Denounced
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"No," she said, "no," and sprang to her feet excitedly. "No! no! no! I will not remember-will recall nothing, for if I do I shall go mad. Remember nothing-'tis best so. Go, Bertie Elphinston, go to your duties, as I will go to mine. Let us forget everything-except-except-" she faltered, changing in a moment womanlike-"that it was I who ruined and cursed both our lives."
He soothed her as best he could, reproaching himself for having revived such memories; reproaching himself, too, for the silence that had led to her believing him false. And once he said, as he had said in England when first they met again:
"Mine was the fault, let mine be the blame. Yet, unhappily, both have had to suffer. Surely something must arise to end that suffering ere long."
He did not know it, could not, indeed, know it; yet the end was far off still. There were more vigils of sorrow to be kept by both, more grief and pain to be endured.
Nor when she said between her tears, "If we were to be parted again now, if I should never see your face more, my heart would break," could she know what lay in front of them-black, dark, and lowering.
Her future was in a way provided for. The Cardinal Tencin, in spite of being somewhat out of favour now and retired to his archbishopric of Lyons-for when a French prelate was in disgrace his punishment was that he should attend to his diocese instead of being in Paris! – had still entire influence over the exiled Stuarts. Therefore it was to him that Archibald Sholto applied on behalf of Kate, and through him that she was to be appointed to the small court now being formed round Charles Edward in Paris.
That unhappy prince-though fortunate in some things, especially in his escape from Scotland after the rebellion-had now landed at Roscort, three leagues west of Morlaix, from the "Bellona," of St. Malo, and was safe once more in Paris. His adventures since the defeat of Culloden had been truly marvellous, and his escapes not less so; twice he was in danger of being shot, five times in danger of being drowned, nine times he was pursued by men of war and armed vessels of King George, and six times he escaped being captured by what seemed to be miracles. Also he had been almost famished for want of food and drink, and had had to lie out on the bare heaths or wild mountains and to shelter in caves.
Yet now he had entered Paris again, had been graciously welcomed by the French King and Queen, and was in treaty for a fine house in the Quartier St. Germain. It was to that house that Kate, with her father, was to go, there to form two of his small court.
At first when she took up her residence in it she was happy. She was among friends she had known in Paris, many of them also comrades of Bertie who had fought in the last invasion and themselves escaped. The Lords Ogilvie and Elcho were there with the ladies of their family; there, too, were old Lochiel and young Lord Lewis Gordon; the young Lochiel also, and Captain Stafford, who had lain long in Newgate in irons, yet was now escaped and free.
Also she was happy because Bertie was able to come and see her, and on one occasion, with all the others, including herself, accompanied the prince when he went to pay his respects to Louis at Versailles.
"Faith, Kate," he whispered to her on that evening, when, Charles Edward being at supper with the royal family, they strolled together up and down the mirrored galleries of the palace, "'tis even better than the old days, were it not that dear Douglas has left us," and he sighed. "But," he went on, "you are provided for-that, at least, is well, or as well as things are ever likely to be."
She said, "Yes, it is well, so far." Then she continued:
"Still, Bertie, I am unhappy."
"Unhappy?"
"Yes. Unhappy because I never know when that man-my husband-may cross my path again. Oh, if I could be sure I should never see him more!"
"At least he can never harm or annoy you. Have no fear of that. Remember, he knows that Archibald and I are in Paris, and, of course, believes that Douglas is here also. His dread of us will keep him away. He will trouble you no more. And if he should come-which is of all things most unlikely-why, I shall be near at hand to shield and protect you."
"You will always be near me?" she asked. "Always now? Oh, promise, Bertie; promise me that you will never disappear again."
"Of course, I promise. Why, where should I go to?" and he laughed as he asked. "My life is now bound up with the regiment. Short of campaigns nothing can take me far from you."
"Yet," she replied, "I fear-fear always. It is only when you are near that I feel safe-feel that I have one who is a brother to stand between me and harm."
"Yes," he said, "as a brother. It can never be anything else than that now-yet, as a brother, I will not fail you."
So they went back to Paris as they had come, the royal visit being over.
