"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!"