CHAPTER XVII

"IF LOVE YOU CHOOSE, THEN LOVE SHALL BE YOUR RUIN"

Paul and his companion walked down the avenue in silence, and turned into the narrow, stony road which wound across the moor. The storm was over, and the rain had ceased. Above them, only faintly visible, as though seen through a canopy of delicate lace, the stars were shining in a cloudless sky through the wreaths of faint grey mist. Far off, the sound of the sea came rolling across the moor to their ears, now loud and threatening as it beat against the iron cliffs and thundered up the coombs, now striking a shriller note as the huge waves, ever beaten off, retreated, dragging beach and shingle with them. It had been an ocean gale, and the very air was salt and brackish with flavours of the sea. Here and there great piles of seaweed had been carried in a heterogeneous mass to their feet, and the ground beneath them was soft and sandy. But the storm had died away as suddenly as it had come. The tall, stark pine trees, which a few hours ago had been bending like whips before the rushing wind, stood now stiff and stark against the wan sky. There was not even motion enough in the air to clear away the white mists which hung around. Only the troubled sea remained to mark the passage of the storm.

Paul was in no mood for talking. He recognised the fact that what had happened to him that evening must, to a certain extent, colour his whole life. He wanted to think it over quietly, now that he was away from the influence of Adrea's passionately beautiful face and pleading eyes. He had an inward sense of great disappointment in himself, and he was anxious to see how far this was justified. He was prepared for a rigid self-examination, and he was impatient to begin upon it. But, while he was still upon the threshold of his meditations, his companion's voice sounded in his ear.

"Paul de Vaux, I have a word or two to say to you."

Paul awoke with a start. "Certainly!" he said gravely. "I am ready."

Father Adrian continued, speaking slowly and keeping his eyes fixed steadily upon Paul; "Only a few nights ago we met amongst the ruins of your old Abbey. You will remember that I spoke to you of your father's last hours, of a strange story confided to my keeping—a story of sin and of sorrow—a story casting its shadow far into the future. You remember this?"

"Perfectly!"

"At first you seemed to consider that this story, told to me on his deathbed by a man who was at least repentant, should be held sacred—sacred to me as a priest of the Holy Church, and sacred to you as his son. Yet, as you saw afterwards, it was not so. The confession was made to me as a man; and withal it was made by one outside the pale of any religion whatever. It was mine to do as I chose with! It is mine now!"

"If it is anything which concerns me, or the honour of my family, you should tell me. If it involves wrongs which should be righted, or in any way concerns the future, you should tell me. You must have come for that purpose! You must mean to eventually, or why should you have found your way to this out-of-the-way corner of the world. Let me hear it now, Father Adrian!"

"It will darken your life!"

"I do not believe it! At any rate I will judge for myself. Let me hear it!"

The priest looked away into the darkness, and his voice was low and hoarse. "You do not know what you ask!" he said. "No, I shall not tell you yet. It is for your own sake! Sometimes I think that I will go away and never tell you."

"Why not? You came here for no other reason."

Father Adrian shook his head. "I did not come to tell you. It was your home I came to see. Many hundreds of years ago Vaux Abbey was a monastery, sacred to the saint whose name I unworthily bear. My visit here was half a pilgrimage! But," he went on, his brows contracting, and his eyes gleaming fire, "since I came, I have been perilously near striking the blow which I have power to strike. You bear a name which for centuries was foremost in the history of our sacred Church. For generation after generation the De Vauxs were good Catholics and the benefactors of their Church. Your chapel was richly adorned, and five priests dwelt here always with old Sir Roland de Vaux. And now, where is your chapel, once the most beautiful in England; it is a pile of ruins, like your faith! I wander round in your villages. Your tenants have gone the way of their lord. Roman Catholicism is a dying power. Hideous chapels have sprung up in all your districts! The true faith is neglected! And who is to blame for it all? Your recreant family. You, who should have been the most zealous upholders of religion, have drifted down the stream of fashion, nerveless and indifferent. Oh! it is heresy, rank heresy, to think of a De Vaux, such as you, dwelling indifferent amongst the mighty associations of your name and home! I wander about amongst those magnificent ruins of yours, aesthetically beautiful, but nevertheless a living, burning reproach, and I ask myself whether I do well in holding my peace. I cannot tell! I cannot tell!"

Paul was moved in spite of himself by the vehemence of his companion's words. The horrors of that deathbed scene at Cruta had never grown dim to him. He had always felt that his father had only decided to keep something back from him in those last moments, after a bitter struggle; and he was now quite sure that whatever it might have been, the secret had been confided to this priest.

"I want to ask you a question," he said. "Whatever this mystery may be to which you are constantly alluding, I am of course ignorant. But you seem to have some understanding with the two women whom we have left this evening. I want to know whether Adrea is concerned in it."

"She is not!"

"Nor Madame de Merteuill?"

"I cannot tell you!"

They were in the Abbey grounds, close to the ruins, and the moorland lay behind them, with its floating mists and vague obscurity. Here the sky was soft and clear, and every pillar amongst the ruins stood out against the empty background of sea and sky. Father Adrian paused.

"I will come no further," he said. "I am a saner man away from your despoiled home. There is just a last word which I have to say to you."

Paul stood still, and listened.

"I have borne much," Father Adrian said, "much tempting and many impulses; but I have zealously put a watch upon my tongue, and I have spared you. For the future, your happiness—nay, your future itself—is in your own hands. I saw your father kill the only relative Adrea had in this world. We saw the deed done, though we have both held our peace concerning it. Paul de Vaux, I am inclined to spare you a great blow which it is in my power to strike. I am inclined to spare you, but I make one hard and fast condition. Adrea is not for you! She must be neither your wife, nor your friend, nor your ward! There must be no dealings, no knowledge between you the one of the other! There is blood between you; it can never be wiped out! The stain is forever. Lift up your hand to heaven, and swear that you will never willingly look upon her face again, or, as God is my master, I will bring upon your name, and your family, and you, swift and everlasting shame!"

His hand fell to his side, and his voice, which had been vibrating with passion, died away in a little, suppressed sob. Paul looked at him steadily. The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead in great beads, and his eyes were dry and brilliant. The man was shaken to the very core, and in the strange upheaval of passion he had altogether lost his sacerdotality. It was the man who had spoken, the man, passionate and sensuous, deeply moved through every chord of his being. The "priest" had fallen away from him, the remembrance of it seemed almost grotesque. Paul, too, had caught much of the passionate excitement of the moment.

"Time!" he said hoarsely. "I must have time. A few days only. I ask no questions! Only how long?"

"A week!" the priest answered. "A week to-night we meet here!"



CHAPTER XVIII

"SOFTLY GLIMMERING THROUGH THE LAURELS AT THE QUIET EVENFALL"

"Do you know who has taken Major Harcourt's cottage, Mr. de Vaux?" Lady May asked.

Paul was silent for a moment. He sat quite still in his saddle, and gazed across the moor, with his hand shading his eyes.

"I beg your pardon, Lady May," he said. "I thought that I heard the dogs. You asked me——"

"About Major Harcourt's cottage. Do you know who has taken it?"

"I am not sure about the name. It is a foreign lady, and her step-daughter, I believe. There is a clergy-man—or a Roman Catholic priest, rather—too; but he may be only a visitor."

"Indeed!"

The monosyllable was expressive. Paul glanced at his companion with slightly arched eyebrows. What had she heard? Something, evidently, for there had been a coolness in her manner all the morning, and her clear grey eyes were resting now upon the many gables of the cottage just below them, with distinct disapproval. Now that he thought of it, Paul remembered that a dogcart from the Castle had whirled past him as he had turned out of the drive last night. Doubtless he had been seen and recognised. Well! after all, what did it matter? The time when he had meant to ask Lady May to be his wife seemed very far back in the past now. Between that part of his life and now, there was a great gulf fixed. Last night had altered everything!

He had certainly not meant to hunt that morning, but it had been forced upon him. Quite early, Reynolds had come to his room to inquire whether he should provide breakfast for thirty or fifty, and had reminded him that the meet was in front of the Abbey. So, against his will, Paul had been compelled to entertain the hunt and join in it himself. Lady May had been specially invited to breakfast, but she had not come, and Paul had only just seen her for the first time at the cover side. She had greeted him coldly; and though they had somehow taken up a position a little apart from the others, very few words had passed between them. Her frank, delicate face was clouded, and her manner was reserved.

"I believe my brother knows who they are," she continued, after a short silence. "He saw them at the station."

Paul bit his lip, and turned away. The mystery of Lady May's manner was explained now.

"Did he tell you, then?"

Lady May toyed with her whip, and then looked Paul straight in the face. "Yes! he told me the name of the younger one. It is Adrea Kiros, the dancing girl. Mr. de Vaux, may I ask you a question?"

"Certainly!"

Lady May looked straight between her horse's ears, and a slight flush stole into her cheeks. "You must not think that I was listening; it was not so at all. But last night, as I was passing the billiard-room, I heard my brother and Captain Mortimer talking. They were coupling your name with this—Miss Adrea Kiros. They spoke of her coming down here as though you must have known something of it. They were blaming you, as though you were responsible for her coming. We have been friends, Mr. de Vaux; and so far as I am concerned, our friendship has been very pleasant. But if there is any truth in what they said—well, you can guess the rest. I want you to tell me yourself; I am never content to accept hearsay evidence against my friends. I prefer to be unconventional, as you see. Please tell me!"

