It was near midnight; all was quiet in the château; sleep seemed to
have fallen upon all eyes but those of the sentries upon the walls.
The wind sighed amongst the towers and pinnacles; the old oak
panneling creaked; and every now and then the screech-owl whirled with
its shrill scream past the windows; but those were the only sounds
that disturbed the deep silence of night, while the priest, in the
chapel, watched the body of the dead man, according to his promise.
The building itself was dark and gloomy; the tapers on the altar cast
their rays but a little distance beyond the coffin; and the light
faded away gradually into the deep obscurity of the other parts of the
chapel, while the large cluster pillars and the rich, sculptured
groins of the arches, caught the beams faintly as they darted towards
the vaulted roof, or strove to penetrate the aisles. It was a solemn
scene, and might well fill the breast with thoughts high and grave.
There lay the dead: the dust ready for the earth, the spirit returned
to God who gave it. There stood the altar, raised for the worship of
that God, and bearing aloft in the full light, the symbol of the
salvation which was purchased by the blood of His Son. Death,
immortality, and redemption, were prominent and clear before the eye,
while all round was obscurity, like the misty darkness of mortal fate
which wraps us, in this strange world wherein we live.
Father Walter had watched through the preceding night, and had felt
less than he did at present; he had done it as a duty, as the mere
fulfilment of a promise. He was familiar with the deathbed, the
coffin, and grave; and as usual, they had lost much of their
impressiveness. But now for some reason,--perhaps that his own heart
was not well at ease,--he felt sensations of awe and gloom creep over
him. He knelt and murmured prayers before the altar; he went through
some of the ceremonial observances of his religion; but they now gave
him no relief. The words fell cold and meaningless from his lips; the
sign of the cross, the genuflexion, and the counted beads, seemed for
the first time all dull forms, having no reference to the heart.
Then he came forward and gazed upon the coffin; and memory recalled
many an event connected with him who now lay so still within. He had
known him for many years: he recollected him in his youth, and in his
prime, and memory ran back over the long chain of linked hours,
pausing here and there upon the brighter spots, till the natural
affections of the heart--which not even the cold philosophy of a
religion which bars its priesthood from all the more kindly
associations of human life, can ever totally extinguish--were
reawakened by the thoughts, and some of the fresh and generous
impulses of earlier years rose up, and brought a tear into his eye.
Again he knelt down and prayed; but it seemed that, in the act of
prayer, a voice from the cross above the altar reached his heart
mournfully and reproachfully. He thought it asked him if, in the
counsels he was giving, if in the deeds he was sanctioning, he was a
true follower of the guileless and holy Saviour, of the pure, the
true, the meek, who showed God to be truth and love, and falsehood,
deceit and wrong, to be the offspring of the arch-enemy. He covered
his face with his hands as if the All-seeing eye were more especially
upon him; and then starting up he murmured, "I wish I had taken no
part in this." With a quick and agitated step, he paced the nave of
the chapel; and, as he did so, half spoken words betrayed the
troublous anxiety of his soul.
"I wish I had not done it," he said. "Who can tell what may be the
result?--They are not to be trusted,--neither mother nor son,--dark,
dark and deceitful!--Even to me they cannot be sincere. De Montigni is
an angel of light compared to them.--Would to heaven he had not
embraced the party of the heretic!--and this poor girl, why should she
be tortured so? Can I not stop it even now?--He is to go thither at
one o'clock.--What may be the result?--No, no he will never dare!" and
with agitated pace, again he trod and retrod the whole length of the
chapel; and then, after pausing and gazing once more upon the coffin,
he suddenly turned, and opening the great door, issued out into the
court. Entering the house, he crossed the stone hall, passed through
the corridor beyond, and approached the foot of the staircase which
led to his own apartments, and those of Mademoiselle d'Albret. But
there he paused; and, laying his hand upon his brow, mused for several
minutes.
