CHAPTER XXVI
"LATE THOU COMEST, CRUEL THOU HAST BEEN"
"'I sped through England and across the Continent southwards as fastas express train and steamer could carry me. Count Hirsfeld shared thespecial which carried me from our nearest country station to the GreatNorthern junction, from whence the Scotch mail bore us to London. Herewe parted company, travelling the remainder of the way separately.On the evening of the second day, the steamer which I had hired atPalermo dropped anchor in the bay of Cruta, under the shadow of thegrim, black castle; and a small rowing-boat landed me beneath thecliffs before night fell.
"'I made my way up the narrow, winding path alone, and passing acrossthe paved courtyard, rang the hoarse, brazen bell at the principalentrance. A servant, bearing a torch, had opened the door, and wasbeckoning me to follow him long before its echoes had died away.
"'"Mademoiselle Irene!" I asked him, in a hushed, anxious tone. "Shelives?"
"'"She lives!" he repeated sombrely.
"'I followed him along the wide stone corridors, and up countlesssteps. At last he paused before a door, and after listening for amoment, knocked softly at it.
"'It was opened by a monk, whose face was hidden by the folds of hisdeep 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 adrawn curtain, as though guarding the plain iron bed which lay beyond,and towards which I had taken one impulsive step forward. Theirpresence, and an indefinable gloom,--beyond even the gloom of achamber of death,--which in the dim twilight seemed to hang about thevery air of the place, chilled me. There was little furniture, and nopictures hung upon the walls, save a wooden cross near the foot of thebed, before which two candles were burning. I looked around for someone to whom I could address myself, but there was no one beyond thesedark-coated, silent monks, who seemed more like shadows from anotherworld.
"'While I stood in the middle of the room, hesitating, the priest whohad admitted me passed by and took up his station at the foot of thebed. He motioned me to stand a little nearer, and suddenly thedrear silence of the room was broken by the low, monotonous chant ofprayers. I bowed my head, and kneeling by the bedside I took up theresponses, and once for a moment clasped the white, cold hand whichlay upon the coverlet, and which was all that I could see of the womanwhom I was making my wife.
"'The ceremony seems to me now like some far-distant dream, of which Iretain only the vaguest recollection. When it was all over, I laid myhand upon the curtain to draw it back, but the monk nearest to me heldmy hand in a vise-like grip, and before I could move, a voice from theother end of the room, where the shadows were deepest, arrested me.
"'"Touch that curtain, or dare to look upon my daughter's face, Martinde Vaux, and you die! For her soul's sake I have permitted this! Nowgo!"
"'I peered through the darkness, and I saw the tall, gaunt frameof the Count of Cruta standing near the entrance. I hesitated for amoment.
"'"Irene is my wife," I answered. "I offer no excuse to you formy conduct, but at least I have the right to try and win herforgiveness."
"'He moved a step forward, and his voice shook with passion. "You haveno rights! You are dishonoured! You are a villain! What! you to reasonwith me under my own roof! Away! Out of my sight, lest I forget myword and deal you out your deserts!"
"'My heart was hot with shame and anger, but I lingered. "Let herspeak," I answered, pointing to the bed. "It is she against whom Ihave sinned, and her word I will obey. Irene! may I not stay by yourside? 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 astrong, vise-like grasp, and one of the monks who stood there on guardsternly 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 thatI scarcely recognised it as the voice of Irene. "It is my wish--mycommand."
"'"One word, Irene!" I cried, struggling to free myself. "Just oneword!"
"'"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 myhead in despair and went.'"
* * * * *
There was a long pause. Father Adrian was leaning back in his chairwith half-closed eyes, as though exhausted. Paul, standing oppositeto him, motionless and silent as a figure of stone, was listening toevery word with grave, anxious face.
"Will you hear the rest of the story now?" the priest asked after aprolonged silence.
Paul bowed his head. "I am waiting," he said simply.