And then it seemed at last as if, with some few changes, things were to be almost as they had once been, though it is true that, instead of the old house in the Rue Trousse Vache, she and her father were lodged in a mansion which was in fact a palace, that Douglas was gone out of their life forever, and that she was a wife in name, though nothing else.
Bertie came at least once a week to Paris from St. Denis, both to pay his respects to his prince-as he regarded always Charles Edward-and also to see her, and brought her flowers from the gardens round that old town. But he brought no news from Archibald as to his having been successful in discovering who the murderer of Douglas was. The priest had, indeed, written to them once or twice from Amiens, but he either refrained from mentioning the subject at all, or, if he did so, said that he could discover nothing, and that any idea he might have had on the matter was, he now feared, a futile one.
"I began to also fear," Bertie said, as he talked it over with Kate, "that it was indeed a futile one-that never now will he be avenged. Poor Douglas! Who could have desired his life-who have struck so foul a blow?"
"It must have been," she answered, "as we at first thought, a murder in the hope of robbery afterwards."
"Or," said Bertie, "as sometimes I think now, the offshoot of another-an undiscovered murder. What if those vagabonds who called themselves Gascon gentlemen had previously slain someone else who was possessed of all that jewellery, and Douglas had come across them at the time, and, in endeavouring to save that other, was slain himself?"
"No," she said, "no. That is impossible. No other victim's body was found, and there was no place where they could have hidden it away, or, having hidden it, could not also have disposed of his. Besides, remember: The woman-the concierge-saw only one other slay him, and that other was neither of the Gascons. Nor was his sword drawn. No, we must seek elsewhere for the solution of that crime."
Thus they talked it over and over whenever they met. Surely it was natural that they should do so, seeing how much he had been to them, and how awful a blow his assassination was, but never did they arrive at any thought or idea of who was the actual murderer.
And, as they so discussed it day by day, the autumn departed as the summer had done, and the winter was almost upon them. Already the leaves lay in heaps at the roots of the trees, the swallows were all gone, the nights were long and dark, and Douglas slept unavenged in his grave. And still the troubles, the griefs and sorrows of this luckless man and woman were not yet at an end.
Another blow was still to fall upon them-it was close at hand now, though they knew it not.
CHAPTER XIX
"WHICH WAY I FLY IS HELL-MYSELF AM HELL!"
It was the feast of St. Denys, the patron saint of France.
Over all the land, from north to south and east to west, the churches and cathedrals were crowded on that day with worshippers bringing offerings and gifts to the altars, praying for the saint's aid to be still continued to them, asking for pardon for past sins, for prosperity in the future. On that day the King himself went in state to Nôtre Dame, accompanied by his brilliant court. In the provinces, governors of fortresses and of departments did the same thing at the local cathedrals; prisoners were released because of the anniversary of St. Denys, while some of the worst among them were executed-both as an example, and because it was the great fête-day and a holiday when other people required to be amused.
In Amiens, as in all the other cities boasting a beautiful cathedral and possessed of a strong religious element, it was the same as elsewhere. From morning until night the bells clanged at intervals from the towers of Nôtre Dame and the fourteen parish churches; processions innumerable took place, masses of all kinds-Capitular, Conventual, Missa Cantata, Missa Fidelium, Mass High and Low-were said and sung, accompanied by Kyrie, Gloria, and Credo, by Sanctus, Benedictus, and Agnus Dei.
But at last all was over-of a religious nature. The crowds that had filled Nôtre Dame d'Amiens were streaming out to other forms of celebration of the jour de Patron. It was the turn of the theatres now and the family gatherings, of the dance and song and jest among the better classes; the turn of the supper party and the wineshop and the courtesan for the remainder of the day-or rather night.
Yet, for those who still were willing to continue their religious devotions, still to regard the occasion more as a fast than a feast, the opportunity presented itself and was availed of by many. In every church in the city, in the cathedral above all, worshippers still knelt in prayer, though the hour grew late; at the confessionals hidden priests still listened to the sins-real or imaginary-of those who knelt before them.