"No," he said at length, "No, not now. I will return at the very
time;--and yet I must not stop him," he added, after a moment's pause.
"It seems the only chance for insuring this vast property to the side
of the Holy Catholic League. That should be the first question; and
yet,--" he paused again, and with a slow step, stopping more than once
to consider, he found his way back to the hall, into which the
moonlight was streaming through the open door. On the steps he stood
for several minutes, gazing up towards the sky, where the faint
twinkling stars looked out, like angels' eyes watching the slumber of
the world. He thought they might be so, or, at least, that eyes as
clear and bright, though hidden from his view, might be even then
hanging over him, and all whom that place contained, and he exclaimed,
"Oh may they protect, as well as watch!" and, with a slow step, and
his looks bent upon the ground, he advanced once more to the door of
the chapel.
One side of the building rested against the outer wall which
surrounded the château; and the sentries passed it on their round
above. Thus, when the priest approached, he heard a step like that of
an armed man, but he did not look up at the sound, though it was not
unpleasant to his ear; for the feelings that were in his heart, and
the thoughts which were hurrying through his brain, rendered the
proximity of some human being in the dead hours of the night, rather a
relief to him than otherwise.
Passing on, however, at a very tardy pace he entered the chapel; and,
when he had reached the first column of the six which, on either side,
supported the roof, whether there was some noise which roused him from
his reverie, or whether there was one of those vague and undefined
impressions on his mind, which we sometimes receive without knowing
how, that he was no longer alone in that dark and gloomy place--he
suddenly paused and raised his eyes; when, between the coffin and the
altar, in the full light of the tapers which stood upon the latter, he
beheld a human figure, standing with the head bent down, and the hands
clasped together. It was that of a woman, young and apparently
beautiful, dressed in black garments, but with the head bare, and the
glossy hair reflecting the beams from the altar, so that for an
instant, to the dazzled eyes of the priest, there seemed a sort of
glory round her brow.
He started, and his heart beat quick as, for an instant, he gazed in
silent wonder; but his heart beat quicker still when, recovering from
his surprise, he recognized the beautiful form and features of Helen
de la Tremblade, his niece.
She had been to him as a child, from her earliest years. On her had
centred all the affections which he yet permitted to have any power
over him; and, as they were few and confined but to one object, they
were strong and vehement in proportion. So vehement, indeed, were
they, that at times they alarmed him. He fancied it almost sinful,
vowed for ever to the service of his God, so to love any mere mortal
creature. Often did he deny himself the delight of seeing her for
weeks and months together; and sometimes, when he did see her, he
would put a harsh restraint upon his tenderness, and seem cold and
stern, though at other times it would master him completely, and he
would give way to all the deep affection of his heart.
He gazed on her then, as she stood there, with surprise and alarm. He
had been told, that she was ill; and her face, as he looked upon it,
was deadly pale. She moved not, though she must have heard his step;
not a limb seemed agitated. He could not even see her bosom heave with
the breath of life. A cold thrill came over him, as with feelings
common to every one in that day, he asked himself, "Can it be her
spirit?--Helen," he said, "Helen!"
A convulsive sob was the only reply; but that was enough; and,
advancing with a rapid step, he passed the bier, and stood before her.
With her eyes still bent down upon the ground, with her hands still
clasped together, Helen sunk down upon her knees at his feet. The old
man stretched forth his arms to raise her, but she exclaimed
vehemently, "Do not touch me! Do not touch me! I am unworthy that a
hand so pure and holy should be laid upon me!"
Walter de la Tremblade recoiled for a moment, and gazed upon her with
a look of mute and stern inquiry; but then, moved and softened by all
the agitating feelings of that night, the full flood of tenderness and
affection swept every other emotion away; and casting his arms round
her, he pressed her to his bosom, crying, "Whatever be thy faults,
thou art my dead brother's child, thou art my own nurseling lamb, and
woe to any one who has injured thee!"