A Monk of Cruta Part 31

"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 G.o.d! 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 G.o.d; 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 vobisc.u.m_.

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 a.s.sured 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 princ.i.p.al 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 G.o.d 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.