"A BECKONING VOICE FROM OUT A SHADOWY LAND"
Midnight rang solemnly out from the Abbey clock. The priest paused in
his story to count the strokes, and Paul drew out his watch with an
incredulous gesture.
"You must stay here to-night," he said; "it will be too late for you
to leave."
He rang the bell, and ordered a room to be prepared. Father Adrian,
who had been lost in a fit of deep abstraction, looked up and shook
his head as the servant quitted the room. "I shall not stay here," he
said quietly. "It is impossible."
Paul pointed to the clock. "You have more to tell me," he said,
"and it is already late. If you are staying at the monastery of
St. Bernard, it is nearly eight miles away, and you cannot possibly
return."
"I have not so far to go," Father Adrian answered, "and this is the
hour I always choose for walking. Do you wish to hear the rest of your
father's confession?"
Paul stood on the hearthrug with bowed head and folded arms. "I am
ready!" he said; "go on!"
Father Adrian remained silent for nearly a quarter of an hour; then he
recommenced his story.
"'From the time of the old Count's visit,' your father went on, 'I
noticed a gradual change in Irene. She grew thin and pale and nervous,
disliking more and more, every day, to go out, and becoming suddenly
averse to all our previous pursuits and pleasures. We mixed amongst
a Bohemian set in Paris, and we had a good many acquaintances of a
certain sort. Amongst them was a man whom I always disliked, yet who
managed somehow to establish himself upon terms of intimacy with us.
His name was Count Victor Ferdinand Hirsfeld, and his nationality was
rather a puzzle to me, for he chose to maintain, without any apparent
reason, a sort of mystery about it. With Irene he was ever more
intimate than with me, and more than once I noticed references in
their conversation which seemed to point to some previous acquaintance
between them. I asked Irene no questions, for I trusted her but I
watched Count Hirsfeld closely. I felt convinced that, under the mask
of friendship, he was trying to win Irene from me, and though I never
for one moment believed that he would succeed, I was anxious to obtain
some proof of his intentions, that I might punish him. Often after his
visits, which seemed to be carefully chosen for a time at which I was
nearly certain to be out, I found Irene in tears; but when I sought to
make her explain, she had always some excuse.
"'We had lived together for three years when, without any warning,
Irene left me. I came home one night from a dinner at the English
Embassy, and found her gone. There was no message, not a single line
of adieu, not a ghost of a clew by which I could trace her. It was a
shock to me; but when the first wrench was over, I knew that it was
something of a relief. In my heart I was tired of the irregular life
we had been leading, and longing to return to England and my old
home. Irene herself was no longer dear to me. While she had remained
faithful to me, I had considered myself, in a certain sense, bound to
her, although the bonds had commenced to gall. Now that she had left
me of her own accord, I was free. I troubled little as to what had
become of her; youth is always selfish. She had either gone home to
her father, or had run away with Count Hirsfeld, I determined at once.
Of the two, I was inclined to believe the latter, from the fact of
her having left no message for me, and also as I found that he too had
quitted Paris suddenly. I purposely did not attempt to find out, for
had I discovered the latter to be true, I should have felt bound to
call Count Hirsfeld out the next time I met him, and I hated duelling.
So, with a light heart, I disposed of my Paris establishment, selling
even the house, and everything likely to remind me of a page of my
history which I desired to blot out.
"'I returned to England, and settled down at Vaux Abbey. In a few
months my life with Irene lay back in the past, like a troubled dream,
and I did my best to forget it. It was all hateful and tiresome to
me. My mind was full now of healthier and more wholesome thoughts and
purposes. I felt like a man commencing life anew. Even my conscience
had almost ceased to trouble me. Irene had left me of her own will,
nor had she been driven to it by any unkindness on my part. I would
forget her. I had the right to forget her.
"'About six months had passed, and I was in the full enjoyment of my
altered life. One night, when the Abbey was full of guests, a servant
whispered in my ear, as we sat at dinner, that a gentleman,--a
foreigner, the man believed--had just been driven over from the
nearest railway station, and was in the library waiting to see me. I
knew in a moment that some sort of a resurrection of that buried past
was at hand; and though I nodded carelessly and kept my countenance,
my heart sank like lead. As soon as I could make an excuse, I left
the table, with a brief apology to my guests, and made my way to the
library.