"Will you put your question a little more definitely, Lady May?" Paul asked slowly.

"Certainly! Has that young person come here at your instigation? Did you arrange for her to come here?"

"I did not! No one could have been more surprised to see her than I was."

Lady May was growing very stiff. She sat up in her saddle, and drew the reins through her fingers. "You know her?"

"I do!"

"You visited her in London?"

"I did!"

"You were at the cottage last evening?"

"I was! I lost my way, and——"

Lady May touched her horse with her spur. "Thank you, Mr. de Vaux!" she said haughtily. "I will not trouble you any more. Please don't follow me!"

Paul watched her ride down the hillside and join one of the little groups dotted about outside the cover-side, with a curious sense of unreality. After a while he broke into a little laugh, and, shaking his reins, lit a cigar. This was a new character for him altogether. He knew himself that no man had kept his life more blameless than he! If anything, he felt sometimes that he had erred upon the other side in thinking and speaking too hastily of those who had been less circumspect. And now, it had come to this. The woman whose good opinion he had always valued next to his mother's had deliberately accused him of what must have seemed to her a flagrant outrage on decency. Her words were still ringing in his ears: "Please don't follow me." Lady May had said that to him; it was a little hard to realize.

A commotion around the cover below was a welcome diversion to him just then. A fox had got clear away, and hounds were in full cry. Paul pressed his hat down, and settled into his saddle with a grim smile. The physical excitement was just what he wanted, and in a few minutes he was leading the field, with only the master by his side, and Captain Westover a few yards behind.

At the first check, Captain Westover rode up to him. "I want just a word or two with you, De Vaux!" he said, drawing him on one side.

Paul drew himself up in his saddle, and sat there glum and unbending. "I am at your service," he answered. "I have had the pleasure already of a short conversation with your sister this morning."

Captain Westover nodded. "I suppose so. I want to beg your pardon first for what I am going to say, De Vaux. If I make an ass of myself, don't scruple to say so! But I want to ask you this! Why, in thunder, did you let Adrea what's-her-name, the dancing girl, come down here?"

"It was no business of mine! I did not know that she was coming!"

Captain Westover stroked his moustache and looked puzzled. "Look here, old man," he said slowly, "you go to see her in London, don't you?"

"I have been!"

"Just so! And you were down at the cottage last night, weren't you?"

"I was!"

"Well! hang it all, then you must have known something about her coming, you know! It can't be just a coincidence. Bevan & Bevan are my solicitors, and by the purest accident, one day I learned that Miss Adrea enjoys a settlement of a thousand a year from you. They didn't tell me, of course. I happened to catch sight of your check on the table one day, and overheard old Sam Bevan give some instructions to a clerk. Sorry, but I couldn't help it! You're the first person I've breathed it to."

"I am her guardian!" Paul exclaimed angrily.

Captain Westover whistled. "You may call it what you like, old fellow! I don't mind, I can assure you! You don't seem inclined to listen to any advice, so I won't offer any more. But if you'll forgive my saying so, you're doing a d——d silly thing. Good-morning."

On the whole, Paul did not enjoy his day's hunting; and before it was all over, he found himself once more in an embarrassing situation. For as he rode past the gates of the cottage, on his way home, Adrea was there, breathless and laughing, with her dusky hair waving loosely around her shapely head.

"I saw you coming," she said, a little shyly, "and I was afraid that you would not stop, so I ran out as fast as I could. It was silly of me! You were coming in, weren't you?"

"I think not!" Paul answered gravely. "Look how thick in mud I am, and how tired my horse looks!"

She looked up at him with pleading eyes and parted lips. "Do come!" she said. "I have been expecting you all day!"

She held the gate open, and stood looking up at him, a curiously picturesque-looking figure in the grey twilight. Her gown was like no other woman's; it was something between a Greek robe and a tea-gown, of a dull orange hue, and her dusky hair was tied up with a bow of ribbon of the same colour. Everything about her was strange; even the faint perfume which hung about her clothes, and which brought him sudden, swift memories of that moment when she had lain in his arms, and his lips had met hers. Paul felt the colour steal into his pale cheeks as he leaped to the ground, and passed his arm through his horse's bridle.

"I will come, cara mia!" he said softly.

She clasped her hands through his other arm, and whispered something in his ear, as they turned up the avenue together. Just then the sound of horses' hoofs in the road made them both turn round. Captain Westover and Lady May were riding by together, with their eyes fixed upon Paul and his companion.



CHAPTER XIX.

"BLOOD CALLS ALOUD FOR BLOOD AND NOT FOR HANDS ENTWINED"

It was with a strange conflict of feelings that Paul, with Adrea by his side, passed across the square, low hall of the cottage, plentifully decorated with stags' heads and other sporting trophies, and into the drawing-room. It was a room which had been built, too, of quaint shape, made up of nooks and corners and recesses, and with dark oak beams stretching right across the ceiling. The furniture was all old-fashioned, and of different periods; but the general effect was harmonious, though a trifle shabby. Paul knew it well! Many an evening he had come in to tea there, after a cigar and a chat with the old Major, and lounged in that low chair by Mrs. Harcourt's side. But it scarcely seemed like the same room to him now. The Major and his wife had been old-fashioned people, and their personality, and talk, and surroundings, had created a sort of atmosphere which Paul had grown almost to associate with the place. He missed it directly he entered the room. What it was that had worked the change it was hard to tell. Adrea had been far too charmed with its quaintness to seriously alter anything. A little stiffness in the arrangement of the furniture had been corrected, and the few antimacassars carefully removed; otherwise nothing had been changed. The great bowls of yellow roses and chrysanthemums, and the piles of modern books and music lying about, might have been partly responsible for it; and the faint perfume which he had grown to associate altogether with Adrea, and which seemed wafted into the air as she gathered up her skirts on her way into the room, had a foreign flavour in it. But, after all, it was Adrea herself who changed the atmosphere so completely. She was so different from other women in her strange Eastern beauty and the leopard-like grace of her movements that she could not fail to create an atmosphere around her. Yes! it was she herself who had worked the change; just as she had worked so wonderful a change in him, Paul told himself.

At first they had thought that the room was empty; and Adrea, who had entered a little in advance, turned round to Paul and held out her hands with a sudden sweeping gesture of invitation. Even in that moment, as he moved towards her, Paul had time to feel a quick glow of admiration at the artistic elegance of her pose and colouring. Her proud, dusky face and brilliant eyes found a perfect background in the deep orange of her loose gown, and the velvet twined amongst her dark hair. Her arms, stretched out towards him, were half bare, where the lace had fallen back, and a world of passionate love and invitation was glowing in her face as she leaned slightly towards him, as if impatient of his slow advance. But before his hands had touched hers, a voice from the further end of the room had broken in upon that eloquent silence.

"Adrea! you did not see me!"

They stood for a moment as though paralysed; then Adrea turned slowly round with darkening face. "I did not! I thought that you were upstairs!"

She glided out of the shadows, a slim, tall figure dressed with curious simplicity, and with white, bloodless face. "I am going away," she said, coming quite close to them, and fixing her full, deep eyes upon Adrea; "I am going away at once. But, Adrea, there is one word—just one word—"

"Say it!" Adrea interrupted impatiently.

She glanced at Paul. He made a movement as though to quit the room, but Adrea prevented him. "You need not go!" she said. "Anything that is to be said can be said to you as well as to me. I prefer to have no secrets! You were going to say something to me," she added, turning to her companion.

"Yes! I have no objection to say it before Mr. de Vaux. I simply want to ask you whether you consider him a proper visitor in this house?"

"I choose it! I am mistress here!"

For a moment an angry reply seemed to quiver upon the woman's lips, but it died away.

"You are right! I thank you for reminding me of it," she said quietly. "And yet, Adrea, hear me! You are doing an evil thing! Was your father's murder so light a thing to you that you can join hands with his murderer's son? Remember that day! Think of your father lying across that chamber floor, stricken dead in a single moment by Martin de Vaux—by his father! It is not seemly that you two should stand there, hand in hand! It is not seemly for you to be under the same roof! It is horrible!"

There was a moment's silence. Then Adrea threw open the door, and pointed to it.

"Go!" she ordered coldly. "You have had your say, and that is my answer! You were my father's friend; I believe that he loved you! It was for his sake that I offered you shelter! It was for his sake that I brought you here! But, remember this: if you wish to stay with me, let me never hear another word from you on this subject!"

She went out silently. Adrea closed the door, and turned round with all the hardness fading swiftly out of her features. A moment before there had been a look of the tigress in her eyes; and Paul, watching her, had shuddered. It was gone now. She came close up to Paul, and led him to a chair.

"Was I very undignified?" she said, laughing. "I am afraid I was. I was very angry!"

He shook his head. "You were not undignified," he said, "but you were very severe. I think that she will go away."

Adrea's face hardened again. "I do not care! I would hate the dearest friend I had on earth who tried to come between us. Oh! Paul, Paul! don't you feel as I do; as though the world were empty, and my mind swept bare of memories,—as though there were no background to it all, nothing save you and I, and our love?"

Paul drew her to him. For him, at that moment, there was no past nor any future. The dreamy abandon of her manner seemed to have raised an echo within him.

