CHAPTER V
[FATHER CAPEL DISCOVERS GAUTRAN IN HIS PERIL]
Father Capel was wending his way slowly over the hill from the bedside of the sick woman whom he had attended for two nights in succession. On the first night she was in a state of delirium, and Father Capel could not arouse her to a consciousness of surrounding things. In her delirium she had repeatedly uttered a name which had powerfully interested him. "Madeline! Madeline! my Madeline," she moaned again and again. "Is it possible," thought the priest, "that the girl whose name she utters with agonised affection is the poor child who was so ruthlessly murdered?" On this, the second night, the woman whose last minutes on earth were approaching, was conscious, and she made certain disclosures to Father Capel which, veiled as they were, had grievously disturbed his usually serene mood. She had, also, given him a mission to perform which did not tend to compose his mind. He had promised faithfully to obey her, and they were to meet again within a few hours. To his earnest request that she would pray with him, she had impatiently answered:
"There will be time enough after I have seen the man you have promised to bring with you. I shall live till then."
So he had knelt by her bedside and had prayed for her and for himself, and for all the erring. His compassionate heart had room for them all.
For twenty miles around there was no man better loved than he. His life had been reproachless, and his tender nature never turned from the performance of a good deed, though it entailed suffering and privation upon himself. These were matters not to be considered when duty beckoned to him. A poor man, and one who very often deprived himself of a meal in the cause of charity. A priest in the truest sense of the word.
Seldom, in the course of a long, merciful, and charitable career, had he met with so much cause to grieve as on the present occasion. In the first place, because it was an added proof to the many he had received that a false step in life, in the taking of which one human being caused another to suffer, was certain to bring at some time or other its own bitter punishment; in the second place, because in this particular instance, the punishment, and the remorse that must surely follow, were as terrible as the mind of man could conceive.
His road lay towards the hill upon which the desperate conflict between John Vanbrugh and Gautran was taking place. There was no occasion for him to cross this hill; by skirting its base he could follow the road he intended to take. But as he approached the spot, the wind bore to him, in moments when the fury of the storm was lulled, cries which sounded in his ears like cries of pain and despair They were faint, and difficult to ascribe to any precise definite cause; they might be the cries of an animal, but even in that case it was more than likely that Father Capel would have proceeded in their direction. Presently, however, he heard a human cry for help; the word was distinct, and it decided his movements. Without hesitation he began to climb the hill.
As he approached nearer and nearer to the spot on which the struggle was proceeding, there was no longer room to doubt its nature.
"Holy Mother!" murmured the priest, quickening his steps, "will the evil passions of men never be stilled? It seems as if murder were being done here. Grant that I am not too late to avert the crime!"
Then came the terrific lightning-flash, followed immediately by Gautran's piercing scream as he was struck down by the tree.
"Who calls for help?" cried Father Capel, in a loud voice, but his words were lost in the peals of thunder which shook the earth and made it tremble beneath his feet. When comparative silence reigned, he shouted again:
"Who calls for help? I am a priest, and tender it."
Gautran's voice answered him:
"Here--here! I am crushed and dying!"
This appeal was not coherently made, but the groans which accompanied it guided Father Capel to the spot upon which Gautran lay. He felt amid the darkness and shuddered at the touch of blood, and then he clasped Gautran's right hand. The tree had fallen across the murderer's legs, and had so crushed them into the earth that he could not move the lower part of his body; his chest and arms were free. A heavy branch had inflicted a terrible gash on his forehead, and it was from this wound that he was bleeding to death.
"Who are you?" said Father Capel, kneeling by the dying man, "that lies here in this sad condition? I cannot see you. Is this Heaven's deed, or man's?"
"It is Heaven's," gasped Gautran, "and I am justly punished."
"I heard the sounds of a struggle between two men. Are you one of those who were fighting in the midst of this awful darkness?"
"Yes, I am one."
"And the design," continued Father Capel, "was murder. You do not answer me; your silence is sufficient confirmation. Are you hurt much?"
"I am hurt to death. In a few minutes I shall be in eternal fire unless you grant me absolution and forgiveness for my crimes."
"Speak first the truth. Were you set upon, or were you the attacker in this evil combat?"
"I attacked him first."
"Then he may be dead!" exclaimed Father Capel, and rising hastily to his feet, he peered into the darkness, and felt about with his hands, and called aloud to know if the other man was conscious. "This is horrible," said the priest, in deep perplexity, scarcely knowing what it was best to do; "one man dying, another in all likelihood dead."
He turned as if about to go, and Gautran, divining his intention, cried in a tone of agony:
"Do not leave me, father, do not leave me!"
