CHAPTER XXX.
When Helen de la Tremblade first entered the chapel by a private doorwhich led from a small room, called the sacristy, through the walls,into the country beyond, and of which Estoc possessed a key, she foundthe building vacant. There stood the coffin, covered with its pall;there burnt the lights upon the altar; and a little further on thepale flame of a votive lamp, dedicated by some of the deceased lordsof Liancourt to their patron saint, flickered before a little shrine,and cast a faint gleam into the right-hand aisle.
Helen's heart beat, and her temples throbbed. Her breath came thickand hard; and with difficulty her trembling limbs bore her forward.She was resolute, however; her mind was made up, and prepared, and herwhole spirit nerved for the terrible task--the most terrible thathuman being can perform--of confessing to one who has built up afabric of love and confidence, upon our virtue and our honour; a taleof sin, and shame; and slowly, feebly, and unsteadily, but with strongdetermination, she tottered forward till she reached the open spacebetween the coffin and the altar. Just as she did so, she heard a stepapproaching the chapel across the court. She knew it was that of himwhom she sought, and her heart sunk at the sound. Clasping her handstogether, and bending her head, she murmured prayer upon prayer forstrength, for forgiveness; while the step came nearer and more near,entered the chapel, advanced up the nave, suddenly paused, andremained suspended for more than a minute.
"He sees me," thought Helen. "Oh, God! how shall I meet him?"
She dared not raise her head; her hands remained clasped in the sameposition; her limbs lost all power; and she seemed for the momentturned into stone.
At length she heard a voice. "Helen!" it cried, "Helen," and then camethe priest's step rapidly moving towards her. The rustle of hisgarments told her he was near; for she dared not look up; and she sankupon her knees at his feet. Then were poured forth the rapid words ofshame and contrition, which we have mentioned; and then came aterrible pause, at the end of which she felt his arms around her, andheard the words of still enduring love and tenderness, with which hespoke. A wild and agonized sob burst from her bosom, and then theoverloaded heart relieved itself by tears.
The old man soothed and consoled his niece. He dried her eyes, hepressed her to his bosom, he told her to be comforted, he promised herforgiveness of all. He held out to her the high and merciful hopesvouched by the word of God for every sinner that repents, and, in theend he succeeded in tranquillizing her first emotions.
But Helen remembered the tale she had to tell. She recollected thatevery minute might be precious; and when seeing her more calm, hedesired her to tell him all, she did so as rapidly and clearly, as thenatural feelings of her heart would admit. The narrative was mingledwith the tears and blushes of burning shame and bitter remorse andagonizing self-condemnation, even while she related with simple truth,the arts which had been used to mislead, and the promises which hadbeen held out but to destroy. She attempted not to palliate, for notongue could be more full of blame, than hers was of herself; but yether whole tale was in itself a palliation of her fault; and when shecame to the end, all that remained in the bosom of the priest, wasanger and indignation towards the woman who had so neglected innocencecommitted to her charge, and towards the man who had so basely takenadvantage of that neglect to deceive a confiding heart, and stain apure and innocent spirit.
"The villain!" he cried, "the base deceitful villain. But even he isless culpable than that dark demon his mother. If ever there was afiend in human flesh 'tis she!--She burnt the letters, then? She tookfrom you the only proofs of his treachery and his falsehood?"
"She did," said Helen. "She called me every odious name, which,perhaps, I but too well deserved; and, in the midst of all herservants, drove me forth, to perish, for aught she knew, unfriendedand alone."
"She shall have her punishment," replied Walter de la Tremblade in astern, resolute tone. "Ay, here as well as hereafter. All the lettersdid you say?--all?"
"All I think," said Helen. "Nay," she added, "there may be one which Iplaced in the book of Hours you gave me; and it may have escaped hernotice, though doubtless she has caused search to be made since I wasdriven away. Yet, as the book is clasped, it might not be observed."
"What were its contents?" demanded the priest eagerly, with his keeneye fixed upon her face, so that its light seemed to dazzle andconfuse her.
