A Monk of Cruta Part 24

"'"She shall have the allowance; she shall have what she asks for," I declared; "but I will never acknowledge the boy, or her. If he takes the name of De Vaux, or forces himself upon me in any way, it shall be open war. The English courts will annul that marriage."

"'"I think not," he answered coolly. "Besides, you married into a n.o.ble family, did you not--a duke's daughter? How pleasant her position would be while such a case was being tried! And your son----"

"'I stopped him angrily. "I repeat that I will not acknowledge them.

Money they can have, and the boy's future shall be my care! But not if he ever dares to call himself De Vaux."

"'The Count shrugged his shoulders. "I am but an amba.s.sador," he said.

"I will convey what you have said to your wife. You shall hear her decision."

"'He went away, and for a fortnight I was left in misery. At the end of that time I had a letter signed "Irene." It was cold and short. It told me that, so far as she herself was concerned, she had no desire or intention of claiming her position as my wife. All she demanded was an allowance to be paid to her order at a certain bank in Palermo at regular intervals for the support of herself and for the proper education and bringing up of her son. As to his future, she could not pledge herself to anything; for when the time came, he should decide for himself. She would bring him up in ignorance; but on his twenty-fifth birthday she should tell him the whole story, and place all the necessary papers in his hands. If he chose to use them and claim the De Vaux estates, he would easily be able to do so. If, on the other hand, he decided to remain as he was, she should not attempt in any way to alter his decision!

"'The letter was a great relief to me. Five-and-twenty years was a long respite. The boy might die--a thousand things might happen before then. At any rate, I was enough of a philosopher to seal down that secret page in my history, and to live as though it had never existed.

"'Five-and-twenty years is a long time, but it pa.s.sed away. It is the portion of my life which I look back upon with the most pleasure.

I did my utmost to atone for a wasted youth, and in some measure I succeeded. My fears had grown fainter and fainter, and when the blow came it was like a thunderbolt falling from a clear sky. One morning I received a letter in Irene's writing, a little fainter and less firm than of old, but still familiar to me. It contained only a few lines.

She had told her son all, and he elected to a.s.sert his rightful name and position. In future he intended to call himself "De Vaux" and on my death he would claim the estates.

"'I read the letter, and determined on instant action. In a week my son Paul and I were on board my yacht, starting for the Mediterranean.

We made for Palermo, and here we separated,--Paul, at all hazard, to find Count Hirsfeld, to whom I made a splendid offer if he would aid me in inducing Irene to change her purpose; I for Cruta, to see Irene.'

"This is almost the end of your father's confession to me," Father Adrian continued. "At Cruta he sought the hospitality of the monastery, where he was taken ill. He wrote an urgent letter to you, and immediately he was able to walk he went up to the castle. I have already told you of the manner of return. Of that visit he told me scarcely anything, and he told me nothing at all concerning the wound which he received there. Only I gathered that he was more than ever anxious to see Count Hirsfeld. It was while waiting for your return that he made this confession to me. I have finished."

The white morning light was stealing into the room through the uncurtained windows. The fire had burnt out, and there was only a handful of ashes in the grate. Outside in the park a grey mist was hanging about in the hollows and over the tree-tops, and something of its damp chilliness seemed to have found its way into the apartment.

Paul, who had been leaning heavily upon the mantelpiece, with his head buried in his hands, looked up and s.h.i.+vered. Then he glanced quickly across towards the opposite easy-chair. Father Adrian was still there, and at Paul's movement he rose to his feet.

"This has been a terrible night for you, I fear," he said quietly.

"I am sorry to have given you so much pain. If I could I would have spared you."

"I thank you," Paul answered wearily. "It was right that I should know. Why did you not tell me at Cruta?"

"It seemed to me that your father's death was enough for you to bear!

Perhaps I was wrong!"

Paul made no answer. His thoughts seemed suddenly to have travelled far away. Father Adrian watched his pale, stricken face with cold, pitiless eyes.

"You are weary," he said softly. "I shall leave you now, but I have something more to say to you on this matter. It is no part of your father's confession. It is from myself. Can I come to-morrow or the next day?"

"Come in a week," Paul answered. "I shall be able to talk calmly then about this."

Father Adrian hesitated. "A week! Well, let it be so, then. Farewell!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

"ADREA'S DIARY"

"Spring blossoms on the land, and anguish in the heart."

To-night I shall close my diary for a long while, very likely for ever. I am heartily thankful for it. These last few days have been so wretched, full of so much miserable uncertainty, that their record has grown to be a wearisome task. It has ceased to give me any relief; it has become nothing but a burden. How could it be otherwise, when the days themselves have been so grey, so full of shadows and disappointments? You have been a relief to me sometimes, my silent friend; but what lies before me is not to be recorded in your pages.

Twenty-four hours have pa.s.sed since I made my last entry. It was night then, and it is night now. All that lies between seems phantasmagoric and unreal. I ask myself whether it has really happened; and when the day's events rise slowly up before my memory, I almost fail to recognise them. Yet I have but to close my eyes and lean back, and it all crowds in upon me. In the future I know that this day will stand out clear and distinct from all the rest of my life.

It was early in the morning when I started for Vaux Abbey across the moorland road. So long have I seen this bleak county wrapped in mists and sea fogs that to-day I scarcely recognised it. There was a clear blue sky, streaked with little patches of white, wind-swept clouds, and the sun--actually the sun--was s.h.i.+ning brilliantly. How it changed everything! The grey, hungry sea, which I had never been able to look upon without a shudder, seemed to have caught the colouring of the sky, and a million little scintillations of glistening light rose and fell at every moment on the bosom of the tiny, white-crested waves.