"Listen! What is that?" Adrea exclaimed suddenly.

There was the ring of a horse's hoofs in the avenue, and immediately afterwards a loud peal at the bell. Paul and Adrea looked at one another breathlessly. Who could it be?

The outer door was opened and closed, and then quick steps passed across the hall. The drawing-room door was thrown open, and Arthur de Vaux, pale and splashed with mud from head to foot, stood upon the threshold.



CHAPTER XX

"THE NEW, STRONG WINE OF LOVE"

The situation, although it was only a brief one, was for a moment possessed of a singularly dramatic force. The grouping and the colouring in that dimly lit drawing-room were all that an artist could desire, and the facial expressions bordered upon the tragic. Of all men in the world, his brother was the last whom of his own choosing Paul would have wished to see.

There was a brief silence. Arthur, breathless through his hasty entrance, could only stand there upon the threshold, his face white to the lips, and his eyes flashing with passionate anger and dismay. To him the situation was more than painful; it was horrible. To have believed ill of Paul from hearsay would have been impossible; his confidence in his elder brother had been unbounded. He had always looked up to him as the mirror of everything that was honorable and chivalrous. Even now, perhaps there might be some explanation—some partial explanation, at any rate. Paul was standing back amongst the shadows, and his face was only barely visible. Doubtless it was only surprise which held him silent. In a moment he would speak, and explain everything. It was this thought which loosened Arthur's tongue.

"Paul," he cried, and stepping forward into the room, "and Adrea! You here, and together! Tell me what it means! I have a right to know. I will know."

He had determined to be cool, to bear himself like a man, but their silence maddened him. Adrea, it is true, showed no signs of guilt or confusion in her cold, questioning face. But the deceit, if deceit there had been, was not hers. It was Paul who was responsible to him, and it was Paul who should have spoken—Paul, who stood there with a hidden face, a silent, immovable figure.

"Are you stricken dumb?" he cried angrily. "You can see who I am, can't you, Paul? Speak to me! Tell me whether there is any truth in these stories which are flying about the county, with no one to contradict them."

What might have been the tragedy of the situation vanished for Paul at the sound of his brother's words. After all, it was not the just anger of a deceived man with which he was confronted, but the empty scream of a boy's passion. Arthur's infatuation had but skimmed the surface of his light nature. He was pricked, not wounded. Yet, though in a sense this realization brought its relief, Paul felt humbled into the dust. He was actually conscious of his own humiliation. So far as a nature such as his could be conventional, he had become so in deference to the opinion of those who looked up to him as the head of a great house, and of whom much was to be expected, both socially and politically. What must become of that opinion now, Arthur's words too plainly foreshadowed.

He moved forward into the centre of the room, and faced his brother. There was only a small table between them.

"I do not know who sent you here, Arthur," he said, "or what reports you have heard, but it seems to me, that any explanation you may wish had better be deferred until our return home."

Arthur struck the table violently with his riding-whip, "I will not wait!" he cried. "Here is the proper place! I have been deceived and cajoled by—by—you, Adrea, and by my own brother! It is shameful! You hypocrite, Paul! You, to come up to London, and solemnly lecture me about a dancing girl. You d——d hypocrite!"

Before his passion, Paul's grave and steadfast silence gained an added dignity. Adrea, with a red spot burning on her cheeks, sailed between the two.

"Arthur, you are mad," she said, turning suddenly upon him, with her eyes afire. "Have I ever deceived you? Have I ever pretended to care for you? Bah, no! You are only an unformed, hysterical boy. Before, you were indifferent to me. Now, I am very quickly growing to hate you! Begone! Leave this house!"

He stood quite still, white and trembling. The scorn of her words had fallen like ice upon his heart. Then he turned, and groped for the door, as though there were a mist before his eyes.

"I suppose you are quite right," he faltered out. "I didn't see it quite the same way, that's all. I understand now."

The door opened and shut. In a moment or two the sound of his horse's hoofs were heard in the avenue, growing rapidly less distinct as he galloped away into the darkness. To Paul it sounded like the knell of his self-respect, but Adrea felt only the relief. Her eyes, full of soft invitation, sought his; but he did not move. He stood there, silent and motionless, with his face turned towards the window. Those dying sounds meant so much to him,—so much that she could never understand.

The consciousness of her near presence suddenly disturbed him. He turned round. Her warm breath was upon his cheek, and her white arms were twined about his neck.

"Paul," she whispered, "do not look so miserable, please! Come and talk to me."

Her arms tightened around him. He looked down at her with a peculiar helplessness. Their light weight seemed to him like a chain of iron weighing him down! down! down!

He had told himself that he had come to bid her farewell; that Father Adrian's words, vague though they were, yet had a definite meaning, and were worthy of his regard. But at that moment their memory was like a dying echo in his ears. This first passion of his life was strong upon him, and everything else was weak. The future was suddenly bounded for him by a pair of white, clinging arms, and a dark, beautiful face pressed close to his. He saw no more; he could see no further.



CHAPTER XXI

"ADREA'S DIARY"

"By love stalks hate, his brother and his mate."

I am scarcely calm enough to write! Yet I must write! My heart is full; my very pulses are throbbing with excitement! What is it that has happened? It is all confused in my mind. Let me try and set it down clearly; then perhaps I shall be able to see my way.

Yesterday it seemed to me that my being was all too small for one passion. Now it holds two! The one, perhaps, intensifies the other. That is possible, for they are opposites, and one has grown out of the other. Now I cannot tell which is the stronger, the love or the hate.

I love one man, and I hate another. Perhaps I should say I love one man because I hate another. You, my dumb confidant, may be trusted with names, so I will be clearer still. I love Paul de Vaux, and I hate Father Adrian!

Oh! that he should have dared! that he should have dared to speak so to me! If only Paul had been there, he should have beaten him. If I had had the strength and the means, I would have killed him where he stood, and silenced those thin, cruel lips for ever. I could have stabbed him to the heart, and my hand would never have faltered.

Let me try to recall that scene. It is not difficult. His words are ringing still in my ears, and his white, passionate face seems to follow and mock me wherever I look. I see it out there in the white moonlight, and it rises up from the dark corners of the room. It haunts me, and I hate it! I hate him as a woman hates any one who comes between her and the man she loves!

We were alone, Paul and I; at least, we thought so. I had heard no one enter, nor had he. But suddenly a voice rang out and filled the room; a fierce, cruel voice, so changed and hardened with passion that I scarcely recognised it. But when we sprang up, and peered through the twilight of the chamber we saw him standing close to us,—so close that he might even have heard our whispered words to one another.

There had been some ceremony at the monastery amongst the hills where most of his time here is spent, and he had evidently come straight from there. His flowing black robes were splashed with mud and torn by brambles, and his white face was livid with exhaustion and anger. His dark eyes burned like fire in their hollow depths, and his right hand was raised above his head, as though he had been on the point of striking or denouncing us. I shall not forget his appearance while I live. It will haunt me to my dying day.

I think that it is the mystery of it all which tortures me so. What has Paul to fear from him? Whence comes his power? What evil is it which he holds suspended over his head? There is only one that I can imagine. Father Adrian must hold the key to that awful deathbed scene at the monastery of Cruta. As I write the words, my hand shakes, my heart sickens with the horror of that memory. Well have I cause to shrink from all thought of that hideous night;—I, to whom the son of Martin de Vaux has become the dearest amongst men! What was it Paul said to me? "He knows something which my father told him whilst he lay dying." Is it that knowledge which gives him this strange power? I did not believe in it! I would not have believed in it! But, in that dreadful moment, I turned to Paul, and I saw his face!

A volley of words seemed trembling on Father Adrian's lips; yet he did not speak. We waited for the storm to burst; we waited till I could bear the silence no longer, and I felt that if it was not broken I should go mad. So I drew near to him, and spoke a single word in his ear. Then I glided back to Paul's side.

"Spy!"

He treated the insult as one might treat the bite of an insect in the face of some imminent danger. He did not reply to it; he did not appear to have heard it. His eyes traveled over me, as though they had been sightless, and challenged Paul's. In the excitement of the moment, his words sounded tame, and almost meaningless.

"This is your answer, then, Paul de Vaux! Let it be so! I accept your decision!"

There was no defiance in Paul's answer. His manner was quite subdued. I think that both his words and his tone surprised me.

"You have seen! I am in your hands!"

I looked from one to the other, troubled. I felt that there was a hidden meaning in their words which I could not understand. There was something between them from which I was excluded. But this much I knew. There was a threat in Father Adrian's words, and it was I who was the cause of it. Oh! if this man should bring evil upon Paul! The thought of it is like madness to me! See, there goes my pen! I cannot write when I think of it!

I have opened my window. The very air is sad with the moaning of the sea, and the rustling of the night breeze in the thick, tangled shrubbery below. But to me it is sweet and grateful! I am in no mood for pleasant sounds or sights. The dreariness of the night finds its echo in my heart. The damp breeze cools my forehead! To-night I feel conscious of a new strength. It is the strength of hate! My mind is full of dim purposes; time will aid them to gather strength! As they group themselves together, action will suggest itself. To time I leave them!

Let me go back to my recital of what passed between us three. A strange lethargic calm seemed to have fallen upon Paul. He turned to me without even a single trace of the passion which had lit up his face a few moments before.

