CHAPTER XXXIV
"A VOICE AND FIGURE FROM THE DISTANT PAST"
It was a long, steep ascent, hewn out of the solid rock; but at lastPaul stood before the great gates of the castle, and paused to takebreath. Hundreds of feet below him his yacht was riding at anchor,looking like a toy vessel upon a painted sea, and a little group ofscattered lights showed him where the hamlet lay. Before him was thestern, massive front of the castle, wrapped in profound gloom, butstanding out in clear, ponderous outline against the starlit sky.There seemed to be no light from any part of it, and the great irongates leading into the courtyard were closed. Nor was there any soundat all, not even the barking of a dog. It was like a dwelling of thedead.
A great, rusty bell-chain hung by the side of the gate, and as thereseemed to be no other means of communication with the interior, Paulpulled it vigorously. Its hoarse echoes had scarcely died away beforeseveral rough-looking islanders, carrying flaring oil lamps, troopedinto the courtyard from the rear of the building, and one of them,drawing the bolts, threw open the gates.
"I have come to see the Count," Paul said, addressing the nearest ofthem. "Will you conduct me to him?"
The man replied energetically, but in a _patois_ utterlyunintelligible. He led the way across the courtyard towards thecastle, however, and Paul followed close behind. They did not enterby the front, but by a low, nail-studded door at the extreme corner ofthe tower, which the man immediately closed and locked behind him.
Paul looked around him curiously, but in the semi-darkness there waslittle to see. He was in a corridor, of which the walls were simplywhitewashed, and the floor bare stone; but as they passed onward,down several passages, and up more than one flight of steps, theproportions of the place expanded. The ceilings grew loftier, and thecorridors wider. Yet there was no attempt anywhere at decoration orfurniture of any sort. The place was like an early-day prison--huge,bare, and damp. Once, crossing a balustraded corridor, there was aview of a huge hall down below, bare save for a few huge skins throwncarelessly around, and a great stack of firearms and other weaponswhich lined the walls on either side. It was the only sign ofhabitation that Paul had seen.
Suddenly his guide paused, and held up his finger. Paul, too,listened; and close at hand he heard, to his surprise, the muffledsound of voices chanting some sad hymn in a deep minor key. The riseand fall of those mournful voices was wonderfully impressive. Whatcould it mean? It was a dirge, a funeral hymn! Its every note seemedto breathe of death.
"What is that?" Paul asked. "Is any one ill--dying?"
The man shook his head. He could not understand. He only motioned toPaul to move silently, and hurried on. They were in a wide corridor,with disused doors on either side, but their feet fell no longer uponthe bare stone. A rough sort of drugget had been hastily thrown downin the centre of the passage, and their movements roused no morestrange echoes between the bare walls and the vaulted roof. At everystep forward they took the chanting grew more distinct, and at lastthe man stopped at the end of the passage before a door, softly tappedat it. It was opened at once, and Paul found himself ushered into agreat, dimly lit bedchamber.
He glanced around him with keen interest. If the interior of theroom was a little dilapidated, it was full of the remains of pastmagnificence. The walls were still covered with fine tapestry, ofwhich the design was almost obliterated, although the texture andcolouring still remained. The furniture was huge, and of thefashion of days gone by, and the bedstead was elaborately carved andsurmounted by a coat of arms. Further Paul had but little opportunityto discover, for as soon as his presence became known in the room, ablack-cowled monk left the bedside and approached him.
"We have been expecting you," he said in Italian, "and we fear nowthat you come too late. Our poor lady is beyond human skill!"
Paul looked at him in astonishment. "I do not quite understand you! Itis the Count of Cruta whom I came to see!"
The priest started back, and commenced fumbling with a lamp whichstood on a table at the foot of the bed. "Are you not the Germandoctor from Palermo?" he asked, bending over towards Paul, with hiskeen, dark face alight with suspicion and distrust.
Paul shook his head. "I am no doctor at all!" he answered. "I am anEnglishman, and my name is Paul de Vaux!"
"Ah!" There was a faint, incoherent cry from the bed--a cry, which,faint though it was, shook with stifled emotion. Both men turnedround, and Paul could see that the other's face was dark and stern.
The woman, who had been lying on the bed still and motionless as acorpse, had raised herself with a sudden, spasmodic movement. Hercheeks were sunken to the bone, and her eyes were large and staring.
The seal of death was upon her face, but Paul recognised her. Itwas the woman whom he had seen last in the drawing-room of MajorHarcourt's house, the woman whom Adrea had called her stepmother.
He took a sudden step forward, and she held out her hands in a gesturehalf of welcome, half of fear. "Paul de Vaux! Holy Mother of God! Whathas brought you here--here into the tiger's den? Come close to me!Hasten!"
Paul stepped forward, but the priest stood between them, holdingout his hands in a threatening gesture. "Sister, forbear!" he criedsternly. "You have made your peace with God; you have done with theworld and all its follies. Close your eyes and pray. Fix your thoughtsupon things above!"