In that cathedral with, still lingering about it, the odour of the incense that had been used that day, with the organ still pealing gently through the aisles, while at intervals the voix celeste, in flute-like tones, seemed almost to utter the soul's cry, "Oh, Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere mihi!" – those confessors sat there, and would sit until midnight struck, to listen to and absolve all those who sought for pardon.
"My son," came forth the muffled voice of one, his face being hidden in the impenetrable darkness in which he sat-a darkness still more profound since many of the lights in the great edifice had either been extinguished or had burnt themselves out, "the confession is not yet all made. Therefore, as yet there can be no absolution. Confess thy sins! Continue!"
Kneeling outside, the stricken creature thus addressed, its wild hair streaming down its back and meeting with the other unkempt hair on cheek and chin, its eyes gleaming, like a hunted animal's, around and up and down the dusky aisles, and glancing at pillars as though fearing listeners behind each, went on:
"My life, oh, holy father, was in his hands. He knew all; knew I was in France, and that he could give me up to justice to those whom I had wronged. Oh, father, mea culpa, mea culpa! Absolve me! absolve me!"
"Tell first thy sin," the muffled voice said again. "Thou hast not yet told all. Deceive not the Church. Confession first, then absolution."
The penitent groaned and wrung his hands, threw back the locks from his face, and then, with that face pressed close to the confessional, hissed in a whisper:
"Father, I was mad-am mad, I think. I was sore wrought; but half an hour before I had been assaulted and robbed by two villains of much wealth in jewels-and-and-I feared he would denounce me for my crimes, make my presence known. So, holy father-in my frenzy, in my fear-I struck him dead. I slew him. Have mercy on me, God!"
"Where slew you him?" the priest's stifled voice continued.
"There, father-without, by the west door. Oh, pardon, pardon, that here, on holy ground that should be sanctuary, I took his life!"
It seemed almost to the wretch outside the confessional that the priest had uttered a gasp, had started in his seat, as he heard these words; yet presently he spoke again:
"The victim being the young Scots officer found murdered more than three months past?"
"'Tis so, holy father. 'Tis so. Oh, pardon! Pardon me! Mea culpa, mea culpa!"
"What restitution have you made?" the voice was heard to ask. "What restitution propose to make?"
"I know not what to make, father. I cannot call him back to life. What can I, must I do?"
"Have you wronged others-man, woman, or child? Think! trifle not with the Church. There are, doubtless, others."
"Oh, father, I have been an evil liver-a bad husband; bad friend. Set my feet but in the right way! show me the path. And oh! father, absolve me of this sin of blood. Above all, that!"
"Confess all," the priest said, "confess all."
Then, still shivering there, while more and more the shadows grew within the great temple and it became more and more empty, the wretched assassin went on, though ever and again glancing behind the stately column and pillars as though fearing that unseen listener. He told how, determined to gain possession of a woman whose beauty maddened him-the more so because she despised him, or, at least, regarded him not-he had tricked her into the belief that the man she really loved had jilted her. Also how, when even that brought them no nearer, he had married her. How, later on, when wearied and exasperated by her hate and scorn, he had denied her as his wife, hinting that he was himself a priest; yet it was a lie, for he was no priest, having never been more that a lector.
"Almost," came forth the confessor's voice again, "art thou beyond absolution-beyond pardon."
"No! no! no!" wailed the wretch.
"Twice hast thou used our holy Church to aid in thy deceit. First, when thou suborned a villain and caused him to pretend he had performed the holy office of marriage; next, when thou falsely claimedst the office of priest to disavow thy lawful wife. Man, how shall I absolve thee? Yet, be more careful, or thy soul is lost for ever. Hast thou done more evil than this, committed more outrages against the Church?"
Because, perhaps, the wretched creature was half mad with terror now, with a new terror for his soul-whereas before he had but feared for his body-he told all that he had done; how, indeed, he had still further sinned against the Church in that he had set on foot a plot having for part of its intent the ruin of a priest of that Church, a Jesuit, one Sholto. It was all told at last.
For so long did the confessor sit silent in his unseen place that the miserable penitent, thinking no absolution would come forth to him, began to tremble, even to weep, and to call on him again for pardon and for pity. But at last the other spoke:
"Art thou well-to-do in the world?" he asked. "What are thy means?"