"I must go!" he said quietly. "Farewell!"

I could scarcely believe that he meant it; that he was going away without another word, at what was really this priest's unspoken bidding. But it was so. From that moment, the fear of Father Adrian which had grown up in my heart leaped into a new strength. I was angry, and full of resistance.

"Why should you go?" I cried. "I have much to say to you!"

"I must go now, Adrea," he answered simply. "When I came I had no thought of staying. It is late!"

I felt my face grow hot with passion as I turned swiftly round towards Father Adrian. "It is you who should go," I cried. "Why have you come here? Why are you always creeping across my life like a dark, noisome shadow? Go away! Begone! I will not be left with you!"

He turned a shade paler, but he did not sacrifice his dignity, as I hoped that he would, by answering me with anger. He did not even answer me at all. He looked over my head at my lover.

"To-morrow night!" he said calmly.

"To-morrow night!" Paul answered.

I stood between them, angry but helpless. A log of wood had just fallen from the fire on to the hearth, and in its sudden blaze I could see their faces distinctly. The utter contrast between the two men threw each into strong relief. Paul, in his scarlet coat and riding clothes, pale and impassive, but debonnaire; and Father Adrian, his strange black garb mud-bespattered and disordered, and his dark, angry face livid with the passion so hardly suppressed. It was odd to think of them as creatures of the same species. Odder still to think that there should be this link between them.

I walked with Paul to the door, holding to his arm, and talking, half-gaily, half-reproachfully, all the way. We stood on the step together while his horse was being brought round, and in the half-lights he stooped down and kissed me. But his manner had changed. Even his lips were cold, and his eyes were no longer bright. There was a far-away look in them, and his face was white and set. There were tears in my eyes as I watched him ride away on his great brown horse, and listened to the distant thunder of hoofs across the moor. His face had told its own story. He was nerving himself to face some expected danger. From whose hands? Surely from Father Adrian's.

The thought worked within me. I stood for a moment, trying to quiet my passion. As I turned away I heard the stable-yard doors open, and a carriage, laden with luggage, drove slowly out, and, without coming to the front at all, turned down the avenue. I ran out, heedless of my slippers, and called to it to stop. The man obeyed me, and I caught it up, breathless. The blinds were closely drawn, but I opened the door. As I expected, it was she who sat inside, closely veiled and weeping.

"You were going, then, without a single word of farewell!" I cried reproachfully. "Is that kind? Have I deserved it from you?"

She threw up her veil. Her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. She looked at me pleadingly.

"Do not blame me more than you can help!" she said. "It was a great shock to me to see you—with the son of Martin de Vaux. It was more than a shock; it was a horror to me! He is like his father! He is very like his father!"

I knew that she had passed through a fiery sea of suffering, and I kept back the anger which threatened me. I pointed upwards.

"We cannot keep the dark clouds from gathering in the sky, nor can we make love come and go at our bidding. We are but creatures; it is fate which ordains!"

She bowed her head. "Fate, or the unknown God! I am not your judge, child! I do not leave you in anger!"

"Why do you go, then, and leave me here alone? It is not kind! It is not what I should expect from you!"

The tears started again into her eyes, but she shook them away. "I cannot explain as yet," she said. "You will think me ungrateful, I fear! I cannot help it! I must go. Farewell, Adrea!"

A sudden thought came to me. It was an inspiration. "You are not going of your own free will," I cried. "Some one has been influencing you!"

Her face was suddenly full of nervous terror. "Hush! hush!" she cried. "He will hear you! Let me go now! Let me go, I beseech you!"

I held her hands. "It is Father Adrian who is sending you away," I cried passionately. "He is my enemy. I hate him! Why should you obey him? Stay with me! Do, do stay!"

She looked at me as one would look at an ignorant child who blasphemes. "You are talking wildly! Father Adrian is far from being your enemy. You do not understand!"

Her voice had changed; the note of sympathy had died away. I turned away from the carriage door in despair. Father Adrian's power was greater than mine.

"You can go!" I said bitterly. "You would have left me here without one word, at his bidding. As you say, I do not understand."

She leaned forward, with a strange light in her eyes. "Child," she whispered, "I am going to Cruta."

The carriage drove away and I walked back to the house. The air seemed full of voices, and the grey rising mists loomed into strange shapes. Cruta! She was going to Cruta! What power had this man in his hands to send my lover from me with a heart like a stone, and this woman back into the living hell from which she had just freed herself. It was my turn now! Would he be able to subdue me to his bidding? The thought made me shudder.

I ran upstairs into my room, and bathed my forehead, and re-arranged my gown. Then I set my teeth together, and went down to him. It was to be a battle! Well! I was prepared!

* * * * *

It is over now. I know his strength, and I know his weakness. What passed between us I shall put down to-morrow. To-night I am weary.



CHAPTER XXII

"OH! HEART OF STONE, YET FLESH TO ALL SAVE ME"

This is exactly what happened after I regained the house. I went upstairs for a few minutes to arrange my hair and bathe my eyes. Then I walked straight down to the drawing-room, and I told myself that I was prepared for anything that might take place.

Father Adrian did not hear me enter, so I had the advantage at the onset of taking him by surprise. He was standing in the centre of the hearthrug, with his arms folded and his eyes cast down upon the ground. His eyebrows almost met in a black frown, and a curious grey pallor had spread itself over his face. When I entered, noiselessly moving the curtains, from the outer chamber, he was muttering to himself, and I strained my hearing to catch the meaning of his words.

"To-night must end it!" I heard him say. "She herself shall decide. Greater men have travelled the path before me! As for him, my pity has grown faint! It is the will of the Church! I myself am but the instrument. He stands between the Church and her rights! Between me and—her!"

His cheeks flushed, and his expression suddenly changed. He whispered a name! It was mine! His eyes were soft, and his lips were parted. The priest had vanished. His face was human and manly. I saw it, but my heart was as cold as steel.

"Father Adrian," I said quietly, "I am here."

He started, and looked towards me. If my heart could have been softened even to pity, it would have been softened by that look. But a woman's great selfishness was upon me! The man I loved was in some sort of danger at his hands. There was no room in my heart for any other thought. I was adamant.

He was silent for a moment, then he faced me steadily, and spoke. "So you have learned to love this Englishman, this De Vaux, the son of old Martin de Vaux! Answer me simply, Yes or No!"

"I have!"

I did not hesitate. What need was there for hesitation? I answered him defiantly, and without faltering.

"You will never marry him! You will not even become his mistress!"

I made no answer at first; I laughed! that was all.

"Who will prevent me?"

"I shall!"

"How?"

"The means are ready to my hand!"

My heart sank, but I forced a smile. "What are they?"

He considered a moment. "I can strip Paul de Vaux of every acre and every penny he possesses! I can break his mother's heart! I can proclaim his father a murderer!"

"I do not understand! I do not believe!"

The words left me boldly enough, but there was a lump in my throat, and my heart was sick.

"Listen!" He drew a small gold crucifix from his breast, and solemnly kissed it. Then, holding it in his hand, he repeated,—

"I can beggar Paul de Vaux by my proven word. I can take from him everything precious in life! I can take from him his name and his honours! I can break his mother's heart! I can proclaim his father a murderer! All this I can and will do, save you listen to me!"

He kissed the crucifix, and replaced it in his inner pocket. I had begun to tremble. The stamp of truth was upon his words. Still I tried to face him boldly.

"Even if this is so, what has it to do with me?" I cried.

"You know!" he answered. "In your heart you know! Yet, if you will—listen!" he continued, in a low tone. "You love Paul de Vaux!"

"It is true!"

"And you believe that he loves you?"

"I do!"

"Listen, then! Three nights ago I lifted that curtain, by the side of one who has left you for ever, and I saw you in his arms. I followed him out of the house; I walked by his side to Vaux Abbey, and I told him what I have told you. I wasted no time in idle threats. I told him what power was mine, and I said 'Choose!' He was silent!"

"Choose between what?" I interrupted.

"I bade him swear that he would never willingly look upon your face again, or prepare himself to face all the evils which it was in my power to bring upon him."

"And he?"

"He asked for time—for a week!"

A storm of anger was suddenly stirred up within me. I turned upon him with flashing eyes and quivering lips. Discretion and restraint were gone; I was like a tigress. I lacked only the power to kill.

"And by what right did you dare to thrust yourself between us?" I cried. "What have I to do with you, or you with me?"

He held up his hands for a moment, as though to shut out the sight of my face, ablaze with scorn and hatred. There was a short silence. Then he spoke in a low tone, vibrating with intensity of feeling.

"You know! In your heart you know!" he said. "Into my life has come the greatest humiliation which can befall such as I am! In sorrow and bitterness it has eaten itself into my heart. I am accursed in my own sight, and in the sight of God!"

I mocked at him. "I am not your confessor!" I laughed. "Go and tell your sins to those of your own order! I am a woman and you are a priest! Why do you look at me with that light in your eyes? Am I a prayer-book? Is there anything saintly in my face, that you should keep your eyes fixed upon it so steadily?"

I had hoped that my words would madden him, and he would lose his self-control. To my surprise, they had but little effect. He seemed scarcely to have heard.