She did not heed him. She did not even look towards him. Her eyes werefixed upon Paul, and he read their message aright.
"This woman wishes to speak to me. Stand aside, and let me go to her!"he exclaimed. "If she be indeed dying, surely you should respect herwishes."
He spoke imperatively, for the priest stood in the way, and preventedhis approach; pointing towards the door with a stern, commandinggesture.
"There must be no converse between you and this woman!" he said. "I amno lover of violent deeds; but if you insist upon forcing your wayto her bedside, I shall summon the Count, and you will pay for yourrashness with your life. Your name and features are a certain deathwarrant in this house. Escape while you may, and _pax vobiscum_.Remain and I cannot save you!"
Paul glanced round the room. Two monks were standing with lightedtapers on the further side of the bed, one of whom was mumbling aLatin prayer. The man who had brought him here was gone. There was noone else in the room, except the priest and himself.
"You are inhuman!" he said shortly. "The prayers of a dying woman aremore to me than your threats. Stand on one side!"
Paul laid his hand heavily upon the priest's shoulder. He was preparedeven to have used force had it been necessary, but it was not. Thelatter moved away at once, shaking his robes free from Paul's touchwith contemptuous gesture, and calling one of the monks to him, Paulsank on one knee by the side of the dying woman, and bent low downover her.
"Madame de Merteuill, you have something to say to me!" he whispered."What is it?"
Her voice was very low and very faint. She was even then upon thethreshold of death. Each word came out with a painful effort, but witha curious distinctness. "I am not Madame de Merteuill at all! I am thedaughter of the Count of Cruta!"
She paused to gather fresh strength, and Paul caught hold of some ofthe bedclothes, and clutched them in his fingers convulsively. Thiswoman, the daughter of the Count of Cruta! this wan, faded creature,the girl whom his father had borne away in triumph! His brain reeledwith the wonder of it! If only he had known a few weeks ago!She should never have left the Hermitage until she had told himeverything! Was it too late now? She was trying to speak to him. Washe upon the brink of a tremendous revelation? Was the whole past aboutto be made clear? Oh! if the old Count would keep away for awhile.
Her lips commenced to move. He bent close over her, determined not tolose a syllable. "You know the story about your father, Martin de Vauxand me. I----"
"Yes, yes! I know!" he assured her softly. "I have only heard itlately!"
"From whom?"
"From the priest who was always with you at De Vaux,--from your son!"he added, as th
e truth suddenly swept in upon him. Yes; Father Adrianwas this woman's son!
Her corpse-like face was fixed steadily upon him. Her words weremonotonous and slow, yet they preserved their distinctness. "You havecome here to know the truth of the story he told you?"
"Yes; I have come to discover it, if I can!"
"The holy Saints must have brought you to me. The story----"
"Yes?"
"The story is false!"
Paul bent lower still, with strained hearing. There had been a plot,then, after all. Oh, if she should die without finishing her story! Helooked into her bloodless face, and his pulses throbbed at fever-heat.
"You know my story," she murmured. "I commence at the time when I leftyour father in Paris. I had thought myself hardened in my sin; I wasmistaken. Repentance crept slowly but surely in upon me immediatelyafter my father's visit to us. His words haunted me. I began to stealaway in the evening to vespers at the Church of St. Cecilia. One nighta grave, sweet-faced priest stood up in the pulpit; and as his wordssank into my heart my sin rose up before me black and grim, and theburden of it grew intolerable. After the service I sought him, andI confessed. On the morrow I left Martin secretly and without adieu.Count Hirsfeld aided my escape. I came here!
"I came, hoping for forgiveness; but he, my father, could not forgetthe past. I found him living in grim and fierce solitude, shunned anddreaded by every one, ever brooding over my sin and his dishonour. Hemade me stay, yet he cursed me.
"Six months after my arrival Adrian was born. It was while I laybetween life and death that I wrote that letter to your father.Afterwards I told my father what I had done. The letter lay there;I dared not send it without my father's sanction. I sent for him andtold him all. To my surprise, he consented. He did more than that; hespoke of it to Count Hirsfeld, and the Count volunteered to take theletter to England. Their readiness made me worried and anxious. Iknew how they hated Martin de Vaux, and I was suspicious. I called thedoctor to my side, and questioned him closely. He declared solemnlythat I could not live a fortnight; it was impossible. I put mysuspicions away. It was for the honour of his name that my father hadconsented to receive Martin beneath his roof; there could be no otherreason. And I myself felt that the end was near. My body was cold, andthere was a deadly faintness, against which I was always struggling. Idreaded only lest he should come too late!
"It was only the night before his arrival that I learnt the truth. Iwas lying with my eyes closed, and they thought that I was asleep. Thedoctor and my father were talking together in whispers. The crisiswas over, I heard them say. In a few days Adrian would be born, and Ishould speedily recover, if all went well. I nerved myself, and calledmy father to me. I had overheard, I said; if Martin came, I wouldnot marry him. His anger was terrible. Both Count Hirsfeld and he hadknown from the commencement that I was likely to recover, but theywished to see Martin tricked into marrying me. I was firm; I would notconsent! I had written that letter believing myself to be dying.If Martin came, I would not see him now. If he was forced into mypresence, I should tell him the truth.