And the moorland, too, was transformed. Its bare, rock-strewn undulations lost all their harshness of outline and colouring in the sweet, glancing sunlight; and afar off the line of rugged hills, which I had never seen save with their heads wreathed in a cloud of white mist, stood out clear and distinct against the distant horizon, tinged with a dim, purple light.

Why did it all make such an impression upon me, I wonder? I cannot say; but nothing in all my life ever struck so deep a note of sadness.

I feel it now; I shall feel it always. There was madness in my blood when I started, I think; but before my walk was half over, it had increased a thousand-fold. Every little sound and sight seemed to aggravate it. I missed the dull sighing and moaning of the wind in the black copses--a sound which had somehow endeared itself to me during these last few days--and in its place the soft murmur of what seemed almost a summer breeze amongst the tall pine-tops stirred in me an unreasonable anger. The face of the whole country seemed smiling at me. What mockery! What right had the earth to rejoice when grief and anxiety were driving me mad? For it was indeed a sort of madness which laid hold of me. I clenched my hands, and muttered to myself as I walked swiftly along. The road was deserted, and I met no one. Once a dark bush away off seemed to me to take a man's shape. I stopped short. Could it be Father Adrian returning to the Abbey? I felt my breath come quickly as I stood there waiting. The idea excited me.

I found myself trembling with a pa.s.sion that was not of fear, and, suddenly stooping down, I picked up a sharp flint, and grasped it tightly between my fingers. Then I moved stealthily on, and the thing defined itself. After all, it was only a bush, not a man at all. I tossed my weapon on one side with a strained little laugh. The sense of excitement pa.s.sed away, but it left an odd flavour behind it. I found myself deliberating as to what I had meant to do with that stone if it had really been Father Adrian, and if I had succeeded in stealing silently up behind him. Perhaps I scarcely realized my full intention, but a dim sense of it remained with me. It was the development of a new instinct born of this swiftly-built-up hatred.

I have my reasons for writing of this. I wish to distinctly mark the period of the event which I have just recorded.

There was no fear of my mistaking the way to Vaux Abbey, for it stood upon a hill, and had been within sight ever since I had taken the moorland road. I was unused to walking, and the road was rough; but I do not remember once feeling in any way fatigued or footsore, although one of my shoes had a great hole in it, and was almost in strips. My mind was too full of the end of my journey to be conscious of such things. I had only one fear: that I should be too late; that somehow the threatened blow would have been struck, and Paul in some way removed from me. It was fear more than hope which buoyed me up. But anyhow, it answered its purpose, for in less than three hours after I had started I found myself before the great hall-door of Vaux Abbey.

A deep, hollow peal followed my nerveless little pull at the chain bell-rope, and almost immediately the door opened. A grey-haired manservant, in black livery, looked down at me in surprise.

"I wish to see Mr. Paul de Vaux!" I announced. "Is he in?"

The man hesitated. "I believe so, miss," he said doubtfully; "but he is engaged on some important business, and has given orders that no one is to disturb him. Lady de Vaux is at home."

"My business is with Mr. Paul de Vaux," I said. "Will you tell him that it is some one from the Hermitage, and I think that he will see me."

The man did not answer me in words, but motioned me to follow him. My courage was failing me a little, and I was certainly inclined not to look around, but nevertheless the place made an impression on me. The great hall which we were crossing was like the interior of some richly decorated church. The ceiling was dome-shaped, and the base of the cupola was surrounded by stained gla.s.s windows, which cast a dim light down upon the interior. The white stone flags were here and there covered by Eastern rugs, thrown carelessly down, but for the most part were bare, and as slippery as marble; so slippery that once I nearly fell, and only saved myself by catching at an oak bench. Just as I recovered myself, I saw the figure of a woman descending the huge double oak staircase which terminated opposite to us. My guide paused when he saw her, and I was also compelled to.

"Here is her ladys.h.i.+p!" he said.

I watched her slowly advance toward us, a fine, stately old lady, carrying herself with unmistakable dignity, although she was forced to lean a good deal on a gold-mounted, black ebony stick. And, as I looked at her, I thought of Father Adrian's words: "I can break his mother's heart;" and I leant eagerly forward in the chastened twilight with my eyes anxiously fixed upon her. She came slowly on towards me, and when she was a few yards away she spoke to the servant.

"Does this young lady wish to see me, Richards?"

She spoke to the man, but she looked towards me, and evidently expected me to address her. For a moment I could not. A little gasp of relief had quivered upon my lips, and my eyes were suddenly dim. To look into Lady de Vaux's face, stately, calm, and kind, seemed like a strong antidote to my fears of Father Adrian. It was quite evident that nothing unexpected had happened during the last twenty-four hours. Father Adrian's threat had been an empty one. In the presence of Lady de Vaux, the fears which had been consuming me departed. She was so unmoved, so indifferent. How could a little Jesuit priest hurt such a one as she?

The thoughts chased one another quickly through my mind; but still my hesitation was apparent. After waiting in vain for me to speak, the servant who was conducting me answered Lady de Vaux's question.

"The young lady asked for Mr. Paul, your ladys.h.i.+p. It was doubtful whether I might disturb him."

"For Mr. Paul?" Lady de Vaux looked at me, leaning forward on her stick, and with her eyebrows a little uplifted. "My son is particularly engaged, and has left word that he does not wish to be disturbed for several hours," she said. "If you have anything to say to him, you can say it to me. I am Lady de Vaux!"

"Thank you! I must wait and see your son," I answered.

She moved away with a slight and distinctly haughty inclination of her head. "You can show this young lady into the waiting-room, Richards,"

she directed. "Take her name in to Mr. Paul when he rings. By the bye," she added, pausing in her slow progress over the hall, and looking me once more steadily in the face, "what is your name?"

"You would not know it," I answered. "I have come from the Hermitage--near here."