"What have you to do with me, or I with you?" he repeated, in a voice which was rapidly gaining strength and passion. "God knows! Yet as surely as we both live, our lots are intertwined the one with the other."

"A godly priest!" I laughed. "What have you to do with me? What of your vows? Oh, how dare you try to play the lover with me! You hypocrite!"

He shrank back as though in pain. I laughed outright, glad that I had made him feel.

"Adrea!" he said slowly. "I was never a hypocrite to you. In your presence I have never breathed a word of my religion. Think for a moment of those days at Cruta. Did I not refuse to confess you? Why? You know! Because of those long, dreamy days we spent together, not as priest and penitent, but as man and woman. Do you remember them—the cliffs, with their giant shadows standing out across the blue waters of the harbour; the hollows, where we sat amongst the perfumed wild flowers, gazing across the sea, and watching the white sails in the distance; the nights, with their white moonlight and silent grandeur! Ay, Adrea! look me in the face, if you can, and tell me that you have forgotten them! You cannot! You dare not! It was you who brought me those books of wild, passionate poetry whose music entered into my very soul! It was you who tempted me with soft words, with your music, with your beauty, into that world of sense which holds me prisoner for ever. What I once was, I can never be again! It is you who worked the change—you who awoke my man's heart, and set it beating for ever at your touch, at your movements, at the sight of you. It is you who taught me how to love—who opened to me the rose-covered gates of hell! There is no drawing back! You, who have dragged me down, shall share my fall with me, for better or for worse! You shall not escape! No other man shall have you! I have paid the price, and I will have you!"

I wrenched myself free from the arms which were closing around me, and stood trembling before him.

"Fool!" I cried. "You have dared to think of me like that because I chose to make use of you at Cruta! Make use of you! Yes, that is what I did! I wanted to escape! You and she were the only ones who could help me! Save for that, I had never wasted a moment upon you. I never thought of you as a man; you were only a priest. I never wished to see you again! You are in my way now; you stand between me and the man I love! I hate you!"

His dark eyes were lit up with a sudden fire and a deep flush stained his cheeks. For the first time I seemed to see the man in him as well as the priest, and I saw that he was handsome. It did not interest me; I noticed it only as an incident.

"I do not believe it!" he exclaimed. "You are not so false as you would have me believe, Adrea!"

His hand was on my wrist, and his dark eyes, strangely softened, were fixed pleadingly upon mine. Something in his manner, even in his tone, seemed to remind me of Paul. I was magnetized! For a moment I could not move, and during that moment his hands closed upon mine.

"Adrea, is such a love as I can offer you worth nothing? What did you tell me once was your life's ideal? Was it not the love of a strong, true man, always faithful, always loving? No one could love you more tenderly than I, no one could be more faithful. Until I saw you, no woman's face had dwelt in my thoughts for a single instant. In my heart you reign alone, Adrea! No one has been there before—no one will come after! Such as it is, it is a kingdom of your own!"

"I do not understand you," I said slowly, withdrawing my hands. "You talk to me of a man's love, a man's faithfulness! What do you know of it? You are a priest!"

He threw up his hands with a sudden cry of agony. His face was white and blanched.

"Do I not know it?" he exclaimed in a low, fierce tone. "Do you think I yielded easily to the poisoned web you have woven around me? The horror of it all has darkened my days, and made hideous my nights. And yet you can taunt me with it—you, for whom I yield up conscience and future—you, for whom I give my soul! No other man could love as I love, Adrea!"

I looked him straight in the face and I did not spare him. What was the use? The truth was best!

"It is folly!" I said. "If your religion is worth anything to you, let it help you now! Let it teach you to forget me! Go away from here, and leave unharmed the man I love. If you do not, I shall hate you!"

He caught hold of my dress. He was on his knees before me—a bent, imploring figure.

"Too late! too late!" he cried. "My religion has gone! When love for you crept into my heart, I became worse than a heretic. It was sin, and the sin has spread. Oh! have mercy upon me, Adrea, have mercy upon me! Just a little of your love. It may not be much at first, but it will grow. Adrea, you must try—you shall try!"

I shook my gown from his trembling fingers, and looked down upon him with contempt in my heart, and contempt in my face. The flickering firelight cast a faint glow upon his blanched, wan features, and their utter humility filled me with an unreasoning and unreasonable loathing. I did not try to soften my words. I spoke out just as I felt, and watched him rise slowly to his feet, like a hunted and stricken animal, without a pitying word or glance. As he rose upright, his head dropped. He did not look at me; he did not speak a single word. He walked slowly to the door with steps that faltered a little, and walked out of the room, and out of the house.

I watched him down the avenue, wondering at his strange silence. It had a curious effect upon me. I would rather have heard threats—even a torrent of anger. There was something curiously ominous in that slow, wordless exit. I watched him uneasily, full of dim, shapeless fears.

Outside the gate he paused in the middle of the road. To the left was the monastery where he had stayed; to the right was Vaux Abbey. I heard my heart beat while he paused, and my face was pressed against the window. For nearly a minute he stood quite still, with downcast head, thinking. Then he turned deliberately to the right, and set his face towards Vaux Abbey.

* * * * *

That was early in the evening yesterday—twenty-four hours ago. Since then not a soul has been near the house. Early this morning I saw Father Adrian coming along the road from Vaux. I ran upstairs, and locked myself in my room, after forbidding the servants to let him enter. From the windows I watched him. To my surprise he never even glanced in. He walked past the gates, and took the road to the monastery. I saw him slowly ascend the hill and vanish out of sight in the darkening twilight. Once, just before he reached the summit, he paused and looked steadily down here. I could not see his face, but I saw him raise his right hand for a moment toward the sky. Then he turned round and pursued his way.

* * * * *

If some one does not come to me soon, I shall go mad. Another hour has passed. My mind is made up; I shall go to Vaux Abbey.



CHAPTER XXIII

"MY LIPS ARE CHARGED WITH TRUTH, AND JUSTICE BIDS ME SPEAK"

An early darkness had fallen upon the earth. Black clouds had sailed across the young moon, and the evening breeze had changed into a gale. There was no rain as yet, but every prospect of it near at hand. A mass of lurid, yellowish clouds hung low down over the bending woods, and the wind whistled drearily amongst the fir trees. Paul de Vaux wrapped his cloak tightly around him, and, standing on the turf-covered floor of the ruined chapel, peered forward into the darkness, looking for the man whom he had come to meet. Even then he heard his voice before he could distinguish the dim outline of Father Adrian standing by his side.

"So you have come, Paul de Vaux, and in good time! It is well!"

"I am here!" Paul answered shortly. "If what you have to say to me will take long, come up to the house. It is dark and cold, and there is a storm rising."

The priest shook his head. "I have no wish to find shelter under the roof of Vaux Abbey," he said coldly. "You are well protected against the weather, and so am I. Let us stay here!"

Paul strove to look into his face, but the darkness baffled him. He could only see its outline, nothing of his expression. "As you will," he answered. "Speak! I am ready."

"I have dealt in no idle threats, Paul de Vaux," was the stern answer. "I gave you a chance, and you have thrown it away. Perhaps I did ill ever to offer it to you. But, at any rate, remember this: it is no idle vengeance which I am dealing out to you this night; it is our holy and despoiled Church calling for justice. I speak in her name!"

There was a moment's silence. Paul knew by his companion's bowed head and laboured utterance that he was suffering from some sort of emotion. But the darkness hid from him the workings of his pale features. When he spoke, his voice was low and solemn.

"Paul de Vaux, turn back in your mind to another night such as this, when the thunder of sea and wind shook the air, and the anger of God seemed fallen upon the earth. On that night your father lay dying in the island monastery of Cruta; and while you were risking your life in the storm to reach him, I knelt by his side praying for his soul, that it might not sink down amongst the damned in hell. He was a brave man, but with the icy hand of death closing around him fear touched his heart. It was no craven fear! He lay there still and quiet, but his heart was troubled. In the midst of my prayers he stopped me, and took the crucifix into his own hand.

"'Father,' he said, 'I have no faith in dying repentances. I have scouted religion all my life, and on my deathbed I will not cry for comfort to a Divinity which is a myth to me. Yet, as man to man, listen while I tell you a secret; and when I have finished, do you pray for me.'

"Shall I go on, Paul de Vaux? Shall I tell you all that your father's dying lips faltered out to me?"

"All! every word! Keep nothing back!" Paul spoke quickly, almost feverishly. He knew a little, but something told him that this priest knew more. He began dimly to suspect the nature of the revelation which was to come.

"You shall know everything," Father Adrian continued, in the same hushed tone, so low that Paul had to bend forward to catch the words as they fell from his lips. "If Martin de Vaux had been of our religion, and had sought me as a priest of the Church a seal would have been set upon my mouth. But it was not so! Despite all my ministrations, he died as he had lived, in heresy and grievous sin. After all, it is only right that you, his son, should know what he forebore to tell you. Yet, in my weakness I might have spared you, if you yourself had not brought down this blow upon your head."

