"A VOICE AND FIGURE FROM THE DISTANT PAST"
It was a long, steep ascent, hewn out of the solid rock; but at last
Paul stood before the great gates of the castle, and paused to take
breath. Hundreds of feet below him his yacht was riding at anchor,
looking like a toy vessel upon a painted sea, and a little group of
scattered lights showed him where the hamlet lay. Before him was the
stern, massive front of the castle, wrapped in profound gloom, but
standing out in clear, ponderous outline against the starlit sky.
There seemed to be no light from any part of it, and the great iron
gates leading into the courtyard were closed. Nor was there any sound
at all, not even the barking of a dog. It was like a dwelling of the
dead.
A great, rusty bell-chain hung by the side of the gate, and as there
seemed to be no other means of communication with the interior, Paul
pulled it vigorously. Its hoarse echoes had scarcely died away before
several rough-looking islanders, carrying flaring oil lamps, trooped
into the courtyard from the rear of the building, and one of them,
drawing the bolts, threw open the gates.
"I have come to see the Count," Paul said, addressing the nearest of
them. "Will you conduct me to him?"
The man replied energetically, but in a _patois_ utterly
unintelligible. He led the way across the courtyard towards the
castle, however, and Paul followed close behind. They did not enter
by the front, but by a low, nail-studded door at the extreme corner of
the tower, which the man immediately closed and locked behind him.
Paul looked around him curiously, but in the semi-darkness there was
little to see. He was in a corridor, of which the walls were simply
whitewashed, and the floor bare stone; but as they passed onward,
down several passages, and up more than one flight of steps, the
proportions of the place expanded. The ceilings grew loftier, and the
corridors wider. Yet there was no attempt anywhere at decoration or
furniture of any sort. The place was like an early-day prison--huge,
bare, and damp. Once, crossing a balustraded corridor, there was a
view of a huge hall down below, bare save for a few huge skins thrown
carelessly around, and a great stack of firearms and other weapons
which lined the walls on either side. It was the only sign of
habitation that Paul had seen.
Suddenly his guide paused, and held up his finger. Paul, too,
listened; and close at hand he heard, to his surprise, the muffled
sound of voices chanting some sad hymn in a deep minor key. The rise
and fall of those mournful voices was wonderfully impressive. What
could it mean? It was a dirge, a funeral hymn! Its every note seemed
to breathe of death.
"What is that?" Paul asked. "Is any one ill--dying?"
The man shook his head. He could not understand. He only motioned to
Paul to move silently, and hurried on. They were in a wide corridor,
with disused doors on either side, but their feet fell no longer upon
the bare stone. A rough sort of drugget had been hastily thrown down
in the centre of the passage, and their movements roused no more
strange echoes between the bare walls and the vaulted roof. At every
step forward they took the chanting grew more distinct, and at last
the man stopped at the end of the passage before a door, softly tapped
at it. It was opened at once, and Paul found himself ushered into a
great, dimly lit bedchamber.
He glanced around him with keen interest. If the interior of the
room was a little dilapidated, it was full of the remains of past
magnificence. The walls were still covered with fine tapestry, of
which the design was almost obliterated, although the texture and
colouring still remained. The furniture was huge, and of the
fashion of days gone by, and the bedstead was elaborately carved and
surmounted by a coat of arms. Further Paul had but little opportunity
to discover, for as soon as his presence became known in the room, a
black-cowled monk left the bedside and approached him.
"We have been expecting you," he said in Italian, "and we fear now
that you come too late. Our poor lady is beyond human skill!"
Paul looked at him in astonishment. "I do not quite understand you! It
is the Count of Cruta whom I came to see!"
The priest started back, and commenced fumbling with a lamp which
stood on a table at the foot of the bed. "Are you not the German
doctor from Palermo?" he asked, bending over towards Paul, with his
keen, dark face alight with suspicion and distrust.
Paul shook his head. "I am no doctor at all!" he answered. "I am an
Englishman, and my name is Paul de Vaux!"
"Ah!" There was a faint, incoherent cry from the bed--a cry, which,
faint though it was, shook with stifled emotion. Both men turned
round, and Paul could see that the other's face was dark and stern.
The woman, who had been lying on the bed still and motionless as a
corpse, had raised herself with a sudden, spasmodic movement. Her
cheeks were sunken to the bone, and her eyes were large and staring.
The seal of death was upon her face, but Paul recognised her. It
was the woman whom he had seen last in the drawing-room of Major
Harcourt's house, the woman whom Adrea had called her stepmother.
He took a sudden step forward, and she held out her hands in a gesture
half of welcome, half of fear. "Paul de Vaux! Holy Mother of God! What
has brought you here--here into the tiger's den? Come close to me!
Hasten!"
Paul stepped forward, but the priest stood between them, holding
out his hands in a threatening gesture. "Sister, forbear!" he cried
sternly. "You have made your peace with God; you have done with the
world and all its follies. Close your eyes and pray. Fix your thoughts
upon things above!"
