part of your father's confession. It is from myself. Can I come to-morrow or the next day?"

"Come in a week," Paul answered. "I shall be able to talk calmly then about this."

Father Adrian hesitated. "A week! Well, let it be so, then. Farewell!"