CHAPTER XVII
"IF LOVE YOU CHOOSE, THEN LOVE SHALL BE YOUR RUIN"
Paul and his companion walked down the avenue in silence, and turnedinto the narrow, stony road which wound across the moor. The storm wasover, and the rain had ceased. Above them, only faintly visible, asthough seen through a canopy of delicate lace, the stars were shiningin a cloudless sky through the wreaths of faint grey mist. Far off,the sound of the sea came rolling across the moor to their ears, nowloud and threatening as it beat against the iron cliffs and thunderedup the coombs, now striking a shriller note as the huge waves, everbeaten off, retreated, dragging beach and shingle with them. Ithad been an ocean gale, and the very air was salt and brackish withflavours of the sea. Here and there great piles of seaweed had beencarried in a heterogeneous mass to their feet, and the ground beneaththem was soft and sandy. But the storm had died away as suddenly as ithad come. The tall, stark pine trees, which a few hours ago had beenbending like whips before the rushing wind, stood now stiff and starkagainst the wan sky. There was not even motion enough in the air toclear away the white mists which hung around. Only the troubled searemained to mark the passage of the storm.
Paul was in no mood for talking. He recognised the fact that what hadhappened to him that evening must, to a certain extent, colour hiswhole life. He wanted to think it over quietly, now that he was awayfrom the influence of Adrea's passionately beautiful face and pleadingeyes. He had an inward sense of great disappointment in himself, andhe was anxious to see how far this was justified. He was prepared fora rigid self-examination, and he was impatient to begin upon it.But, while he was still upon the threshold of his meditations, hiscompanion's voice sounded in his ear.
"Paul de Vaux, I have a word or two to say to you."
Paul awoke with a start. "Certainly!" he said gravely. "I am ready."
Father Adrian continued, speaking slowly and keeping his eyes fixedsteadily upon Paul; "Only a few nights ago we met amongst the ruins ofyour old Abbey. You will remember that I spoke to you of your father'slast hours, of a strange story confided to my keeping--a story of sinand of sorrow--a story casting its shadow far into the future. Youremember this?"
"Perfectly!"
"At first you seemed to consider that this story, told to me onhis deathbed by a man who was at least repentant, should be heldsacred--sacred to me as a priest of the Holy Church, and sacred to youas his son. Yet, as you saw afterwards, it was not so. The confessionwas made to me as a man; and withal it was made by one outside thepale of any religion whatever. It was mine to do as I chose with! Itis mine now!"
"If it is anything which concerns me, or the honour of my family, youshould tell me. If it involves wrongs which should be righted, or inany way concerns the future, you should tell me. You must have comefor that purpose! You must mean to eventually, or why should you havefound your way to this out-of-the-way corner of the world. Let me hearit now, Father Adrian!"
"It will darken your life!"
"I do not believe it! At any rate I will judge for myself. Let me hearit!"
The priest looked away into the darkness, and his voice was low andhoarse. "You do not know what you ask!" he said. "No, I shall not tellyou yet. It is for your own sake! Sometimes I think that I will goaway and never tell you."
"Why not? You came here for no other reason."
Father Adrian shook his head. "I did not come to tell you. It wasyour home I came to see. Many hundreds of years ago Vaux Abbey was amonastery, sacred to the saint whose name I unworthily bear. My visithere was half a pilgrimage! But," he went on, his brows contracting,and his eyes gleaming fire, "since I came, I have been perilously nearstriking the blow which I have power to strike. You bear a name whichfor centuries was foremost in the history of our sacred Church. Forgeneration after generation the De Vauxs were good Catholics and thebenefactors of their Church. Your chapel was richly adorned, and fivepriests dwelt here always with old Sir Roland de Vaux. And now, whereis your chapel, once the most beautiful in England; it is a pile ofruins, like your faith! I wander round in your villages. Your tenantshave gone the way of their lord. Roman Catholicism is a dying power.Hideous chapels have sprung up in all your districts! The true faithis neglected! And who is to blame for it all? Your recreant family.You, who should have been the most zealous upholders of religion, havedrifted down the stream of fashion, nerveless and indifferent. Oh! itis heresy, rank heresy, to think of a De Vaux, such as you, dwellingindifferent amongst the mighty associations of your name and home! Iwander about amongst those magnificent ruins of yours, aestheticallybeautiful, but nevertheless a living, burning reproach, and I askmyself whether I do well in holding my peace. I cannot tell! I cannottell!"
Paul was moved in spite of himself by the vehemence of his companion'swords. The horrors of that deathbed scene at Cruta had never grown dimto him. He had always felt that his father had only decided tokeep something back from him in those last moments, after a bitterstruggle; and he was now quite sure that whatever it might have been,the secret had been confided to this priest.
"I want to ask you a question," he said. "Whatever this mystery may beto which you are constantly alluding, I am of course ignorant. But youseem to have some understanding with the two women whom we have leftthis evening. I want to know whether Adrea is concerned in it."
"She is not!"
"Nor Madame de Merteuill?"
"I cannot tell you!"
They were in the Abbey grounds, close to the ruins, and the moorlandlay behind them, with its floating mists and vague obscurity. Here thesky was soft and clear, and every pillar amongst the ruins stood outagainst the empty background of sea and sky. Father Adrian paused.
"I will come no further," he said. "I am a saner man away from yourdespoiled home. There is just a last word which I have to say to you."
Paul stood still, and listened.
"I have borne much," Father Adrian said, "much tempting and manyimpulses; but I have zealously put a watch upon my tongue, and Ihave spared you. For the future, your happiness--nay, your futureitself--is in your own hands. I saw your father kill the only relativeAdrea had in this world. We saw the deed done, though we have bothheld our peace concerning it. Paul de Vaux, I am inclined to spare youa great blow which it is in my power to strike. I am inclined to spareyou, but I make one hard and fast condition. Adrea is not for you! Shemust be neither your wife, nor your friend, nor your ward! There mustbe no dealings, no knowledge between you the one of the other! Thereis blood between you; it can never be wiped out! The stain is forever.Lift up your hand to heaven, and swear that you will never willinglylook upon her face again, or, as God is my master, I will bring uponyour name, and your family, and you, swift and everlasting shame!"
His hand fell to his side, and his voice, which had been vibratingwith passion, died away in a little, suppressed sob. Paul looked athim steadily. The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead ingreat beads, and his eyes were dry and brilliant. The man was shakento the very core, and in the strange upheaval of passion he hadaltogether lost his sacerdotality. It was the man who had spoken, theman, passionate and sensuous, deeply moved through every chord of hisbeing. The "priest" had fallen away from him, the remembrance of itseemed almost grotesque. Paul, too, had caught much of the passionateexcitement of the moment.
"Time!" he said hoarsely. "I must have time. A few days only. I ask noquestions! Only how long?"
"A week!" the priest answered. "A week to-night we meet here!"