CHAPTER XXIV
"THE SHATTERED VASE OF LOVE'S MOST HOLY VOWS"
Paul had not thought of ringing for lights, and, save around thefireplace, the room was wrapped in solemn darkness. Father Adrian'schair had been amongst the shadows, and Paul had seen nothing savehis outline since they had entered the room. But now, his curiositystirred 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 aquick light on his face.
Its extreme pallor struck him forcibly. It was a perfectly bloodlessface, and the dark eyes, as black as jet, accentuated its pallor. Yetthere was no lack of nervous strength or emotion. The thin lips werequivering, and the eyes were soft with feeling. Somehow, it seemed toPaul that this man's interest in the story which he had come to tellwas no casual one; that he himself was mixed up in it, in a mannerwhich as yet he had chosen to conceal. His colourless face was alightwith human interest and sympathies. Who was this priest, and why hadhe come so far to tell his story? Paul felt that a mystery lay behindit all.
"You must not think," Father Adrian commenced slowly, "that yourfather 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. Hedid not tell me all concerning it; what he did tell me I will try andrepeat to you.
"It was late in the afternoon of the day before your arrival that hecalled me to his bedside. Only a few hours ago we had told him thathe must die, and since then he had been very silent. I came and kneltbefore 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 mylife,' he said in a low tone, weakened by the suffering through whichhe had passed. 'The memory of it has haunted me always; it is thememory 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 forme.
"'Thirty years ago I was in Palermo, and was introduced there to theCount of Cruta. We met several times, and on his departure he invitedme to come over here for a week's shooting. I was wandering about onpleasure, with no fixed plans, and I did not hesitate for a moment. Ishould like nothing better than to come, I told him, and accordinglywe returned here together.
"'The Count was a widower with one daughter, Irene. For a young manI was not particularly impressionable, and up till then I had thoughtvery little about women. Nevertheless,--perhaps, I should say, all themore for that reason,--I fell in love with Irene. In a week's time Ihad all but told her so; and finding myself alone with her father onenight after dinner, I boldly asked him for her hand. Somewhat to mysurprise,--for considering the difference in our years, we had becomevery friendly,--he refused me point-blank. The first reason which hegave staggered me: Irene was already engaged to a Roumanian nobleman,who would be coming soon to claim her. But apart from that, he wenton, he would never have consented to the match on the score of ourdifferent religions. I tried to argue with him, but it was useless; hewould 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 consentedat once when I proposed that she should run away with me. Ourarrangements were made in haste and secrecy. My yacht lay in theharbour, and at midnight Irene stole down to the shore, where I mether, and rowed her on board. A few minutes later we weighed anchor andsteamed away, with the rusty old guns from the castle firing uselessshots high over our heads.
"'I want to make my story as short as I can, so I will not attemptto offer any excuses for my conduct, or to seek to palliate it in anyway. Irene had trusted herself to me, and I betrayed her trust. I didnot marry her. She did not leave me; she did not even openly upbraidme; but nevertheless it hung like a dark cloud over her life.By degrees, she became altered. She tried to drown her memory byfrivolity, by all manner of gaiety and excitement, and our life inParis afforded her many opportunities.
"'The old Count of Cruta made two efforts to rescue his daughter fromme. The first time he came alone; and before his righteous fury I wasfor a moment abashed. "Give me back my daughter!" he thundered, withhis back to my closed door, and a pistol pointed to my head. I rangthe bell, and Irene came, dressed for the evening, and humming a lightopera tune. Then I saw to what depths of callousness I had draggedher, and I shuddered. She listened to the old man's stormy eloquence,and when he had finished his passionate appeal, she shrugged hershoulders slightly. She was perfectly happy, she declared, and shewould die sooner than go back to that _triste_ Cruta. Had he had apleasant journey? she asked, and would he stay and dine? I saw herfather shudder, and the words seemed frozen upon his lips. He lookedat her in perfect silence for a full minute--looked at her from headto foot, at her soft white dress, with its floating sea of daintydraperies, and at the diamonds on her neck and bosom. Then his eyeseemed to blaze with anger.
"'"Girl!" he cried sternly, "you have dragged down into the mire oneof 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 lastwords of his, I should straight-way have offered to have married Ireneon the morrow. The words were on my lips, but the contempt of thatmonosyllable maddened me. The better impulse passed away.
"'"You should have given her to me when I asked for her hand," Ianswered. "You cur!" he repeated. I looked at him steadily. "You arean 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 acalm 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 ageis the season of prophecy! Listen, Martin de Vaux," pointing towardsme, "you shall taste the bitterest dregs of sorrow and remorse inthe days to come, for this your evil deed. You may scoff, both ofyou,--you may say to yourselves that an old man's words are words offolly,--but the day will come! It is writ in the book of fate, and myeyes have seen it! Pile sin upon sin, and pleasure upon pleasure; sayto 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. Icalled after him, but there was no answer but the sound of a shuttingdoor. 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.'"