"'I had expected to find there Irene's father. Judge of my
surprise when I found Count Hirsfeld advancing to meet me, pale and
travel-stained, from the shadows of the room. I stopped short, and
stood with my hands behind me.
"'"Mr. de Vaux, I bring you a letter," he said simply; "I am here as a
messenger, and as a messenger only. Nothing but the prayers of a dying
woman would have induced me to stand beneath your roof!"
"'"Your presence certainly needs some explanation," I answered coldly.
"Give me the letter!"
"'He handed it over, and I took it to the lamplight. The handwriting
seemed unfamiliar to me; but when I glanced at the last page, I saw
that it was signed "Irene." I read it through hastily.
"CRUTA.
"MARTIN:--
"I left you meaning never to speak or write your name
again, but fate has been too strong for me. When you see my
handwriting, you may fear that I want to burden you once more
with my presence, which has grown so wearisome to you! You
need not! Soon there will be nothing left of me but a memory;
even that I know will not survive long. For I am dying. Life
is only a matter of days and hours with me now. For me, only
a few more suns will rise and set. I am dying, else I had not
taken up my pen to write to you.
"Martin, one's last hours are a time for plain speaking. I
have never suffered one word of reproach to pass my lips, but
you have wronged me deeply! You have turned what should have
been the sweetness of my life into bitterness and gall. I do
not remind you of this to heap idle reproaches on your head;
I remind you of it simply because on my deathbed I am going
to ask you what in the past I scorned to do. I am going to ask
you to marry me.
"I could not hope to make you understand all that I have
suffered during these last few months of my illness. I would
not if I could. It is not worth while! My father, although
he knows that I am dying, will scarcely speak to me. He has
forgotten that I am his daughter, save when he laments it.
He sits alone day by day, brooding upon the dishonour of his
race. The priest, who prays for me, speaks words of doubtful
comfort, as though, after all, he doubted whether salvation
were possible for me. The horror of it all has entered into my
soul! The sin of the past is ever before my eyes,--black and
threatening,--and a great desolation reigns in my heart.
"And from it all I turn to you, Martin, to save me! You can do
it! You only! You lose nothing! You risk nothing! and you will
throw some faint light of consolation upon this, my dreary
passage through the shadow-land of death. Once you loved me,
far off and dim though that time may seem to you. You would be
faithful always, you swore, as side by side we stood on board
your yacht on the night of our flight, and watched the shores
of Cruta grow dimmer and dimmer, and the white-faced dawn
break quivering upon the waters. You would be faithful always!
The words come back to me as I lie here in this great, dreary
bedchamber, with a cold-faced priest muttering comfortless
prayers by my side; dying alone, without a single kindly face
to lighten my passage to the grave. Yet, do not read this as
a reproach! Read it only as the prelude to this my last appeal
to you! Marry me, Martin! It would cost you so little: just
a hurried journey here, a few sentences over my bedside, a
week's waiting at the most, and you could see me in my grave,
and feel yourself free again. Is it too great a thing to do,
to make light the heart of a dying woman? I pray God that you
may not think so! You have generosity! I appeal to it! Come,
I beseech you! It is the prayer of a dying woman! I summon you
to Cruta!
"IRENE."
"'Back again in the meshes of my old sin. The letter fluttered down
from between my fingers on to the floor, and I stood with folded arms
and bowed head, arraigned at the bar of my own judgment. I had marred
a girl's fair young life! The memory of those old days--my passionate
persuasions and prayers--swept in upon me. Yes! she had trusted me,
and I had deceived her! Her sin and her death lay at my door! The
hideous rascality of the thing oppressed me. I had been false to my
name and traditions.
"'A cold, low voice from the other end of the room broke in upon my
surging thoughts. It was Count Hirsfeld who spoke.
"'"Forgive me for disturbing your doubtless pleasant reflections, but
time flies, and time is very precious to me just now. I await your
answer."
"'"It is not necessary," I replied; "I shall be at Cruta before you!"