Yes, he said he was well-to-do; he had large means in both England and France. What portion should he set aside to appease both God and the Church?
"All," answered the priest. "All."
"All!" he gasped. "Go forth a beggar!
"All. Ay, all. Better go forth a beggar, stand naked in the market-place, than strip thy soul of its last chance of salvation."
"All!"
"To the last sol, the last dénier-excepting a provision for thy unhappy wife. Thou art the shedder of blood, the blasphemer of the Church and its holy offices, thy soul is clogged with guilt. I know not, even then, and with all else that thou must do, if it can ever find expiation."
"Say not so, father; absolve me, pardon me! See! see! I will do it. Before God I swear, in this His house, that I will do it! I will become a beggar, part with all. Only, father, give me His pardon. Pardon, and set me free!"
"Yet, still more," said that voice, "must thou do. Listen!"
And from his lips there fell so deep a charge that the murderer, kneeling there, knew that to save his soul in heaven he must forego all hopes of future peace on earth. Nevermore was he to touch meat nor aught but the coarsest black bread, never drink but water, never sleep soft, nor lie warm again. And there was worse even than that. He was to go forth to wild, savage parts of the world, there to pass the rest of his existence in trying to preach God's goodness and mercy to the heathen who knew Him not. On the promise that he would do this the priest would give him absolution; otherwise he would refuse it, and his soul must go to everlasting perdition.
He promised, and he was absolved!
Still sitting there, the last in the cathedral that night-for all were gone now except those who were to guard it until midnight had struck-he became the prey of even worse horrors than he had been before; he was absolved as regards his soul, yet into his mind a new fear had arisen for his body-a fear that became a spectre. He had thought that once or twice he had recognised in the tones of the priest's voice some that were familiar to him; now he felt sure that they were. He had confessed to his bitterest enemy on earth-to Archibald Sholto! to the brother of the man whom he had murdered!
This was the meaning of the awful doom passed on him-the doom of ruin, beggary, and starvation, of expatriation to wild and savage lands. To him! He had confessed to him of all others! Yet, was it so, or was he, in truth, mad? He had heard of madmen who knew that they were mad and who could yet be so cunning as to contend with that madness, wrestle with it, subdue it-for a time. Let him do so now. Let him think it all out. Was it, in truth, Archibald Sholto?
It might well be.
For three months he had been in hiding in a small village near Amiens, watching over the course of events connected with his assassination of Douglas, avoiding, above all others, yet keeping them ever under his own view, two persons. One was Archibald, the other the woman who had seen his face on that night-the white-faced woman in the darkened room who had raised her finger and pointed as he did the deed.
"Avoided them," he muttered now, as he sat there in the dark, watching the sacred lamp that burned unceasingly above the high altar, but still engaged always in peering into the deep shadows and blackness in which the huge pile was now enveloped-"avoided them. O God, how have I avoided them! Yet, drawn irresistibly to where they were. Little does he know how I have seen him officiating at his own church, or she how I have passed her close, though unseen; even peered into her room at night from the street, when, dragged here by-by-the fierce desire to stand again upon the spot where-where he fell. Once, too, she felt, unwittingly, my presence. As I brushed against her in the street she shuddered and drew back from me. Something revealed that one accursed had touched her."
He moaned aloud as he sat there, his head buried in his hands; then, because his mind was now disordered and he was half mad, half sane, a smile came on the evil face that he turned up as the moon's rays came through the great rose window and lighted all the nave. "Yet," he murmured, "it was in the confessional under the seal of confession. If it was Douglas's brother, he can do naught. Naught! Confession is sacred. That seal cannot be broken. But was it he? Was it? Was it?
"His face I could not see, but the tones were like unto his," he continued. "And once he started-I am certain of it. O God, have I told his brother all? His brother! His brother!"