She did not heed him. She did not even look towards him. Her eyes were
fixed upon Paul, and he read their message aright.
"This woman wishes to speak to me. Stand aside, and let me go to her!"
he exclaimed. "If she be indeed dying, surely you should respect her
wishes."
He spoke imperatively, for the priest stood in the way, and prevented
his approach; pointing towards the door with a stern, commanding
gesture.
"There must be no converse between you and this woman!" he said. "I am
no lover of violent deeds; but if you insist upon forcing your way
to her bedside, I shall summon the Count, and you will pay for your
rashness with your life. Your name and features are a certain death
warrant in this house. Escape while you may, and _pax vobiscum_.
Remain and I cannot save you!"
Paul glanced round the room. Two monks were standing with lighted
tapers on the further side of the bed, one of whom was mumbling a
Latin prayer. The man who had brought him here was gone. There was no
one else in the room, except the priest and himself.
"You are inhuman!" he said shortly. "The prayers of a dying woman are
more to me than your threats. Stand on one side!"
Paul laid his hand heavily upon the priest's shoulder. He was prepared
even to have used force had it been necessary, but it was not. The
latter moved away at once, shaking his robes free from Paul's touch
with contemptuous gesture, and calling one of the monks to him, Paul
sank on one knee by the side of the dying woman, and bent low down
over her.
"Madame de Merteuill, you have something to say to me!" he whispered.
"What is it?"
Her voice was very low and very faint. She was even then upon the
threshold of death. Each word came out with a painful effort, but with
a curious distinctness. "I am not Madame de Merteuill at all! I am the
daughter of the Count of Cruta!"
She paused to gather fresh strength, and Paul caught hold of some of
the bedclothes, and clutched them in his fingers convulsively. This
woman, the daughter of the Count of Cruta! this wan, faded creature,
the girl whom his father had borne away in triumph! His brain reeled
with the wonder of it! If only he had known a few weeks ago!
She should never have left the Hermitage until she had told him
everything! Was it too late now? She was trying to speak to him. Was
he upon the brink of a tremendous revelation? Was the whole past about
to be made clear? Oh! if the old Count would keep away for awhile.
Her lips commenced to move. He bent close over her, determined not to
lose a syllable. "You know the story about your father, Martin de Vaux
and me. I----"
"Yes, yes! I know!" he assured her softly. "I have only heard it
lately!"
"From whom?"
"From the priest who was always with you at De Vaux,--from your son!"
he added, as the truth suddenly swept in upon him. Yes; Father Adrian
was this woman's son!
Her corpse-like face was fixed steadily upon him. Her words were
monotonous and slow, yet they preserved their distinctness. "You have
come here to know the truth of the story he told you?"
"Yes; I have come to discover it, if I can!"
"The holy Saints must have brought you to me. The story----"
"Yes?"
"The story is false!"
Paul bent lower still, with strained hearing. There had been a plot,
then, after all. Oh, if she should die without finishing her story! He
looked into her bloodless face, and his pulses throbbed at fever-heat.
"You know my story," she murmured. "I commence at the time when I left
your father in Paris. I had thought myself hardened in my sin; I was
mistaken. Repentance crept slowly but surely in upon me immediately
after my father's visit to us. His words haunted me. I began to steal
away in the evening to vespers at the Church of St. Cecilia. One night
a grave, sweet-faced priest stood up in the pulpit; and as his words
sank into my heart my sin rose up before me black and grim, and the
burden of it grew intolerable. After the service I sought him, and
I confessed. On the morrow I left Martin secretly and without adieu.
Count Hirsfeld aided my escape. I came here!
"I came, hoping for forgiveness; but he, my father, could not forget
the past. I found him living in grim and fierce solitude, shunned and
dreaded by every one, ever brooding over my sin and his dishonour. He
made me stay, yet he cursed me.
"Six months after my arrival Adrian was born. It was while I lay
between life and death that I wrote that letter to your father.
Afterwards I told my father what I had done. The letter lay there;
I dared not send it without my father's sanction. I sent for him and
told him all. To my surprise, he consented. He did more than that; he
spoke of it to Count Hirsfeld, and the Count volunteered to take the
letter to England. Their readiness made me worried and anxious. I
knew how they hated Martin de Vaux, and I was suspicious. I called the
doctor to my side, and questioned him closely. He declared solemnly
that I could not live a fortnight; it was impossible. I put my
suspicions away. It was for the honour of his name that my father had
consented to receive Martin beneath his roof; there could be no other
reason. And I myself felt that the end was near. My body was cold, and
there was a deadly faintness, against which I was always struggling. I
dreaded only lest he should come too late!
"It was only the night before his arrival that I learnt the truth. I
was lying with my eyes closed, and they thought that I was asleep. The
doctor and my father were talking together in whispers. The crisis
was over, I heard them say. In a few days Adrian would be born, and I
should speedily recover, if all went well. I nerved myself, and called
my father to me. I had overheard, I said; if Martin came, I would
not marry him. His anger was terrible. Both Count Hirsfeld and he had
known from the commencement that I was likely to recover, but they
wished to see Martin tricked into marrying me. I was firm; I would not
consent! I had written that letter believing myself to be dying.