Paul raised his hand, and Father Adrian paused. "Listen," he said, in a low, deep tone. "There are secret pages in the lives of most of us—pages blurred and scarred with misery and suffering and sin. But there is a difference—a great difference. Some are turned over with firm and penitent fingers, and, although their scarlet record may never be blotted out, yet, by sacrifice and atonement, the fruits of the sin itself may die, and, dying, cast no shadow into the future. A sin against humanity can often be righted by human justice. Towards the close of my father's days, I knew for the first time that there was in his life one of those disfigured pages. He told me nothing. I sought to know nothing. Father Adrian," Paul went on, with a sudden strain of passion in his tone, and a gesture half unseen in the darkness, "if the shadow of his sin rests upon any human being, if it still lives upon the earth, then tell me all that is in your heart to tell, for there is work to be done. But if that page be locked and sealed, if those who suffered through it are dead, and the burden which darkened my father's days is his alone, then spare his memory! Strike at me, if you will! Deal out your promised vengeance, but let it fall on me alone!"

Paul ended his speech with a little burst of passion ringing in those last few words. He was conscious of a deep and fervent desire to hear nothing, to listen to nothing, which could teach him to hold less dear his father's memory. He shrank, with a human and perfectly natural feeling, from hearing evil of the dead. That last evil deed, the murder in that grim, bare chamber of death, had haunted him with vivid and painful intensity. But it was a crime by itself. It was horrible to imagine that it might indeed be the culmination of a life of license and contempt of all human laws. He had tried to think of it as something outside his father's life, something done in a momentary fit of madness, and that the man who suffered by it was some monster unfit for the companionship of his fellows—unfit to live. There were still tales to be heard in the county, and about town even, of the wild doings of Martin de Vaux in his younger days; but none of these had reached his son's ears. He would have been the last person likely to hear of them.

There was a short silence, and before Father Adrian spoke again the low-lying clouds were swept over their heads by a gale from seaward, and the wind commenced to whistle and shriek in the pine wood, and roar amongst the crumbling ruins, which scarcely afforded them protection from the blinding rain. Any further conversation was impossible. Paul lifted up his voice, and shouted in his companion's ear—

"These walls are not safe! We must go into the house. Will you come?"

Father Adrian hesitated, and then assented, wrapping his cloak around him. In a few moments they were inside the library, having entered through a private door and met no one. Breathless, Paul threw off his cloak, which was dripping with rain, and turned round almost fiercely upon his companion.

"Now speak!" he said. "I am ready to hear all."

The priest looked at him steadily for a moment, and then, with his pale face turned towards the fire, he commenced to speak.

"Sin is everlasting!" he said slowly. "Your father's sin lives, and on you the burden must fall! If you had kept the covenant which I placed before you, I might have spared you. You yourself have chosen. You must hear all! Listen!

"It was by chance that I was spending two months in charge of the monastery of St. Jerome, at Cruta, when your father arrived," he continued, without any pause. "He sought our hospitality and he at once obtained it. For two days he dwelt with us, spending his time for the most part in idle fashion, wandering about along the seashore or on the cliffs, but always with the look on his face of a man who does but dally with some fixed purpose. His doings were nothing to me, but by chance, from one of the brethren, I learnt that he was no stranger to the island—that once, many years ago, he had been the guest of the lord who ruled the little territory, and whose castle overshadows the monastery.

"On the third day of his stay, he remained within his guest-chamber until sundown, writing. As the vesper-bell rang I met him in the corridor, dressed for walking, and from his countenance I judged that whatever his mission to the island might be, he was about to bring it to an end. He passed me without speech, almost as though he had not seen me, and left the monastery. A few minutes afterwards, looking down from the windows to watch the brethren come in from their field tasks, I saw him take the road up to the castle.

"It was in the middle of the night when he returned. Midnight had come and gone, and every one in the monastery was asleep, when the hoarse, clanging bell down in the yard rang slightly, as though pulled by feeble fingers. I threw my cloak over my shoulders, and descended to admit him. When the last of the huge bolts had been withdrawn, and I threw the door open, I found him leaning against the wall, with his fingers clutched together in agony, and his bloodless features convulsed with pain. The moonlight was falling right across his face, pale and ghastly with pain, and by its light I seemed to see something dark dropping from him on the white flags. I leaned forward, horror-stricken, and I saw that it was blood."

"My God!"

Paul was standing very still and rigid, with his eyes fastened upon the priest. As yet, he scarcely realized anything more than that he was being told a very horrible story. But he was conscious of a feverish impatience, quite beyond his control. When Father Adrian paused at his exclamation, he beat the ground with his foot impatiently. "Go on! Go on!" he said hoarsely.

"I had no time to ask questions," the priest continued quietly. "Directly he left the support of the wall, and endeavoured to move towards me, your father threw up his arms with a sharp cry of pain, and almost fell upon his face. I was just in time to catch him, and exerting all my strength—for he was a powerful man—I dragged him up the steps and along the corridor to the nearest empty cell. There I laid him down upon a bed of ferns, and then hurried out to summon one of the brethren who was skilled in medicine.

"In a few moments he returned with me. By his direction, I gave your father brandy and other restoratives, while he cut open his coat to find out, if he could, the nature of the wound. It was easily discovered. He had been stabbed by a long dagger just below the heart. Had the dagger entered one-sixteenth of an inch higher, he must have bled to death upon the spot.

"We bound up the hurt as well as we could, and with the help of other of the monks, we carried him up to the guest-chamber, and put him to bed. In about half an hour he recovered consciousness, and called me to his side.

"'Pencil, paper,' he whispered.

"I handed him both. After several futile efforts he succeeded in writing a few words. Then he folded up the note, and handed it to me.

"'If you will send it without delay,' he whispered, 'I will give one hundred pounds to the monastery.'

"I never hesitated, for our funds were in a desperate state; but first I glanced at the direction. It was addressed to—

PAUL DE VAUX, Esq., c/o The English Consul, Palermo.

"I promised that it should be sent, and, as you know, it was. Then I sent the others out of the room, and inquired about his hurt. He set his lips firm, and shook his head.

"'It was an accident,' he faltered. 'No one was to blame.'

"I told him briefly that it was impossible. The nature of his wound was such that it was clearly the work of an assassin. In a certain sense we were the upholders of the law on the island, and I pointed this out to him sternly. He only shook his head and closed his eyes. Neither then nor at any other time could I gain from him one single word as to his doings on that night. He would tell me nothing."

"You saw him going toward the castle," Paul interrupted. "Did you make inquiries there?"

The priest shook his head slowly. "No, I made no inquiries," he answered. "It was no matter for my interference. The castle, although it is a huge place, was deserted save for a few native servants, whose patois was unintelligible to me. There were only two who dwelt there—the old Count himself, and one other—to whom I could have gone. Several nights after your father's illness I left the monastery, and tried to see the Count. He would not even have me admitted, and on my return, your father, who had guessed the reason of my absence, sent for me. He judged of the ill success of my mission, by my face, and he instantly appeared relieved. He then called me to the bedside, and made me an offer. He would give me, as a further contribution to our exhausted funds, a large sum of money on this condition—that I took no further steps in any direction towards ascertaining the nature of his accident, as he chose to call it, and that I should not mention it to you as the cause of his illness, or refer to it in any way if you arrived while he was there. I hesitated for some time, but in the end I consented. The money in itself was a great temptation—you see, I am frank with you—and, apart from that, your father at that time was on the verge of his fever, and at such a critical time I feared the ill results of not falling in with his wishes. So I promised, and I kept my promise; no one—not even you—knew that he died from that dagger thrust, and during the remainder of my stay on the island, I asked no questions concerning his visit to the castle."

"But did you hear nothing? were there no reports?" Paul asked.

Father Adrian hesitated. "There were no reports about your father," he said, "but the castle itself was always the object of the most unbounded superstition on the part of the inhabitants. They told strange tales of midnight cries, of lights from blocked-up chambers, and of the old Count who still dwelt there, although he had not been seen outside the castle walls for many a year. He was reported to have sold himself to the Evil One, and at the very mention of his name the people crossed themselves in terror, and glanced uneasily over their shoulders."

"Idle tales!" cried Paul angrily. "Tell me, Father Adrian, did you know this Count of Cruta?"

There was a moment's silence. Father Adrian's face was turned away, and he seemed in no hurry to answer. "Yes, I knew him."

"You knew him! What is he like? Tell me!"

The priest shook his head. "I have nothing to tell you," he said in a low tone.

"You mean that you will not tell me."

The priest inclined his head. Paul turned upon him fiercely, "He was my father's murderer," he cried.

"It may be so. But remember that nothing is known! Remember, too, that your father's last wish was to keep secret the manner of his death!"

Paul seemed scarcely to have heard him. He was walking restlessly up and down the apartment. Presently he stopped in front of Father Adrian's chair.

"You have told me what happened to my father on the island," he said; "now tell me the story of his life, which you say that he confided to you. I must know what took him there."



CHAPTER XXIV

"THE SHATTERED VASE OF LOVE'S MOST HOLY VOWS"

Paul had not thought of ringing for lights, and, save around the fireplace, the room was wrapped in solemn darkness. Father Adrian's chair had been amongst the shadows, and Paul had seen nothing save his outline since they had entered the room. But now, his curiosity stirred 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 a quick light on his face.

Its extreme pallor struck him forcibly. It was a perfectly bloodless face, and the dark eyes, as black as jet, accentuated its pallor. Yet there was no lack of nervous strength or emotion. The thin lips were quivering, and the eyes were soft with feeling. Somehow, it seemed to Paul that this man's interest in the story which he had come to tell was no casual one; that he himself was mixed up in it, in a manner which as yet he had chosen to conceal. His colourless face was alight with human interest and sympathies. Who was this priest, and why had he come so far to tell his story? Paul felt that a mystery lay behind it all.