Above, from the great tower, there boomed the striking of the hour-midnight. And again he shuddered and moaned and whispered with white lips:
"The very hour, the hour that I cannot hear, can never hear again, without agony and horror unspeakable. The hour told by the same clock that told it on that night of blood. I must go," he wailed in low, broken tones, "must go there. He draws me to the spot; I see his finger beckoning me nightly. His eyes met mine once, a month ago, as I reached Paris. I thought I was free and had escaped, yet they dragged me back to this accursed spot. I must go. I must go. He waits for me. Ever-ever when the moon is near her full. I am absolved by him, his brother, yet he is always beckoning me and makes me go."
A hand fell on his shoulder as he sat there, and he started up with almost a shriek, and with his own hand thrust in his breast-perhaps to draw some hidden knife, perhaps to still the leap his heart gave.
"Monsieur," a voice said, the voice of the old sacristan, "permit that I disturb your pious meditations. But all are gone now, including the priests. The cathedral is about to close."
"Yes, yes," he muttered low, "I will go. I will go. I have stayed too long."
"By the west door, if it pleases monsieur. It is the only one open."
"The west door," the terrified creature muttered as he left the old man putting out the last remaining lights, and so made his way towards the exit indicated. "By the west door. It must needs be that. It is the nearest to the spot, and he will be there waiting for me, the moonlight shining in his glittering eyes as he beckons me to him, the glare of reproach in them. I must go. I must go."
Down the long aisle he crept, shaking as with a palsy as he went, starting and almost crying out again as a bat flew by and brushed his hair with its wings, going onward to what he dreaded to see, the phantom of the murdered man which his distracted brain conjured up nightly.
"He will be there," he muttered again. "He will be there."
He reached the great west door-striking against the bell ropes hanging in the tower, and gasping at the contact-and then paused at the wicket let into the door, dreading to go out through it to meet the ghostly figure that he knew awaited him.
Still, it must be done, and with another gasp, a smothered groan, he stepped out through the wicket into the shadow thrown by the cathedral wall, and gazed upon the moon-illuminated spot where Douglas had fallen dead.
And once more he smothered a shriek that rose to his lips.
Standing above that spot, its back to him, but as he could tell by the bent head, gazing down upon it, there was the figure of a man-a man still as death itself; a man bare-headed.
"You have come again," he hissed in terror. "Again! Again! Mercy! Mercy!"
Swiftly the figure turned and faced him-its eyes glistening in the moonlight as he had said-and advanced towards him.
"Douglas!" he screamed. "Douglas! Mercy!"
"No," the figure said. "No. Not Douglas. Archibald."
CHAPTER XX
AVENGED
He had fallen grovelling to the earth as that figure turned its face towards him, and now he remained in the same position.
As he did so Archibald Sholto knew for certain that he had found his brother's murderer. In the moment of witnessing that frenzied terror there had flashed into his mind the knowledge of who had been the wearer of the tiara with the one yellow-brown diamond in it; the recognition of the dark head streaked with grey with which his thoughts had been filled for weeks, yet without certainty-the head of the murderer's late mother! He knew all now. She it was who had worn the diadem in the great ceremonies he had taken part in; the rejoicings at the peace of '38, the almost equally great rejoicings at the death of the Emperor Charles, and many others. She, Lady Fordingbridge, his mother, had worn it often; often had he observed the strange light emitted by that blemished jewel; and now, from the tiara in which it still remained, a ruby was missing, and had been found on the spot where his brother had been done to death. Therefore he knew that that brother's assassin was before him. God had given him into his hands.
He bent forward over the crouching creature at his feet; in a low voice he said:
"So, I have found you, Simeon Larpent. Even though you are armed to-night as you were on that other night; even though you bear about you the weapon with which you slew him, you cannot escape me."
"You can do nothing," the other said, turning up an evil eye at him and then rising to his feet-"nothing! Your tongue is sealed. What I confessed was under the sanctity of the confessional; you dare tell naught."
At once the Jesuit's clear mind grasped the facts-at once he perceived that the murderer had been cleansing his soul before a confessor-and thought that he was that confessor.
"I told you all," Fordingbridge went on, "all, all. And you absolved me, pardoned me, though the punishment you meted out to me was hard. Have you not vengeance enough? To go forth a beggar and an outcast-to wander in savage lands until I die-surely, surely, that is enough. Let me go in peace."