"My father left me, speechless with rage. For the next week my doorwas kept carefully locked, and no one but the doctor and the nursewere permitted to enter. Yet I learnt afterwards all that happened.Marie, my maid, who was slowly dying of consumption, was moved intothe principal bedchamber; and when Martin arrived, she was made topersonate me. It was the priest who gained her consent; the priest whoconfessed her and gave her absolution. His share of the spoil was tobe the De Vaux estates, handed over to the Church if ever they carriedout their plot successfully. Martin came, and, as he thought, grantedthat fervent prayer of mine. They stood around him with drawn swords;they would not allow him to approach the bed. As soon as the ceremonywas over, he was thrust from the castle.
"It happened that in less than a week Marie died. From my bed, whichfaced the window, I saw the little funeral procession leave thecastle--my father and Count Hirsfeld the chief mourners. I saw Martinfollowing away off, with sorrowing face, and I was glad then thatI had not deceived him. I saw him weeping over the grave which hebelieved to be mine. The day afterwards my son was born.
"As soon as Adrian could crawl about, he was taken from me by thepriests. They sent him to Italy, where he grew up a stranger to me.When he returned, I did not know him. I spoke to him of that falsemarriage; I wept for his lack of parentage. He knew everything; hespoke to me of it coldly, but without unkindness. He was a son of theChurch, he said; he needed no other mother.
"He dwelt for awhile at the monastery, and it was while he was therethat I became suspicious. My father, and he, and the Superior of themonastery were always together. They seemed to be urging somethingupon him, which he was loath to undertake. By degrees I found it allout. Adrian was to go to England as my lawful son and claim the DeVaux estates for the Church. At first he was unwilling; but by degreesthey won upon him. Warning was sent to Martin de Vaux, and he camehere swiftly--to his death! I was kept a close prisoner, but I foundout everything that was happening. For years afterwards, Adrian wasundecided whether to go to England and claim the estates. At last hedecided, unknown to me, to go. I escaped and followed him. I triedmy best to persuade him, but failed. I came back here ill--to die--todie!"
"And Adrea?"
"Adrea? She knew nothing! How could she?"
"Do you know who Adrea was?"
She seemed surprised that anything else could, for a moment, occupyhis mind after the story to which he had listened; but she struggledto answer him. "She was Count Hirsfeld's daughter! He never spoke tome of her mother! It was in Constantinople. I am afraid----"
He bowed his head. "I understand," he said simply. The colour hadsuddenly flooded into his cheeks, and there was a mist before hiseyes. Even in that supreme moment, when her senses were failing andher eyes were growing dim, she saw and understood.
"I wanted to be kind to her always," she faltered. "We would haveadopted her, but she would not stay here. She was unhappy, and Ihelped her to escape. I had my reasons!"
He had already guessed at them, and he held out his hand. He did notwish to hear any more. There was a moment's silence. She was lookingat him with dim, wistful eyes.
"You--you are very like your father!" she said, painfully. "Will youkiss me?"
He stooped down and kissed the pale, trembling lips, and heldher hands tightly. Her breath was coming fast, and she spoke withdifficulty.
"Thank God they brought you here instead of the doctor! I can die--atpeace now! But you--you are in danger! You must escape from here!You must not lose a minute! Oh, you do not know! you do not know! TheCount is cruel--bitterly cruel! He will not come to me although I die.He will not forgive, although I have suffered agonies! He is my fatherbut he will not forgive me. And you--you are in danger if he findsyou! They have gone for him! Ah! I remember! Father Andrew went forhim! He is afraid that I shall tell you the truth, and that the Churchwill not gain your property. Quick! you must go! Kiss me once more,Paul, and go! Go quickly! These monks are wolves, but they arecowards! Strike them down if they try to stop you! Don't hurt myfather! Farewell! farewell!"
"I will stay with you till the end," Paul whispered.
"No, no! away! I cannot die in peace and think of you--in danger. Iwant to pray. Leave me, now, Paul. Dear Martin! Martin, my love--is ityou?"
Her mind was wandering, and she saw her lover of old days in the manwhose hand she clasped so frantically; and Paul, although out inthe passage he could hear the sound of hurrying feet, could nottear himself away from her dying embrace. A faint, curious smile wasparting her pallid lips, and her dim eyes seemed suddenly to havecaught a dim reflection of the light to come.
"Martin! Martin! there is a mist everywhere--but I see you, dear love!Wait for me! Let us go hand in hand--hand in hand through the Valleyof the Shadow of Death. Oh, my love! it has been a weary, weary while.Hold me tighter, Martin! I cannot feel your hand! Ah! at last, atlast! Farewell sorrow, and grief, and suffering! We are together oncemo
re--a new world--behind the clouds! I am happy."