"You must not think," Father Adrian commenced slowly, "that your father 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. He did not tell me all concerning it; what he did tell me I will try and repeat to you.

"It was late in the afternoon of the day before your arrival that he called me to his bedside. Only a few hours ago we had told him that he must die, and since then he had been very silent. I came and knelt before 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 my life,' he said in a low tone, weakened by the suffering through which he had passed. 'The memory of it has haunted me always; it is the memory 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 for me.

"'Thirty years ago I was in Palermo, and was introduced there to the Count of Cruta. We met several times, and on his departure he invited me to come over here for a week's shooting. I was wandering about on pleasure, with no fixed plans, and I did not hesitate for a moment. I should like nothing better than to come, I told him, and accordingly we returned here together.

"'The Count was a widower with one daughter, Irene. For a young man I was not particularly impressionable, and up till then I had thought very little about women. Nevertheless,—perhaps, I should say, all the more for that reason,—I fell in love with Irene. In a week's time I had all but told her so; and finding myself alone with her father one night after dinner, I boldly asked him for her hand. Somewhat to my surprise,—for considering the difference in our years, we had become very friendly,—he refused me point-blank. The first reason which he gave staggered me: Irene was already engaged to a Roumanian nobleman, who would be coming soon to claim her. But apart from that, he went on, he would never have consented to the match on the score of our different religions. I tried to argue with him, but it was useless; he would 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 consented at once when I proposed that she should run away with me. Our arrangements were made in haste and secrecy. My yacht lay in the harbour, and at midnight Irene stole down to the shore, where I met her, and rowed her on board. A few minutes later we weighed anchor and steamed away, with the rusty old guns from the castle firing useless shots high over our heads.

"'I want to make my story as short as I can, so I will not attempt to offer any excuses for my conduct, or to seek to palliate it in any way. Irene had trusted herself to me, and I betrayed her trust. I did not marry her. She did not leave me; she did not even openly upbraid me; but nevertheless it hung like a dark cloud over her life. By degrees, she became altered. She tried to drown her memory by frivolity, by all manner of gaiety and excitement, and our life in Paris afforded her many opportunities.

"'The old Count of Cruta made two efforts to rescue his daughter from me. The first time he came alone; and before his righteous fury I was for a moment abashed. "Give me back my daughter!" he thundered, with his back to my closed door, and a pistol pointed to my head. I rang the bell, and Irene came, dressed for the evening, and humming a light opera tune. Then I saw to what depths of callousness I had dragged her, and I shuddered. She listened to the old man's stormy eloquence, and when he had finished his passionate appeal, she shrugged her shoulders slightly. She was perfectly happy, she declared, and she would die sooner than go back to that triste Cruta. Had he had a pleasant journey? she asked, and would he stay and dine? I saw her father shudder, and the words seemed frozen upon his lips. He looked at her in perfect silence for a full minute—looked at her from head to foot, at her soft white dress, with its floating sea of dainty draperies, and at the diamonds on her neck and bosom. Then his eye seemed to blaze with anger.

"'"Girl!" he cried sternly, "you have dragged down into the mire one of 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 last words of his, I should straight-way have offered to have married Irene on the morrow. The words were on my lips, but the contempt of that monosyllable maddened me. The better impulse passed away.

"'"You should have given her to me when I asked for her hand," I answered. "You cur!" he repeated. I looked at him steadily. "You are an 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 a calm 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 age is the season of prophecy! Listen, Martin de Vaux," pointing towards me, "you shall taste the bitterest dregs of sorrow and remorse in the days to come, for this your evil deed. You may scoff, both of you,—you may say to yourselves that an old man's words are words of folly,—but the day will come! It is writ in the book of fate, and my eyes have seen it! Pile sin upon sin, and pleasure upon pleasure; say to 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. I called after him, but there was no answer but the sound of a shutting door. 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.'"



CHAPTER XXV

"A BECKONING VOICE FROM OUT A SHADOWY LAND"

Midnight rang solemnly out from the Abbey clock. The priest paused in his story to count the strokes, and Paul drew out his watch with an incredulous gesture.

"You must stay here to-night," he said; "it will be too late for you to 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 shook his head as the servant quitted the room. "I shall not stay here," he said 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 of St. Bernard, it is nearly eight miles away, and you cannot possibly return."

"I have not so far to go," Father Adrian answered, "and this is the hour I always choose for walking. Do you wish to hear the rest of your father's confession?"

Paul stood on the hearthrug with bowed head and folded arms. "I am ready!" he said; "go on!"

Father Adrian remained silent for nearly a quarter of an hour; then he recommenced his story.

"'From the time of the old Count's visit,' your father went on, 'I noticed a gradual change in Irene. She grew thin and pale and nervous, disliking more and more, every day, to go out, and becoming suddenly averse to all our previous pursuits and pleasures. We mixed amongst a Bohemian set in Paris, and we had a good many acquaintances of a certain sort. Amongst them was a man whom I always disliked, yet who managed somehow to establish himself upon terms of intimacy with us. His name was Count Victor Ferdinand Hirsfeld, and his nationality was rather a puzzle to me, for he chose to maintain, without any apparent reason, a sort of mystery about it. With Irene he was ever more intimate than with me, and more than once I noticed references in their conversation which seemed to point to some previous acquaintance between them. I asked Irene no questions, for I trusted her but I watched Count Hirsfeld closely. I felt convinced that, under the mask of friendship, he was trying to win Irene from me, and though I never for one moment believed that he would succeed, I was anxious to obtain some proof of his intentions, that I might punish him. Often after his visits, which seemed to be carefully chosen for a time at which I was nearly certain to be out, I found Irene in tears; but when I sought to make 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 English Embassy, and found her gone. There was no message, not a single line of adieu, not a ghost of a clew by which I could trace her. It was a shock to me; but when the first wrench was over, I knew that it was something of a relief. In my heart I was tired of the irregular life we had been leading, and longing to return to England and my old home. Irene herself was no longer dear to me. While she had remained faithful to me, I had considered myself, in a certain sense, bound to her, although the bonds had commenced to gall. Now that she had left me of her own accord, I was free. I troubled little as to what had become of her; youth is always selfish. She had either gone home to her 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 of her having left no message for me, and also as I found that he too had quitted Paris suddenly. I purposely did not attempt to find out, for had I discovered the latter to be true, I should have felt bound to call Count Hirsfeld out the next time I met him, and I hated duelling. So, with a light heart, I disposed of my Paris establishment, selling even the house, and everything likely to remind me of a page of my history which I desired to blot out.

"'I returned to England, and settled down at Vaux Abbey. In a few months 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 to me. My mind was full now of healthier and more wholesome thoughts and purposes. I felt like a man commencing life anew. Even my conscience had 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 would forget her. I had the right to forget her.

"'About six months had passed, and I was in the full enjoyment of my altered life. One night, when the Abbey was full of guests, a servant whispered in my ear, as we sat at dinner, that a gentleman,—a foreigner, the man believed—had just been driven over from the nearest railway station, and was in the library waiting to see me. I knew in a moment that some sort of a resurrection of that buried past was 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 left the table, with a brief apology to my guests, and made my way to the library.

"'I had expected to find there Irene's father. Judge of my surprise when I found Count Hirsfeld advancing to meet me, pale and travel-stained, from the shadows of the room. I stopped short, and stood with my hands behind me.

"'"Mr. de Vaux, I bring you a letter," he said simply; "I am here as a messenger, and as a messenger only. Nothing but the prayers of a dying woman 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 handwriting seemed unfamiliar to me; but when I glanced at the last page, I saw that 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 make 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 down from between my fingers on to the floor, and I stood with folded arms and bowed head, arraigned at the bar of my own judgment. I had marred a girl's fair young life! The memory of those old days—my passionate persuasions 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! The hideous rascality of the thing oppressed me. I had been false to my name and traditions.

"'A cold, low voice from the other end of the room broke in upon my surging thoughts. It was Count Hirsfeld who spoke.

"'"Forgive me for disturbing your doubtless pleasant reflections, but time flies, and time is very precious to me just now. I await your answer."

"'"It is not necessary," I replied; "I shall be at Cruta before you!"



CHAPTER XXVI

"LATE THOU COMEST, CRUEL THOU HAST BEEN"

"'I sped through England and across the Continent southwards as fast as express train and steamer could carry me. Count Hirsfeld shared the special which carried me from our nearest country station to the Great Northern junction, from whence the Scotch mail bore us to London. Here we parted company, travelling the remainder of the way separately. On the evening of the second day, the steamer which I had hired at Palermo dropped anchor in the bay of Cruta, under the shadow of the grim, black castle; and a small rowing-boat landed me beneath the cliffs before night fell.

"'I made my way up the narrow, winding path alone, and passing across the paved courtyard, rang the hoarse, brazen bell at the principal entrance. A servant, bearing a torch, had opened the door, and was beckoning me to follow him long before its echoes had died away.

"'"Mademoiselle Irene!" I asked him, in a hushed, anxious tone. "She lives?"

"'"She lives!" he repeated sombrely.