"I will continue, then, in your father's own words as near aspossible. 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 madeto enter the castle. On the fourth day, at sunrise, I was awakenedsuddenly by the deep tolling of the castle bell. I dressed hastily,and hurried up there; but I was thrust from the door, and forbidden toenter. I learned the truth, however, from one of the servants. Irenewas dead. On the next day I saw the little funeral processionstart from the castle, and directly they entered the grounds of themonastery I joined them. The old Count, bowed and aged with grief,stayed the ceremony, and bade them, with a sudden flash of his oldanger, thrust me from the place. But the priest by whose side I hadtaken my stand raised his hand, and forbade them to touch me. I wasin sanctuary,--my feet were on holy ground--and though the Count ofCruta, and Count Hirsfeld who knelt by his side, trembled with angerat my presence, I remained, and on my knees by my wife's grave Iuttered the first prayer my lips had framed since childhood. Throughthe pine trees which fringed the cliffs, I could see the path whereshe and I had met in the days when I was her father's guest, and whenI had knelt at her feet a passionate lover. The sunlight flashed uponthe blue waters below, and the seabirds flew screaming around ourheads. It was all just as it had been in the old days; the same forme, but never more for her. The long black coffin was lowered into thegrave, and reverently Count Hirsfeld stepped forward and covered itwith armfuls of exquisite white flowers, whose perfume made faint theodorous air. And I had no flowers to throw, nothing but the tributeof a passionate grief, and a heart well-nigh broken with sorrow andremorse.
"'The ceremony was over, and the black-robed monks and priest hadpassed away in a long, solemn procession. Her father, Count Hirsfeld,and I remained there alone; and over Irene's grave I leanedforward, speaking gently and humbly to him, praying for one word offorgiveness. His only answer was a look of scorn, and he turned awayfrom me with loathing. He would not hear me speak. To him, I was hisdaughter's murderer.
"'I left the island that night, and returned to England. For severalyears I lived a very retired life, attending to my duties upon theestate and seldom travelling beyond it. The memory of Irene seemed tohaunt me. But as time went on, a change came over my spirits. I wasyoung; and although I still bitterly regretted the past, its influencebecame weaker and weaker. What was done could not be undone; suchreparation as was possible I had made. Brooding over my sin wouldnever make it the less. I reasoned thus with myself, and the finalresult was inevitable. I commenced to mix more with my fellows, tolook up my old friends in town,--in fact, to take up again the threadsof my life, which I had once regarded as broken for ever.
"'After a while I married; and then, more than ever, Irene and thatportion of my past which was bound up with her seemed like somevague, far-distant nightmare, fast assuming a very remote place in mythoughts. I loved my wife as I had never loved Irene, and for a timeI was
intensely happy. A son was born to me, and in my joy I feastedhalf the county at Vaux Abbey. I had desired nothing so much asthis, for the De Vaux estates and mines, immense as they are, are allstrictly entailed. A son was wanted to complete my happiness, and ason I had. But already, although I knew it not, a storm was gatheringfor me.
"'It was about a fortnight after the festivities, and I had just comein with some friends from an afternoon's shooting, when I was toldthat a gentleman from abroad--the servant believed--was waiting to seeme in the library. Even as he spoke the words I seemed to know whoit was. My heart sank, and the presentiment of some coming evil wasstrong upon me. I hesitated, and then, feverishly anxious to knowthe worst, I turned away with some careless excuse to my guests andentered the library.
"'It was Count Hirsfeld who stood there waiting for my arrival, witha calm, evil smile upon his lips, which instinctively I felt to bethe herald of some coming trouble for me. Yet my courage did notaltogether desert me.
"'"Count Hirsfeld, your presence here demands an immediateexplanation," I said sternly. "Had I been at home, you would not havebeen admitted."
"'"I come," he answered slowly, with his eyes fixed steadily upon myface, "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, Irenede 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. "Ireneis living! Is it possible that you did not know it?"'"