I looked him straight in the face and I did not spare him. What was the use? The truth was best!
"It is folly!" I said. "If your religion is worth anything to you, let it help you now! Let it teach you to forget me! Go away from here, and leave unharmed the man I love. If you do not, I shall hate you!"
He caught hold of my dress. He was on his knees before me—a bent, imploring figure.
"Too late! too late!" he cried. "My religion has gone! When love for you crept into my heart, I became worse than a heretic. It was sin, and the sin has spread. Oh! have mercy upon me, Adrea, have mercy upon me! Just a little of your love. It may not be much at first, but it will grow. Adrea, you must try—you shall try!"
I shook my gown from his trembling fingers, and looked down upon him with contempt in my heart, and contempt in my face. The flickering firelight cast a faint glow upon his blanched, wan features, and their utter humility filled me with an unreasoning and unreasonable loathing. I did not try to soften my words. I spoke out just as I felt, and watched him rise slowly to his feet, like a hunted and stricken animal, without a pitying word or glance. As he rose upright, his head dropped. He did not look at me; he did not speak a single word. He walked slowly to the door with steps that faltered a little, and walked out of the room, and out of the house.
I watched him down the avenue, wondering at his strange silence. It had a curious effect upon me. I would rather have heard threats—even a torrent of anger. There was something curiously ominous in that slow, wordless exit. I watched him uneasily, full of dim, shapeless fears.
Outside the gate he paused in the middle of the road. To the left was the monastery where he had stayed; to the right was Vaux Abbey. I heard my heart beat while he paused, and my face was pressed against the window. For nearly a minute he stood quite still, with downcast head, thinking. Then he turned deliberately to the right, and set his face towards Vaux Abbey.
That was early in the evening yesterday—twenty-four hours ago. Since then not a soul has been near the house. Early this morning I saw Father Adrian coming along the road from Vaux. I ran upstairs, and locked myself in my room, after forbidding the servants to let him enter. From the windows I watched him. To my surprise he never even glanced in. He walked past the gates, and took the road to the monastery. I saw him slowly ascend the hill and vanish out of sight in the darkening twilight. Once, just before he reached the summit, he paused and looked steadily down here. I could not see his face, but I saw him raise his right hand for a moment toward the sky. Then he turned round and pursued his way.