If Martin came, I would not see him now. If he was forced into my
presence, I should tell him the truth.
"My father left me, speechless with rage. For the next week my door
was kept carefully locked, and no one but the doctor and the nurse
were permitted to enter. Yet I learnt afterwards all that happened.
Marie, my maid, who was slowly dying of consumption, was moved into
the principal bedchamber; and when Martin arrived, she was made to
personate me. It was the priest who gained her consent; the priest who
confessed her and gave her absolution. His share of the spoil was to
be the De Vaux estates, handed over to the Church if ever they carried
out their plot successfully. Martin came, and, as he thought, granted
that fervent prayer of mine. They stood around him with drawn swords;
they would not allow him to approach the bed. As soon as the ceremony
was over, he was thrust from the castle.
"It happened that in less than a week Marie died. From my bed, which
faced the window, I saw the little funeral procession leave the
castle--my father and Count Hirsfeld the chief mourners. I saw Martin
following away off, with sorrowing face, and I was glad then that
I had not deceived him. I saw him weeping over the grave which he
believed to be mine. The day afterwards my son was born.
"As soon as Adrian could crawl about, he was taken from me by the
priests. They sent him to Italy, where he grew up a stranger to me.
When he returned, I did not know him. I spoke to him of that false
marriage; I wept for his lack of parentage. He knew everything; he
spoke to me of it coldly, but without unkindness. He was a son of the
Church, he said; he needed no other mother.
"He dwelt for awhile at the monastery, and it was while he was there
that I became suspicious. My father, and he, and the Superior of the
monastery were always together. They seemed to be urging something
upon him, which he was loath to undertake. By degrees I found it all
out. Adrian was to go to England as my lawful son and claim the De
Vaux estates for the Church. At first he was unwilling; but by degrees
they won upon him. Warning was sent to Martin de Vaux, and he came
here swiftly--to his death! I was kept a close prisoner, but I found
out everything that was happening. For years afterwards, Adrian was
undecided whether to go to England and claim the estates. At last he
decided, unknown to me, to go. I escaped and followed him. I tried
my best to persuade him, but failed. I came back here ill--to die--to
die!"
"And Adrea?"
"Adrea? She knew nothing! How could she?"
"Do you know who Adrea was?"
She seemed surprised that anything else could, for a moment, occupy
his mind after the story to which he had listened; but she struggled
to answer him. "She was Count Hirsfeld's daughter! He never spoke to
me of her mother! It was in Constantinople. I am afraid----"
He bowed his head. "I understand," he said simply. The colour had
suddenly flooded into his cheeks, and there was a mist before his
eyes. Even in that supreme moment, when her senses were failing and
her eyes were growing dim, she saw and understood.
"I wanted to be kind to her always," she faltered. "We would have
adopted her, but she would not stay here. She was unhappy, and I
helped her to escape. I had my reasons!"
He had already guessed at them, and he held out his hand. He did not
wish to hear any more. There was a moment's silence. She was looking
at him with dim, wistful eyes.
"You--you are very like your father!" she said, painfully. "Will you
kiss me?"
He stooped down and kissed the pale, trembling lips, and held
her hands tightly. Her breath was coming fast, and she spoke with
difficulty.
"Thank God they brought you here instead of the doctor! I can die--at
peace now! But you--you are in danger! You must escape from here!
You must not lose a minute! Oh, you do not know! you do not know! The
Count is cruel--bitterly cruel! He will not come to me although I die.
He will not forgive, although I have suffered agonies! He is my father
but he will not forgive me. And you--you are in danger if he finds
you! They have gone for him! Ah! I remember! Father Andrew went for
him! He is afraid that I shall tell you the truth, and that the Church
will not gain your property. Quick! you must go! Kiss me once more,
Paul, and go! Go quickly! These monks are wolves, but they are
cowards! Strike them down if they try to stop you! Don't hurt my
father! Farewell! farewell!"
"I will stay with you till the end," Paul whispered.
"No, no! away! I cannot die in peace and think of you--in danger. I
want to pray. Leave me, now, Paul. Dear Martin! Martin, my love--is it
you?"
Her mind was wandering, and she saw her lover of old days in the man
whose hand she clasped so frantically; and Paul, although out in
the passage he could hear the sound of hurrying feet, could not
tear himself away from her dying embrace. A faint, curious smile was
parting her pallid lips, and her dim eyes seemed suddenly to have
caught a dim reflection of the light to come.
"Martin! Martin! there is a mist everywhere--but I see you, dear love!
Wait for me! Let us go hand in hand--hand in hand through the Valley
of the Shadow of Death. Oh, my love! it has been a weary, weary while.
Hold me tighter, Martin! I cannot feel your hand! Ah! at last, at
last! Farewell sorrow, and grief, and suffering! We are together once
more--a new world--behind the clouds! I am happy."