Helen lifted her hand to her head, and for a moment gazed into vacancywith the effort to remember. "Yes," she said at length, "Yes, it wasthe last but one he wrote me. He promised to love me ever.--He said hewould see me soon again.--He called me his wife."
"He did? He did?" cried the priest, with a look of triumph. "Thatletter must be obtained, Helen!"
"But how?" demanded the poor girl with a mournful shake of the head;"even if it still exists, they will not let me enter those doorsagain."
"No," answered Walter de la Tremblade. "No, you never shall. But stillthat letter must be obtained, if it be in being. Ay, and it shall betoo; and that before to-morrow morning. What is the hour? Near one,--Ihad forgot, I had forgot. We have no time to lose! That accursed plotis on the eve of execution. It must be frustrated;" and, pressing hishand hard upon his brow, he fixed his eyes upon the pavement in deepmeditation. "Yes," he said at length, "that will do! Listen to me,Helen. They had laid a scheme to drive Rose d'Albret, who always lovedyou, into the arms of him who has betrayed you. They have persuadedher that Louis de Montigni is dead; and they think by blasting herreputation to leave her no choice but marriage with Chazeul."
"Oh, horrible!" cried Helen. "How base! how shameless!"
"It is worthy of its framer," replied the priest. "The maid is bribedor frightened to give him this night--yes within a few minutes fromthis time--to give him admission to her chamber."
"Oh! let me fly and tell her," cried Helen vehemently. "She must besaved, she must be saved.--I will go to her, I will go to her!--I willstay with her.--I will stab him first with my own hand!"
"Be calm, be calm," replied the priest; "there is no need of that. Wecan frustrate him as easily, and more innocently. There is a door frommy chamber into hers. It is unlocked or can be speedily opened. By ityou can go to her and tell her all. Let her know that De Montigni isliving, that the rumour of his death was but a fraud. Tell her howthey are practising against her peace. Bid her be firm and constant,and she shall have aid, when least she expects it. Stay with her ifyou will--or rather bring her forth into my chamber. There she canpass the night in security, and return with first dawn of morning. Andnow let us hasten away, Helen, for this must be done, my child, beforethe clock strikes one. I have to watch here; but to prevent this deedis a higher duty, and I may well be spared for a few minutes. AndGod's blessing be upon your endeavours."
Thus saying, he led her from the chapel, through the old hall andthe corridor beyond, and then up the stairs, feeling his way by thehand-rope that ran along the wall. All was dark and silent; not asound stirred in the house; and nothing but a faint ray of themoonlight, which shot across from a window halfway up the staircase,gave them any light in their course.
Opening the door of his own chamber, as quietly as possible, thepriest led Helen in; and then striking a light, he showed her the doorwhich led to the apartments of Rose d'Albret. It was locked, but thekey was in the inside and easily turned; and, ere they opened it,Walter de la Tremblade once more embraced his niece, saying, "I mustfind another time to comfort thee, my poor child; but the best comfortwill be vengeance on those who have wronged thee. Now go, and make nonoise. Speak to her in a whisper. Bid her rise at once and followthee, if she regards her safety, and her honour. Then lock both thesedoors, and rest in peace for this night. I will be with you early inthe morning; but I have much to do ere then."
Thus saying, he kissed her brow, and left her; and Helen opening thedoor, but leaving the light upon the table, crept softly into the roomof Mademoiselle d'Albret. Poor Rose, wearied and exhausted with allthat she had lately gone through, had at length fallen
into slumber.The curtains of her bed were thrown back; and there she lay like abeautiful statue on a tomb, her face pale with grief and weariness,the bright eyes closed, the long black lashes resting on her cheek,and one fair hand crossing her heaving bosom in all the languidrelaxation of sleep. The light streamed faintly in upon her from theneighbouring chamber, and seemed to produce some effect upon herslumbers; for a faint smile passed over her lip, as Helen stood for aninstant to gaze at her, and she murmured the word "Louis."
"She has happy dreams," said Helen to herself, "yet I must disturbthem;" and she laid her hand gently upon that of her friend.
Rose started up with a look of wild surprise, but Helen laid herfinger on her lips as a sign to be silent, and then whispered, "Riseinstantly, dearest Rose, and come with me into the next room. Bequick, if you would save your honour and your peace! You know not whatthey machinate against you."