"'I followed him along the wide stone corridors, and up countless steps. At last he paused before a door, and after listening for a moment, knocked softly at it.

"'It was opened by a monk, whose face was hidden by the folds of his deep 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 a drawn curtain, as though guarding the plain iron bed which lay beyond, and towards which I had taken one impulsive step forward. Their presence, and an indefinable gloom,—beyond even the gloom of a chamber of death,—which in the dim twilight seemed to hang about the very air of the place, chilled me. There was little furniture, and no pictures hung upon the walls, save a wooden cross near the foot of the bed, before which two candles were burning. I looked around for some one to whom I could address myself, but there was no one beyond these dark-coated, silent monks, who seemed more like shadows from another world.

"'While I stood in the middle of the room, hesitating, the priest who had admitted me passed by and took up his station at the foot of the bed. He motioned me to stand a little nearer, and suddenly the drear silence of the room was broken by the low, monotonous chant of prayers. I bowed my head, and kneeling by the bedside I took up the responses, and once for a moment clasped the white, cold hand which lay upon the coverlet, and which was all that I could see of the woman whom I was making my wife.

"'The ceremony seems to me now like some far-distant dream, of which I retain only the vaguest recollection. When it was all over, I laid my hand upon the curtain to draw it back, but the monk nearest to me held my hand in a vise-like grip, and before I could move, a voice from the other end of the room, where the shadows were deepest, arrested me.

"'"Touch that curtain, or dare to look upon my daughter's face, Martin de Vaux, and you die! For her soul's sake I have permitted this! Now go!"

"'I peered through the darkness, and I saw the tall, gaunt frame of the Count of Cruta standing near the entrance. I hesitated for a moment.

"'"Irene is my wife," I answered. "I offer no excuse to you for my conduct, but at least I have the right to try and win her forgiveness."

"'He moved a step forward, and his voice shook with passion. "You have no rights! You are dishonoured! You are a villain! What! you to reason with me under my own roof! Away! Out of my sight, lest I forget my word and deal you out your deserts!"

"'My heart was hot with shame and anger, but I lingered. "Let her speak," I answered, pointing to the bed. "It is she against whom I have sinned, and her word I will obey. Irene! may I not stay by your side? 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 a strong, vise-like grasp, and one of the monks who stood there on guard sternly 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 that I scarcely recognised it as the voice of Irene. "It is my wish—my command."

"'"One word, Irene!" I cried, struggling to free myself. "Just one word!"

"'"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 my head in despair and went.'"

* * * * *

There was a long pause. Father Adrian was leaning back in his chair with half-closed eyes, as though exhausted. Paul, standing opposite to him, motionless and silent as a figure of stone, was listening to every word with grave, anxious face.

"Will you hear the rest of the story now?" the priest asked after a prolonged silence.

Paul bowed his head. "I am waiting," he said simply.

"I will continue, then, in your father's own words as near as possible. 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 made to enter the castle. On the fourth day, at sunrise, I was awakened suddenly by the deep tolling of the castle bell. I dressed hastily, and hurried up there; but I was thrust from the door, and forbidden to enter. I learned the truth, however, from one of the servants. Irene was dead. On the next day I saw the little funeral procession start from the castle, and directly they entered the grounds of the monastery I joined them. The old Count, bowed and aged with grief, stayed the ceremony, and bade them, with a sudden flash of his old anger, thrust me from the place. But the priest by whose side I had taken my stand raised his hand, and forbade them to touch me. I was in sanctuary,—my feet were on holy ground—and though the Count of Cruta, and Count Hirsfeld who knelt by his side, trembled with anger at my presence, I remained, and on my knees by my wife's grave I uttered the first prayer my lips had framed since childhood. Through the pine trees which fringed the cliffs, I could see the path where she and I had met in the days when I was her father's guest, and when I had knelt at her feet a passionate lover. The sunlight flashed upon the blue waters below, and the seabirds flew screaming around our heads. It was all just as it had been in the old days; the same for me, but never more for her. The long black coffin was lowered into the grave, and reverently Count Hirsfeld stepped forward and covered it with armfuls of exquisite white flowers, whose perfume made faint the odorous air. And I had no flowers to throw, nothing but the tribute of a passionate grief, and a heart well-nigh broken with sorrow and remorse.

"'The ceremony was over, and the black-robed monks and priest had passed away in a long, solemn procession. Her father, Count Hirsfeld, and I remained there alone; and over Irene's grave I leaned forward, speaking gently and humbly to him, praying for one word of forgiveness. His only answer was a look of scorn, and he turned away from me with loathing. He would not hear me speak. To him, I was his daughter's murderer.

"'I left the island that night, and returned to England. For several years I lived a very retired life, attending to my duties upon the estate and seldom travelling beyond it. The memory of Irene seemed to haunt me. But as time went on, a change came over my spirits. I was young; and although I still bitterly regretted the past, its influence became weaker and weaker. What was done could not be undone; such reparation as was possible I had made. Brooding over my sin would never make it the less. I reasoned thus with myself, and the final result was inevitable. I commenced to mix more with my fellows, to look up my old friends in town,—in fact, to take up again the threads of my life, which I had once regarded as broken for ever.

"'After a while I married; and then, more than ever, Irene and that portion of my past which was bound up with her seemed like some vague, far-distant nightmare, fast assuming a very remote place in my thoughts. I loved my wife as I had never loved Irene, and for a time I was intensely happy. A son was born to me, and in my joy I feasted half the county at Vaux Abbey. I had desired nothing so much as this, for the De Vaux estates and mines, immense as they are, are all strictly entailed. A son was wanted to complete my happiness, and a son I had. But already, although I knew it not, a storm was gathering for me.

"'It was about a fortnight after the festivities, and I had just come in with some friends from an afternoon's shooting, when I was told that a gentleman from abroad—the servant believed—was waiting to see me in the library. Even as he spoke the words I seemed to know who it was. My heart sank, and the presentiment of some coming evil was strong upon me. I hesitated, and then, feverishly anxious to know the worst, I turned away with some careless excuse to my guests and entered the library.

"'It was Count Hirsfeld who stood there waiting for my arrival, with a calm, evil smile upon his lips, which instinctively I felt to be the herald of some coming trouble for me. Yet my courage did not altogether desert me.

"'"Count Hirsfeld, your presence here demands an immediate explanation," I said sternly. "Had I been at home, you would not have been admitted."

"'"I come," he answered slowly, with his eyes fixed steadily upon my face, "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, Irene de 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. "Irene is living! Is it possible that you did not know it?"'"



CHAPTER XXVII

"GRIM FIGURES TRACED BY SORROW'S FIERY HAND"

The lamp which stood on Paul's writing-table had gone out, and only a few dull red embers remained in the grate. By moving a single yard backwards, Paul was almost lost in the deep shadows which hung about the room, whilst such light as there was fell directly upon the priest's pale face. During those last few moments his voice had grown a shade more solemn—more intense. Paul, who stood looking out at him from the darkness with dazed senses, like a man in a dream, never doubted for an instant, although perhaps he scarcely realized the full meaning of the story to which he was listening.

"It must have been in this very room," Father Adrian continued, looking around him, "that your father and Count Hirsfeld stood face to face. But you are naturally impatient. I will take up the story again in your father's own words to me.

* * * * *

"'It was several moments before I could collect myself sufficiently to answer Count Hirsfeld. Everything seemed dim and unreal around me. Only that calm, mocking face remained steadfast, and his words rang in my ears.

"'"It is a lie!" I gasped. "We stood together by her grave! She is dead!"

"'The calmness suddenly vanished from my tormentor's face and manner. His eyes were ablaze with mingled triumph and hate. "You thought so, you poor fool!" he hissed out at me across the table. "Bah! you were a fool! You were easily deceived! Listen!

"'"You thought it a light thing to carry off the only daughter of the last Count of Cruta. 'Twas easily done, no doubt; but you made for yourself enemies of men from whose vengeance you were bound to suffer. One was the Count whose daughter you had dishonoured, and whose proud name you disgraced; the other was myself, the man whom she was to have married—myself, who loved her! Do you think that because I did not seek you out and shoot you as you deserved, that I forgot? There were men on the island who loved their lord, and who at the word from him would have hunted you down and murdered you. If he restrained them, do you imagine he was willing to bear this great dishonour without striking a blow? Bah! it was my word that said 'wait,' my counsel which saved you from death as too light a punishment. There is another way, I said. So we waited.

"'"It was my persuasions which induced Irene to leave you and return to her father. It was I who pointed out to her your great selfishness, and raised in her the longing for revenge! It was I who laid the plot into which you fell.

"'"A few words more! It is all so simple! Irene was about to become a mother; and you, believing her to be on her deathbed, married her. The child was born on the next day—your son and heir! Meanwhile, Irene's waiting maid, who had been for long in a consumption, died. It was her funeral which you attended with such interesting penitence. Irene herself was fast recovering; she was never in any real danger. She lives with her old father, and the boy lives with her. We waited! We read of your marriage, and the Count cried, 'Let us strike!' But I said, 'No, let us wait!' Time went on. We read again of the birth of a son and heir to you, and of the great rejoicings. Irene held your boy in her arms, and she frowned. 'Go now,' she commanded, 'tell Martin de Vaux that his son and heir is here, and his wife is here! Tell him that they are weary of his absence.' So I came!"