CHAPTER XXIII
"MY LIPS ARE CHARGED WITH TRUTH, AND JUSTICE BIDS ME SPEAK"
An early darkness had fallen upon the earth. Black clouds had sailedacross 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. Amass of lurid, yellowish clouds hung low down over the bending woods,and the wind whistled drearily amongst the fir trees. Paul deVaux wrapped his cloak tightly around him, and, standing on theturf-covered floor of the ruined chapel, peered forward into thedarkness, looking for the man whom he had come to meet. Even then heheard his voice before he could distinguish the dim outline of FatherAdrian 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 mewill take long, come up to the house. It is dark and cold, and thereis a storm rising."
The priest shook his head. "I have no wish to find shelter under theroof of Vaux Abbey," he said coldly. "You are well protected againstthe weather, and so am I. Let us stay here!"
Paul strove to look into his face, but the darkness baffled him. Hecould 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 illever to offer it to you. But, at any rate, remember this: it is noidle vengeance which I am dealing out to you this night; it is ourholy and despoiled Church calling for justice. I speak in her name!"
There was a moment's silence. Paul knew by his companion's bowedhead and laboured utterance that he was suffering from some sortof emotion. But the darkness hid from him the workings of his palefeatures. 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 Godseemed fallen upon the earth. On that night your father lay dying inthe island monastery of Cruta; and while you were risking your life inthe storm to reach him, I knelt by his side praying for his soul, thatit 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 hisheart. It was no craven fear! He lay there still and quiet, but hisheart was troubled. In the midst of my prayers he stopped me, and tookthe crucifix into his own hand.
"'Father,' he said, 'I have no faith in dying repentances. I havescouted religion all my life, and on my deathbed I will not cry forcomfort 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 youpray for me.'
"Shall I go on, Paul de Vaux? Shall I tell you all that your father'sdying lips faltered out to me?"
"All! every word! Keep nothing back!" Paul spoke quickly, almostfeverishly. He knew a little, but something told him that this priestknew more. He began dimly to suspect the nature of the revelationwhich was to come.
"You shall know everything," Father Adrian continued, in the samehushed tone, so low that Paul had to bend forward to catch thewords as they fell from his lips. "If Martin de Vaux had been of ourreligion, and had sought me as a priest of the Church a seal wouldhave been set upon my mouth. But it was not so! Despite all myministrations, he died as he had lived, in heresy and grievous sin.After all, it is only right that you, his son, should know what heforebore to tell you. Yet, in my weakness I might have spared you, ifyou 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 ofus--pages blurred and scarred with misery and suffering and sin. Butthere is a difference--a great difference. Some are turned over withfirm and penitent fingers, and, although their scarlet record maynever be blotted out, yet, by sacrifice and atonement, the fruits ofthe sin itself may die, and, dying, cast no shadow into the future.A sin against humanity can often be righted by human justice. Towardsthe close of my father's days, I knew for the first time that therewas in his life one of those disfigured pages. He told me nothing. Isought to know nothing. Father Adrian," Paul went on, with a suddenstrain of passion in his tone, and a gesture half unseen in thedarkness, "if the shadow of his sin rests upon any human being, if itstill lives upon the earth, then tell me all that is in your heartto tell, for there is work to be done. But if that page be lockedand sealed, if those who suffered through it are dead, and the burdenwhich darkened my father's days is his alone, then spare his memory!Strike at me, if you will! Deal out your promised vengeance, but letit fall on me alone!"
Paul ended his speech with a little burst of passion ringing in thoselast few words. He was conscious of a deep and fervent desire to hearnothing, to listen to nothing, which could teach him to hold less dearhis father's memory. He shrank, with a human and perfectly naturalfeeling, from hearing evil of the dead. That last evil deed, themurder in that grim, bare chamber of death, had haunted him with vividand painful intensity. But it was a crime by itself. It was horribleto imagine that it might indeed be the culmination of a life oflicense and contempt of all human laws. He had tried to think of it assomething outside his father's life, something done in a momentary fitof madness, and that the man who suffered by it was some monster unfitfor the companionship of his fellows--unfit to live. There were stilltales to be heard in the county, and about town even, of the wilddoings of Martin de Vaux in his younger days; but none of these hadreached his son's ears. He would have been the last person likely tohear of them.
There was a short silence, and before Father Adrian spoke again thelow-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 themprotection from the blinding rain. Any further conversation wasimpossible. Paul lifted up his voice, and shouted in his companion'sear--
"These walls are not safe! We must go into the house. Will you come?"
Father Adrian hesitated, and then assented, wrapping his cloak aroundhim. In a few moments they were inside the library, having enteredthrough a private door and met no one. Breathless, Paul threw off hiscloak, which was dripping with rain, and turned round almost fiercelyupon his companion.
"Now speak!" he said. "I am ready to hear all."
The priest looked at him steadily for a moment, and then, with hispale face turned towards the fire, he commenced to speak.
"Sin is everlasting!" he said slowly. "Your father's sin lives, and onyou the burden must fall! If you had kept the covenant which I placedbefore you, I might have spared you. You yourself have chosen. Youmust hear all! Listen!
