MISTRESS AND MAID
In the meantime the Advocate and his wife strolled through the
grounds. Although it was evident that much labour had been bestowed
upon them, there were signs of decay here and there which showed the
need of a master mind; but as these traces were only to be met with at
some distance from the villa itself, it was clear that they would not
interfere with the comfort of the new arrivals. The house lay low, and
the immediate grounds surrounding it were in good condition. There
were orchards stocked with fruit-trees, and gardens bright with
flowers. At a short distance from the house was an old châlet which
had been built with great taste; it was newly painted, and much care
had been bestowed upon a covered pathway which led to it from a side
entrance to the House of White Shadows. The principal room in this
châlet was a large studio, the walls of which were black. On the left
wall--in letters which once were white, but which had grown yellow
with age--was inscribed the legend, "The Grave of Honour."
"How singular!" exclaimed the Advocate's wife. "'The Grave of Honour!'
What can be the meaning of it?"
But Mother Denise did not volunteer an explanation.
Near the end of the studio was an alcove, the space beyond being
screened by a dead crimson curtain. Holding back the curtain, a large
number of pictures were seen piled against the walls.
"Family pictures?" asked the Advocate's wife, of Mother Denise.
"No, my lady," was the reply; "they were painted by an artist, who
resided and worked here for a year or so in the lifetime of the old
master."
By the desire of the lady the housekeeper brought a few of the
pictures into the light. One represented a pleasure party of ladies
and gentlemen dallying in summer woods; another, a lady lying in a
hammock and reaching out her arm to pluck some roses; two were
companion pictures, the first subject being two persons who might have
been lovers, standing among strewn flowers in the sunshine--the second
subject showing the same figures in a different aspect; a cold grey
sea divided them, on the near shore of which the man stood in an
attitude of despair gazing across the waters to the opposite shore, on
which stood the woman with a pale, grief-stricken face.
"The sentiment is strained," observed the Advocate, "but the artist
had talent."
"A story could be woven out of them," said his wife; "I feel as if
they were connected with the house."
Upon leaving the châlet they continued their tour through the grounds.
Already the Advocate felt the beneficial effects of a healthy change.
His eyes were clearer, his back straighter, he moved with a brisker
step. Mother Denise walked in front, pointing out this and that,
Martin hobbled behind, and Dionetta, encouraged thereto, walked by her
new mistress's side.
"Dionetta," said the Advocate's wife, "do you know that you have the
prettiest name in the world?"
"Have I, my lady? I have never thought of it, but it is, if you say
so."
"But perhaps," said the Advocate's wife, with a glance at the girl's
bright face, "a man would not think of your name when he looked at
you."
"I am sure I cannot say, my lady; he would not think of me at all."
"You little simpleton! I wish I had such a name; they ought to wait
till we grow up, so that we might choose our own names. I should not
have chosen Adelaide for myself."
"Is that your name, my lady?"
"Yes--they could not have given me an uglier."
"Nay," said Dionetta, raising her eyes in mute appeal for forgiveness
for the contradiction, "it is very sweet."
"Repeat it, then. Adelaide."
"May I, my lady?"
"Of course you may, if I wish you to. Let me hear you speak it."
"Adelaide! Adelaide!" murmured Dionetta softly. The permission was as
precious as the gift of a silver chain would have been. "My lady, it
is pretty."
"Shall we change?" asked the Advocate's wife gaily.
"Can we?" inquired Dionetta in a solemn tone. "I would not mind if you
wish it, and if it is right. I will ask the priest."
"No, do not trouble. Would you really like to change?"
"It would be so strange--and it might be a sin! If we cannot, it is of
no use thinking of it."
"There is no sin in thinking of things; if there were, the world would
be full of sin, and I--dear me, how much I should have to answer for!
I should not like everyone to know my thoughts. What a quiet life you
must live here, Dionetta!"
"Yes, my lady, it is quiet."
"Would you not prefer to live in a city?"
"I should be frightened, my lady. I have been only twice to Geneva,
and there was no room in the streets to move about. I was glad to get
back."
"No room to move about, simplicity! That is the delight of it. There
are theatres, and music, and light, and life. You would not be
frightened if you were with me?"
"Oh, no, my lady; that would be happiness."
"Are you not happy here?"
"Oh, yes, very happy."
"But you wish for something?"
"No, my lady; I have everything I want."
"Everything--positively everything?"
"Yes, my lady."
"There is one thing you must want, Dionetta, if you have it not
already."
"May I know what it is?"
"Yes, child. Love."
Dionetta blushed crimson from forehead to throat, and the Advocate's
wife laughed, and tapped her cheek.
"You are very pretty, Dionetta; it is right you should have a pretty
name. Do you mean to tell me you have not a lover?"
"I have been asked, my lady," said the girl, in a tone so low that it
could only just be heard.
"And you said 'yes'? Little one, I have caught you."
"My lady, I did not say 'yes.'"
"And the men were contented? They must be dolts. Really and truly, you
have not a lover?"
"What can I say, my lady?" murmured Dionetta, her head bent down.
"There are some who say they--love me."
"But you do not love them?"
"No, my lady."
"You would like to have one you could love?"
"One day, my lady, if I am so fortunate."
"I promise you," said the Advocate's wife with a blithe laugh, "that
one day you will be so fortunate. Women were made for love--and men,
too, or where would be the use? It is the only thing in life worth
living for. Blushing again! I would give my jewel-case to be able to
blush like you."
