"WHO ARE YOU, AND WHAT YOUR MISSION?"
The winter moon, soft and bright and full, looked down upon the
ruins of Vaux Abbey. A strange beauty lay upon the bare, rock-strewn
hillside and desolate moor. Afar off a grey, brawling stream was
touched by its light, and in its place a band of gold seemed coiled
around the grey, sleeping hill. A black, reed-grown tarn at the foot
of the Abbey gleamed and quivered like a fair silver shield. The dark
pines which crowned their sandy slopes lost their forbidding frown in
an unaccustomed softness, and every harsh line and broken pillar of
the ruined chapel was toned down into a rich, sad softness. A human
face, too, uplifted to the sky, so silent and motionless that it
seemed almost set into the side of one of those groined arches, had
lost all its harshness and worldliness in the glow of that falling
light. It might have been the face of a saint, save for the vague
unhappiness which shone in the clear, dark eyes; for at that moment,
spirituality, wistfulness, and reverence seemed carved into the white,
still features. But there was disquiet, too; and, after a while, as
though some cloud had passed across the moon, a dark shade stole into
the white face. The brows were contracted into a frown, and the eyes
filled with restless doubt. Father Adrian moved away from the shadow
of the pillar, and stood, tall and motionless, on the ruined chapel
floor, with his eyes fixed upon the distant landscape. After a moment
or two, his lips began to move and he commenced to speak aloud in a
low, deep tone.
"Six nights has my voice gone up to God from amongst these silent
ruins, six nights I have prayed in rain. These fair, still evenings
mock me! Whose is their beauty, if it be not God's; and, if there be a
God, and if the Blessed Virgin, our Holy Mother, indeed dwells amongst
the stars, why are their faces turned from me? Oh! that man knew a
little more or a little less--enough to pierce the mystery of yon
star-crowned heavens, or so little as to gaze on them unmoved and
unfeeling! What is our little knowledge? A mockery, a dreary, hopeless
mockery! I had better have rotted in that miserable monastery, a
soulless, lifeless being, than have stepped out to struggle with a
world which is only a terrible riddle to me. I cannot reason with it;
I cannot laugh or weep with it; I am in it, but not of it! Why was I
sent? Oh I why was I sent?"
The snapping of a twig caused him to turn suddenly round. Paul de Vaux
was advancing through the ruins, with a loose cloak thrown over his
evening clothes.
Father Adrian turned round to meet him. The two men stood for a moment
face to face without speaking. Both recognised that this interview
was to be no ordinary one; and in a certain sense, each seemed to be
measuring the other's strength. It was Paul who spoke first.
"We have met before, Father Adrian."
"Yes."
"You will scarcely wonder that I am surprised to see you here in
England. Have you left the monastery at Cruta?"
"I left it a month after you did."
"But your vows,--were they not for life?" Paul asked.
Father Adrian smiled scornfully. "I was not bound to Cruta," he
answered. "There had been complaints, and I was there to investigate
them. The monastery was poverty and disease-stricken. It is closed now
forever."
"Then you are no monk?"
Father Adrian shook his head. "I am, and I am not. In my youth I
served my novitiate, but I never took the oaths. The cloisters are for
holier men than I."
"Then who are you?"
"I am--Father Adrian, priest of the Roman Catholic Church, I can tell
you no more."
The moonlight was falling full upon his dark, striking face. Paul,
with bent brows, scanned every feature of it intently. Father Adrian
bore the scrutiny without flinching and without discomposure. Only
once the colour mounted a little into his cheeks as the eyes of the
two men met.
"What brings you to Vaux Abbey, Father Adrian?" Paul asked at length.
"To see your home," was the quiet reply.
"What do you want with me? It must be something more than curiosity
which has brought you all this way. What is it?"
Father Adrian was silent. Yet his silence was not one of confusion.
He was looking down through the gaps in the ruined chapel walls at the
dark Gothic front of the old Abbey. Paul waited for an answer, and it
came at last.
"I wished to see the home of Martin de Vaux, the Englishman who died
in my arms at the monastery of Cruta. For six nights I have prayed
for his soul in Purgatory, amongst the ruins here. He died in grievous
sin!"
"Have you come to remind me of it?" Paul asked bitterly. "Perhaps
you have repented of your silence, and have come to break the widow's
heart by telling her the story of his last moments. Perhaps--perhaps
in those dark hours he told you his secret--told you why he had come
to Cruta!"
"He did," said the priest gravely.
"My God!"
It was a great shock to Paul. Hitherto he had feared only one thing:
that the story of his father's tragical death might come to light, and
break his mother's heart. Now there was more to fear,--far more. He
looked into Father Adrian's face with a new and keener interest. He
recognised at once that everything dear to him in life might be at
this man's mercy.
"You were intrusted with this secret by a dying man," Paul said, with
a little hoarseness in his tone. "It is to you as the secrets of the
confessional!"
The priest shook his head gently. "He refused to confess. He told me
distinctly that it was as man to man he spoke to me."
Paul looked away into the night with white, stricken face, and cursed
his father's weakness. Supposing that this priest had discovered
that his conscience would not allow him to keep the secret! What
more likely! Why else was he here,--why else did he disclaim the
confessional? There was only one other alternative! Perhaps he desired
to trade upon his secret. Yet how was that possible? Of what use could
money be to him? What could he gain by it? Besides, his was not the
face of an adventurer.
"I do not understand," Paul said at last. "Once more let me ask you,
Father Adrian, why are you here?"
Father Adrian looked thoughtfully away. "You ask more than I can
tell you," he said gravely. "The time has not yet come. We shall meet
again. Farewell!"
The priest turned away, but Paul laid his hand on his shoulder.
"If there is anything which you ought or mean to tell me, tell me
now," he demanded hoarsely. "I can bear everything but suspense. I
know only--that there was a secret. No more. Proceed! Tell me more!"
The priest shook his robe free from Paul's restraining hand, and
turned away.
"Not yet! Not yet! My mind is not yet clear. We shall meet again.
Farewell!"
"But----"
"Farewell!"
The priest had passed from the ruins, and was already out of sight in
the gathering darkness.
"Come back, Father Adrian! One word more!"
"Farewell!"
The priest did not turn his head. Paul was left alone, gazing after
him with stern, troubled face and anxious heart. It was a danger which
he had always foreseen, always dreaded. Henceforth he must live like
a man who paces, day by day, the brink of a volcano. At any moment the
blow might fall.