CHAPTER XXV
"A BECKONING VOICE FROM OUT A SHADOWY LAND"
Midnight rang solemnly out from the Abbey clock. The priest paused inhis story to count the strokes, and Paul drew out his watch with anincredulous gesture.
"You must stay here to-night," he said; "it will be too late for youto 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 shookhis head as the servant quitted the room. "I shall not stay here," hesaid 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 ofSt. Bernard, it is nearly eight miles away, and you cannot possiblyreturn."
"I have not so far to go," Father Adrian answered, "and this is thehour I always choose for walking. Do you wish to hear the rest of yourfather's confession?"
Paul stood on the hearthrug with bowed head and folded arms. "I amready!" he said; "go on!"
Father Adrian remained silent for nearly a quarter of an hour; then herecommenced his story.
"'From the time of the old Count's visit,' your father went on, 'Inoticed a gradual change in Irene. She grew thin and pale and nervous,disliking more and more, every day, to go out, and becoming suddenlyaverse to all our previous pursuits and pleasures. We mixed amongsta Bohemian set in Paris, and we had a good many acquaintances of acertain sort. Amongst them was a man whom I always disliked, yet whomanaged somehow to establish himself upon terms of intimacy with us.His name was Count Victor Ferdinand Hirsfeld, and his nationality wasrather a puzzle to me, for he chose to maintain, without any apparentreason, a sort of mystery about it. With Irene he was ever moreintimate than with me, and more than once I noticed references intheir conversation which seemed to point to some previous acquaintancebetween them. I asked Irene no questions, for I trusted her but Iwatched Count Hirsfeld closely. I felt convinced that, under the maskof friendship, he was trying to win Irene from me, and though I neverfor one moment believed that he would succeed, I was anxious to obtainsome proof of his intentions, that I might punish him. Often after hisvisits, which seemed to be carefully chosen for a time at which I wasnearly certain to be out, I found Irene in tears; but when I sought tomake her explain, she had always some excuse.
"'We had lived together for three years when, without any warning,Irene left me. I came home one night from a dinner at the EnglishEmbassy, and found her gone. There was no message, not a single lineof adieu, not a ghost of a clew by which I could trace her. It was ashock to me; but when the first wrench was over, I knew that it wassomething of a relief. In my heart I was tired of the irregular lifewe had been leading, and longing to return to England and my oldhome. Irene herself was no longer dear to me. While she had remainedfaithful to me, I had considered myself, in a certain sense, bound toher, although the bonds had commenced to gall. Now that she had leftme of her own accord, I was free. I troubled little as to what hadbecome of her; youth is always selfish. She had either gone home toher father, or had run away with Count Hirsfeld, I determined at once.Of the two, I was inclined to believe the latter, from the fact ofher having left no message for me, and also as I found that he too hadquitted Paris suddenly. I purposely did not attempt to find out, forhad I discovered the latter to be true, I should have felt bound tocall Count Hirsfeld out the next time I met him, and I hated duelling.So, with a light heart, I disposed of my Paris establishment, sellingeven the house, and everything likely to remind me of a page of myhistory which I desired to blot out.
"'I returned to England, and settled down at Vaux Abbey. In a fewmonths my life with Irene lay back in the past, like a troubled dream,and I did my best to forget it. It was all hateful and tiresome tome. My mind was full now of healthier and more wholesome thoughts andpurposes. I felt like a man commencing life anew. Even my consciencehad almost ceased to trouble me. Irene had left me of her own will,nor had she been driven to it by any unkindness on my part. I wouldforget her. I had the right to forget her.
"'About six months had passed, and I was in the full enjoyment of myaltered life. One night, when the Abbey was full of guests, a servantwhispered in my ear, as we sat at dinner, that a gentleman,--aforeigner, the man believed--had just been driven over from thenearest railway station, and was in the library waiting to see me. Iknew in a moment that some sort of a resurrection of that buried pastwas at hand; and though I nodded carelessly and kept my countenance,my heart sank like lead. As soon as I could make an excuse, I leftthe table, with a brief apology to my guests, and made my way to thelibrary.