"I cannot help it, my lady. My face often grows red when I am quite
alone."
"And thinking of love," added the Advocate's wife; "for what else
should make it red? So you do think of things! I can see, Dionetta,
that you and I are going to be great friends."
"You are very good, my lady, but I am only a poor peasant. I will
serve you as well as I can."
"You knew, before I came, that you were to be my maid?"
"Yes, my lady. Master Lamont said it was likely. Grandmother did not
seem to care that it should be so, but I wished for it, and now that
she has seen you she must be glad for me to serve you."
"Why should she be glad, Dionetta?"
"My lady, it could not be otherwise," said Dionetta very earnestly;
"you are so good and beautiful."
"Flatterer! Master Lamont--he is an old man?"
"Yes, my lady."
"There are some old men who are very handsome."
"He is not. He is small, and thin, and shrivelled up."
"Those are not the men for us, are they, little one?"
"But he has a voice like honey. I have heard many say so."
"That is something in his favour--or would be, if women were blind. So
from this day you are my maid. You will be faithful, I am sure, and
will keep my secrets. Mind that, Dionetta. You must keep my secrets."
"Have you any?" said Dionetta, "and shall you tell them to me?"
"Every woman in the world has secrets, and every woman in the world
must have someone to whom she can whisper them. You will find that out
for yourself in time. Yes, child, I have secrets--one, a very precious
one. If ever you guess it without my telling you, keep it buried in
your heart, and do not speak of it to a living soul."
"I would not dare, my lady."
They walked a little apart from the others during this dialogue. The
concluding words brought them to the steps of the House of White
Shadows.
"Edward," said the Advocate's wife to him, as they entered the house,
"I have found a treasure. My new maid is charming."
"I am pleased to hear it. She has an ingenuous face, but you will be
able to judge better when you know more of her."
"You do not trust many persons, Edward."
"Not many, Adelaide."
"Me?" she asked archly.
"Implicitly."
"And another, I think."
"Certainly, one other."
"I should not be far out if I were to name Christian Almer."
"It is to him I refer."
"I have sometimes wondered," she said, with an artless look, "why you
should be so partial to him. He is so unlike you."
"We are frequently drawn to our unlikes; but Almer and I have one
quality in common with each other."
"What quality, Edward?"
"The quality of the dog--faithfulness. Almer's friendship is precious
to me, and mine to him, because we are each to the other faithful."
"The quality of the dog! How odd that sounds! Though when one thinks
of it there is really something noble in it. And friendship--it is
almost as if you placed it higher than love."
"It is far higher. Love too frequently changes, as the seasons change.
Friendship is, of the two, the more likely to endure, being less
liable to storms. But even a faithful friendship is rare."
"And faithful love much rarer, according to your ideas. Yet, Mr.
Almer, having this quality of the dog, would be certain, you believe,
to be faithful both in love and friendship."
"To the death."
"You are thorough in your opinions, Edward."
"I do not believe in half-heartedness, Adelaide."
The arrangements within the house were complete and admirable. For the
Advocate's wife, a boudoir and reception-rooms into which new fashions
had been introduced with judgment so good as not to jar with the old
furnishings which had adorned them for many generations. For the
Advocate a study, with a library which won from him cordial approval;
a spacious and commodious apartment, neither overloaded with furniture
nor oppressive with bare spaces; with an outlook from one window to
the snow regions of Mont Blanc, from another to the city of Geneva,
which was now bathed in a soft, mellow light. This tender evidence of
departing day was creeping slowly downwards into the valleys from
mount and city, a moving picture of infinite beauty.
They visited the study last; Adelaide had been loud in her praises of
the house and its arrangement, commending this and that, and declaring
that everything was perfect. While she was examining the furniture in
the study the Advocate turned to the principal writing-table, upon
which lay a pile of newspapers. He took up the first of these, and
instinctively searched for the subject which had not left his mind
since his visit to the banker, Jacob Hartrich--the murder of Madeline
the flower-girl. He was deep in the perusal of fresh details,
confirmatory of Gautran's guilt, when he was aroused by a stifled cry
of alarm from Adelaide. With the newspaper still in his hand, he
looked up and asked what had alarmed her. She laughed nervously, and
pointed to an old sideboard upon which a number of hideous faces were
carved. To some of the faces bodies were attached, and the whole of
this ancient work of art was extravagant enough to have had for its
inspiration the imaginings of a madman's brain.
"I thought I saw them moving," said Adelaide. The Advocate smiled, and
said:
"It is the play of light over the figures that created the delusion;
they are harmless, Adelaide."
The glow of sunset shone through a painted window upon the faces,
which to a nervous mind might have seemed to be animated with living
colour.
"Look at that frightful head," said Adelaide; "it is really stained
with blood."
"And now," observed the Advocate, "the blood-stain fades away, and in
the darker light the expression grows sad and solemn."
"I should be frightened of this room at night," said Adelaide, with a
slight shiver; "I should fancy those hideous beings were only waiting
an opportunity to steal out upon me for an evil purpose."
A noise in the passage outside diverted their attention.
"Gently, Fritz, gently," cried a voice, "unless you wish to make holes
in the sound part of me."
The Advocate moved to the door, and opened it. A strange sight came
into view.