"Truly," murmured the priest, "it seems to me that my present duty is more with the living than the dead." He knelt again by the side of Gautran. "Miserable wretch, if the man you attacked be dead, you have murdered him, and you have been smitten for your crime. It may not be the only sin that lies upon your soul."
"It is not, it is not," groaned Gautran. "My strength is deserting me; I can hardly speak. Father, is there hope for a murderer? Do not let me die yet. Give me something to revive me. I am fainting."
"I have nothing with me to restore your strength. To go for wine, and for assistance to remove this heavy timber which imprisons you--my weak arms cannot stir it--cannot be accomplished in less than half an hour. It will be best, perhaps, for me to take this course; in the meantime, pray, miserable man, with all the earnestness of your heart and soul, for Divine forgiveness. What is your name?"
"I am Gautran," faintly answered the murderer.
Father Capel's frame shook under the influence of a strong agitation.
"From the bedside of the woman I have left within the hour," he murmured, "to this poor sinner who has but a few minutes to live! The hand of God is visible in it."
He addressed himself to the dying man:
"You are he who was tried for the murder of Madeline, the flower-girl?"
"I am he," moaned Gautran.
"Hearken to me," said Father Capel. "For that crime you were tried and acquitted by an earthly tribunal, which pronounced you innocent. But you are now about to appear before the Divine throne for judgment; and from God nothing can be hidden. He sees into the hearts of men. Who is ready--as you but now admitted to me--to commit one murder, and who, perhaps, has committed it, for, from the silence, I infer that the body of your victim lies at no great distance, will not shrink from committing two. Answer me truly, as you hope for mercy. Were you guilty or innocent of the murder of Madeline?"
"I was guilty," groaned Gautran. "Wretch that I am, I killed her. I loved her, father--I loved her!"
Gautran, from whose lips these words had come amid gasps of agony, could say no more; his senses were fast leaving him.
"Ah me--ah me!" sighed Father Capel; "how shall such a crime be expiated?"
"Father," moaned Gautran, rallying a little, "had I lived till to-morrow, I intended to buy masses for the repose of her soul. I will buy them now, and for my own soul too. I have money. Feel in my pocket; there is gold. Take it all--all--every piece--and tell me I am forgiven."
Father Capel did not attempt to take the money.
"Stolen gold will not buy absolution or the soul's repose," he said sadly. "Crime upon crime--sin upon sin! Gautran, evil spirits have been luring you to destruction."
"I did not steal the gold," gasped Gautran. "It was given to me--freely given."
"Forgiveness you cannot hope for," said Father Capel, "if in these awful moments you swerve from the truth by a hair's-breadth. Confess you stole the gold, and tell me from whom, so that it may be restored."
"May eternal torments be mine if I stole it! Believe me, father--believe me. I speak the truth."
"Who gave it to you, then?"
"The Advocate."
"The Advocate! He who defended you, and so blinded the judgment of men as to cause them to set a murderer loose?"
"Yes; he, and no other man."
"From what motive, Gautran--compassion?"
"No, from fear."
"What reason has he to fear you?"
"I have his secret, as he had mine, and he wished to get rid of me, so that he and I should never meet again. It was for that he gave me the gold."
"What is the nature of this secret which made him fear your presence?"
"He knew me to be guilty."
"What do you say? When he defended you, he knew you to be guilty?"
"Aye, he knew it well."
"Incredible--horrible!" exclaimed Father Capel, raising his hands. "He shared, then, your crime. Yes; though he committed not the deed, his guilt is as heavy as the guilt of the murderer. How will he atone for it?--how can atone for it? And if what I otherwise fear to be true, what pangs of remorse await him!"
A frightful scream from Gautran arrested his further speech.
"Save me, father--save me!" shrieked the wretch. "Send her away! Tell her I repent. See, there--there!--she is creeping upon me, along the tree!"
"What is it you behold amidst the darkness of this appalling night?" asked Father Capel, crossing himself.
"It is Madeline--her spirit that will never, never leave me! Will you not be satisfied, you, with my punishment? Is not my death enough for you? You fiend--you fiend! I will strangle you if you come closer. Have mercy--mercy! You are a priest; have you no power over her? Then what is the use of prayer? It is a mockery--a mockery! My eyes are filled with blood! Ah!"
Then all was silent.
"Gautran," whispered Father Capel, "take this cross in your hand; put it to your lips and repeat the words I say. Gautran, do you hear me? No sound--no sound! He has gone to his account, unrepentant and unforgiven!"
Father Capel rose to his feet.
"I will seek assistance at once; there is another to be searched for. Ah, terrible, terrible night! Heaven have mercy upon us!"
And with a heart overburdened with grief, the good priest left the spot to seek for help.