A Monk of Cruta

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

"I have dealt in no idle threats, Paul de Vaux," was the stern answer. "I gave you a chance, and you have thrown it away. Perhaps I did ill ever to offer it to you. But, at any rate, remember this: it is no idle vengeance which I am dealing out to you this night; it is our holy and despoiled Church calling for justice. I speak in her name!"

There was a moment's silence. Paul knew by his companion's bowed head and laboured utterance that he was suffering from some sort of emotion. But the darkness hid from him the workings of his pale features. When he spoke, his voice was low and solemn.

"Paul de Vaux, turn back in your mind to another night such as this, when the thunder of sea and wind shook the air, and the anger of God seemed fallen upon the earth. On that night your father lay dying in the island monastery of Cruta; and while you were risking your life in the storm to reach him, I knelt by his side praying for his soul, that it might not sink down amongst the damned in hell. He was a brave man, but with the icy hand of death closing around him fear touched his heart. It was no craven fear! He lay there still and quiet, but his heart was troubled. In the midst of my prayers he stopped me, and took the crucifix into his own hand.

"'Father,' he said, 'I have no faith in dying repentances. I have scouted religion all my life, and on my deathbed I will not cry for comfort to a Divinity which is a myth to me. Yet, as man to man, listen while I tell you a secret; and when I have finished, do you pray for me.'

"Shall I go on, Paul de Vaux? Shall I tell you all that your father's dying lips faltered out to me?"

"All! every word! Keep nothing back!" Paul spoke quickly, almost feverishly. He knew a little, but something told him that this priest knew more. He began dimly to suspect the nature of the revelation which was to come.

"You shall know everything," Father Adrian continued, in the same hushed tone, so low that Paul had to bend forward to catch the words as they fell from his lips. "If Martin de Vaux had been of our religion, and had sought me as a priest of the Church a seal would have been set upon my mouth. But it was not so! Despite all my ministrations, he died as he had lived, in heresy and grievous sin. After all, it is only right that you, his son, should know what he forebore to tell you. Yet, in my weakness I might have spared you, if you yourself had not brought down this blow upon your head."

Paul raised his hand, and Father Adrian paused. "Listen," he said, in a low, deep tone. "There are secret pages in the lives of most of us—pages blurred and scarred with misery and suffering and sin. But there is a difference—a great difference. Some are turned over with firm and penitent fingers, and, although their scarlet record may never be blotted out, yet, by sacrifice and atonement, the fruits of the sin itself may die, and, dying, cast no shadow into the future. A sin against humanity can often be righted by human justice. Towards the close of my father's days, I knew for the first time that there was in his life one of those disfigured pages. He told me nothing. I sought to know nothing. Father Adrian," Paul went on, with a sudden strain of passion in his tone, and a gesture half unseen in the darkness, "if the shadow of his sin rests upon any human being, if it still lives upon the earth, then tell me all that is in your heart to tell, for there is work to be done. But if that page be locked and sealed, if those who suffered through it are dead, and the burden which darkened my father's days is his alone, then spare his memory! Strike at me, if you will! Deal out your promised vengeance, but let it fall on me alone!"

Paul ended his speech with a little burst of passion ringing in those last few words. He was conscious of a deep and fervent desire to hear nothing, to listen to nothing, which could teach him to hold less dear his father's memory. He shrank, with a human and perfectly natural feeling, from hearing evil of the dead. That last evil deed, the murder in that grim, bare chamber of death, had haunted him with vivid and painful intensity. But it was a crime by itself. It was horrible to imagine that it might indeed be the culmination of a life of license and contempt of all human laws. He had tried to think of it as something outside his father's life, something done in a momentary fit of madness, and that the man who suffered by it was some monster unfit for the companionship of his fellows—unfit to live. There were still tales to be heard in the county, and about town even, of the wild doings of Martin de Vaux in his younger days; but none of these had reached his son's ears. He would have been the last person likely to hear of them.