"'I had expected to find there Irene's father. Judge of mysurprise when I found Count Hirsfeld advancing to meet me, pale andtravel-stained, from the shadows of the room. I stopped short, andstood with my hands behind me.
"'"Mr. de Vaux, I bring you a letter," he said simply; "I am here as amessenger, and as a messenger only. Nothing but the prayers of a dyingwoman would have induced me to stand beneath your roof!"
"'"Your presence certainly needs some explanation," I answered coldly."Give me the letter!"
"'He handed it over, and I took it to the lamplight. The handwritingseemed unfamiliar to me; but when I glanced at the last page, I sawthat it was signed "Irene." I read it through hastily.
"CRUTA.
"MARTIN:--
"I left you meaning never to speak or write your name again, but fate has been too strong for me. When you see my handwriting, you may fear that I want to burden you once more with my presence, which has grown so wearisome to you! You need not! Soon there will be nothing left of me but a memory; even that I know will not survive long. For I am dying. Life is only a matter of days and hours with me now. For me, only a few more suns will rise and set. I am dying, else I had not taken up my pen to write to you.
"Martin, one's last hours are a time for plain speaking. I have never suffered one word of reproach to pass my lips, but you have wronged me deeply! You have turned what should have been the sweetness of my life into bitterness and gall. I do not remind you of this to heap idle reproaches on your head; I remind you of it simply because on my deathbed I am going to ask you what in the past I scorned to do. I am going to ask you to marry me.
"I could not hope to make you understand all that I have suffered during these last few months of my illness. I would not if I could. It is not worth while! My father, although he knows that I am dying, will scarcely speak to me. He has forgotten that I am his daughter, save when he laments it. He sits alone day by day, brooding upon the dishonour of his race. The priest, who prays for me, speaks words of doubtful comfort, as though, after all, he doubted whether salvation were possible for me. The horror of it all has entered into my soul! The sin of the past is ever before my eyes,--black and threatening,--and a great desolation reigns in my heart.
"And from it all I turn to you, Martin, to save me! You can do it! You only! You lose nothing! You risk nothing! and you will throw some faint light of consolation upon this, my dreary passage through the shadow-land of death. Once you loved me, far off and dim though that time may seem to you. You would be faithful always, you swore, as side by side we stood on board your yacht on the night of our flight, and watched the shores of Cruta grow dimmer and dimmer, and the white-faced dawn break quivering upon the waters. You would be faithful always! The words come back to me as I lie here in this great, dreary bedchamber, with a cold-faced priest muttering comfortless prayers by my side; dying alone, without a single kindly face to lighten my passage to the grave. Yet, do not read this as a reproach! Read it only as the prelude to this my last appeal to you! Marry me, Martin! It would cost you so little: just a hurried journey here, a few sentences over my bedside, a week's waiting at the most, and you could see me in my grave, and feel yourself free again. Is it too great a thing to do, to mak
e light the heart of a dying woman? I pray God that you may not think so! You have generosity! I appeal to it! Come, I beseech you! It is the prayer of a dying woman! I summon you to Cruta!
"IRENE."
"'Back again in the meshes of my old sin. The letter fluttered downfrom between my fingers on to the floor, and I stood with folded armsand bowed head, arraigned at the bar of my own judgment. I had marreda girl's fair young life! The memory of those old days--my passionatepersuasions and prayers--swept in upon me. Yes! she had trusted me,and I had deceived her! Her sin and her death lay at my door! Thehideous rascality of the thing oppressed me. I had been false to myname and traditions.
"'A cold, low voice from the other end of the room broke in upon mysurging thoughts. It was Count Hirsfeld who spoke.
"'"Forgive me for disturbing your doubtless pleasant reflections, buttime flies, and time is very precious to me just now. I await youranswer."
"'"It is not necessary," I replied; "I shall be at Cruta before you!"