Rose gazed at her for a moment in surprise, as if scarcelycomprehending what she meant: but then a sudden look of terror cameover her; and, rising without a word, she took some thin clothing, andfollowed whither her companion led.
Helen drew the curtains close round the bed, and then guided the ladyto the priest's chamber. While passing the door, they heard a murmur,as of low voices speaking in the ante-room, and Helen then turning thekey in the lock as silently as possible, pointed to an ebony crucifix,with a small ivory figure of the dying Saviour nailed upon it, whichstood upon the table, rising above a skull. She led Rose d'Albrettowards it; and, kneeling down together, they prayed.
When they rose, Mademoiselle d'Albret would fain have askedexplanations, but Helen whispered to be silent; and making her liedown in the priest's bed, she knelt by her side, drew the curtainround to deaden the sound of her voice, and then, in a low murmur,related all she had to tell. The first news that she gave were thejoyful tidings that De Montigni still lived; and Rose clasped herhands gladly, giving thanks to God. But at Helen's fartherintelligence, horror and consternation took possession of her. "Oh,heaven!" she said, "what will become of me, if they have recourse tosuch means as this?--Where shall I find safety?"
"Fear not, fear not," replied Helen: "my uncle will devise means todeliver you."
"Oh, let me fly, Helen," said Rose. "The door by which you came intothe chapel, may give me freedom."
Helen shook her head: "Not to-night," she said. "You might meet him inthe passages. As soon as he discovers you have left your room, therewill be search and inquiry. We must trust to him who brought mehither: but Walter de la Tremblade is not a man to be frustrated byany one. Leave it to him--he will deliver you."
No sound as yet had reached them from the neighbouring chamber,although they had now quitted it nearly an hour; but the door wasthick and heavy, and deeply sunk in the wall. The next moment,however, they heard voices speaking at the top of the stairs; and someone said aloud, "Goodnight, Monsieur de Chazeul!"
Those simple words were followed by a meaning laugh; then some othersounds not so distinct, and then all was silent again.
"You were right, dear Helen," said Rose d'Albret. "We should have beenstopped had I attempted to fly. But where will this end?--where willthis end?" and, turning her eyes to the pillow, she wept bitterly.
Helen tried to comfort her, though she herself needed consolation asmuch; for who can tell what were all the varied sensations, eachpainful, yet each different from the rest, which thronged her bosom onthat sad night? She felt, oh, how bitterly! that she had loved avillain, deeper, blacker, more degraded than all his treachery to hercould have taught her to believe; and there is no agony so horrible aswhen the cup of affection is first mingled with contempt andabhorrence. She was not only neglected and cast off for another,--thatshe could have borne, and wept or withered away in silence;--but shefound him for whom she had sacrificed all, using still baser arts thanthose he had employed against herself, for sordid objects, and withouteven the excuse of passion. She felt grief too, for Rose d'Albret, forher who had been so tender and so kind towards herself; and dread,lest, after all, the machinations of those who had the poor girl intheir toils, should prove successful, came like a cold dark cloud overthe dreary prospect of the future.
All these emotions were added to her own shame and remorse andterrible disappointment; and, although Rose insisted that she shouldlie down beside her, yet neither closed an eye; and the rest of thenight passed in long, though not uninterrupted, conversation. Oftenthey listened for sounds, often they paused to meditate over all thepainful circumstances that surrounded them; but still they turned todiscuss, with faint and sinking hearts, either the gloomy past or thedark impenetrable time to come, which offered their eyes no tangiblehope to rest upon, but in fresh sorrow, resistance and endurance.
With the first ray of light, Rose d'Albret returned to her ownchamber, determined to follow to the least particular the advice ofthe priest: but Helen remained in her uncle's room, in expectation ofhis return. Minute after minute fled, however, without his coming. Sheheard Rose call her maid, and voices speaking; she heard the sounds ofbusy life spread through the ch?teau; she heard distant tones of ahunting horn swell up from the woody country beyond. But still heruncle did not appear; and Helen, in terror at the thought of newcalamity, watched for him in vain.