"It was by chance that I was spending two months in charge of themonastery of St. Jerome, at Cruta, when your father arrived," hecontinued, without any pause. "He sought our hospitality and he atonce obtained it. For two days he dwelt with us, spending his time forthe most part in idle fashion, wandering about along the seashore oron the cliffs, but always with the look on his face of a man who doesbut dally with some fixed purpose. His doings were nothing to me, butby chance, from one of the brethren, I learnt that he was no strangerto the island--that once, many years ago, he had been the guest of thelord who ruled the little territory, and whose castle overshadows themonastery.
"On the third day of his stay, he remained within his guest-chamberuntil sundown, writing. As the vesper-bell rang I met him in thecorridor, dressed for walking, and from his countenance I judged thatwhatever his mission to the island might be, he was about to bring itto an end. He passed me without speech, almost as though he had notseen me, and left the monastery. A few minutes afterwards, lookingdown from the windows to watch the brethren come in from their fieldtasks, I saw him take the road up to the castle.
"It was in the middle of the night when he returned. Midnight had comeand gone, and every one in the monastery was asleep, when the hoarse,clanging bell down in the yard rang slightly, as though pulled
byfeeble fingers. I threw my cloak over my shoulders, and descended toadmit him. When the last of the huge bolts had been withdrawn, and Ithrew the door open, I found him leaning against the wall, withhis fingers clutched together in agony, and his bloodless featuresconvulsed with pain. The moonlight was falling right across his face,pale and ghastly with pain, and by its light I seemed to seesomething 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 uponthe priest. As yet, he scarcely realized anything more than thathe was being told a very horrible story. But he was conscious of afeverish impatience, quite beyond his control. When Father Adrianpaused at his exclamation, he beat the ground with his footimpatiently. "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 movetowards 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, andexerting all my strength--for he was a powerful man--I dragged him upthe steps and along the corridor to the nearest empty cell. There Ilaid him down upon a bed of ferns, and then hurried out to summon oneof the brethren who was skilled in medicine.
"In a few moments he returned with me. By his direction, I gave yourfather brandy and other restoratives, while he cut open his coatto find out, if he could, the nature of the wound. It was easilydiscovered. He had been stabbed by a long dagger just below the heart.Had the dagger entered one-sixteenth of an inch higher, he must havebled to death upon the spot.
"We bound up the hurt as well as we could, and with the help of otherof the monks, we carried him up to the guest-chamber, and put him tobed. In about half an hour he recovered consciousness, and called meto his side.
"'Pencil, paper,' he whispered.
"I handed him both. After several futile efforts he succeeded inwriting 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 onehundred pounds to the monastery.'
"I never hesitated, for our funds were in a desperate state; but firstI 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 Isent the others out of the room, and inquired about his hurt. He sethis 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 woundwas such that it was clearly the work of an assassin. In a certainsense we were the upholders of the law on the island, and I pointedthis 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 singleword as to his doings on that night. He would tell me nothing."
"You saw him going toward the castle," Paul interrupted. "Did you makeinquiries there?"
The priest shook his head slowly. "No, I made no inquiries," heanswered. "It was no matter for my interference. The castle, althoughit is a huge place, was deserted save for a few native servants,whose _patois_ was unintelligible to me. There were only two who dweltthere--the old Count himself, and one other--to whom I could havegone. 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 onmy return, your father, who had guessed the reason of my absence, sentfor me. He judged of the ill success of my mission, by my face, andhe instantly appeared relieved. He then called me to the bedside, andmade me an offer. He would give me, as a further contribution to ourexhausted funds, a large sum of money on this condition--that I tookno further steps in any direction towards ascertaining the nature ofhis accident, as he chose to call it, and that I should not mention itto you as the cause of his illness, or refer to it in any way if youarrived while he was there. I hesitated for some time, but in the endI consented. The money in itself was a great temptation--you see, I amfrank with you--and, apart from that, your father at that time was onthe verge of his fever, and at such a critical time I feared the illresults of not falling in with his wishes. So I promised, and I keptmy promise; no one--not even you--knew that he died from that daggerthrust, and during the remainder of my stay on the island, I asked noquestions 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 mostunbounded superstition on the part of the inhabitants. They toldstrange tales of midnight cries, of lights from blocked-up chambers,and of the old Count who still dwelt there, although he had not beenseen outside the castle walls for many a year. He was reported to havesold himself to the Evil One, and at the very mention of his name thepeople crossed themselves in terror, and glanced uneasily over theirshoulders."
"Idle tales!" cried Paul angrily. "Tell me, Father Adrian, did youknow 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 alow tone.
"You mean that you will not tell me."
The priest inclined his head. Paul turned upon him fiercely, "He wasmy father's murderer," he cried.
"It may be so. But remember that nothing is known! Remember, too, thatyour father's last wish was to keep secret the manner of his death!"
Paul seemed scarcely to have heard him. He was walking restlesslyup and down the apartment. Presently he stopped in front of FatherAdrian'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 toyou. I must know what took him there."