TWO LETTERS--FROM FRIEND TO FRIEND, FROM LOVER TO LOVER
I
"My Dear Almer,--We have been here three days, and are comfortably
established in your singularly-named villa, the House of White
Shadows. It is a perfect country residence, and the scenery around it
is, I am told, charming. As you are aware, I have no eyes for the
beauties of Nature; human nature and human motive alone interest me,
and my impressions of the neighbourhood are derived from the
descriptions of my wife, who enjoys novelty with the impulsive
enjoyment of a child. It appears that she was enchanted when she heard
from your lips that your house was supposed to be haunted by shadows,
and although you cautioned her immediately afterwards, she was not to
be deterred from accepting your invitation. Up to this time, no ghost
has appeared to her, nor has my composure been disturbed by
supernatural visions. I am a non-believer in visions from the
spiritual world; she is only too ready to believe. It is the human
interest attached to such fancies--for which, of course, there must be
some foundation--which fascinates and arrests the general attention.
There, for me, the interest ends; I do not travel beyond reality.
"I am supposed to have come for rest and repose. The physicians who
laid this burden upon me know little of my nature; idleness is more
irksome, and I believe more injurious, to me than the severest labour;
and it is a relief, therefore, to me to find myself interested in a
startling criminal case which is shortly coming on for trial in
Geneva. It is a case of murder, and a man is in prison, charged with
its commission. He has no friends, he has no means, he is a vicious
creature of the commonest and lowest type. There is nothing in him to
recommend him to favour; he is a being to be avoided--but these are
not the points to be considered. Is the man guilty or not guilty? He
is pronounced guilty by universal public opinion, and the jury which
will be empannelled to try him will be ready to convict upon the
slightest evidence, or, indeed, without evidence. The trial will be a
mockery of justice unless the accused is defended by one who is not
influenced by passion and prejudice. There is a feature in the case
which has taken powerful possession of me, and which, as far as I can
judge, has not occurred to others. I intend to devote the whole of
to-night to a study of the details of the crime, and it is likely that
I shall undertake the defence of this repulsive creature--no doubt
much to his astonishment. I have, with this object in view, already
had an interview with him in his prison-cell, and the trouble I had to
obtain permission to see him is a sufficient indication of the popular
temper. When, therefore, you hear--if in the mountain fastness in
which you are intrenched, you have the opportunity of hearing any news
at all from the world at your feet--that I have undertaken the defence
of a man named Gautran, accused of the murder of a flower-girl named
Madeline, do not be surprised.
"What is most troubling me at the present moment is--what is my wife
to do, how is she to occupy her time, during our stay in the House of
White Shadows? At present she is full of animation and delight; the
new faces and scenery by which she is surrounded are very attractive
to her; but the novelty will wear off and then she will grow dull.
Save me from self-reproach and uneasiness by taking up your residence
with us, if not for the whole of the time we remain here, which I
should much prefer, at least for a few weeks. By so doing you will
confer a service upon us all. My wife enjoys your society; you know
the feeling I entertain for you; and personal association with sincere
friends will be of real benefit to you. I urge it earnestly upon you,
for I have an impression that you are brooding over unhealthy fancies,
and that you have sought solitude for the purpose of battling with one
of those ordinary maladies of the mind to which sensitive natures are
prone. If it be so, Christian, you are committing a grave error; the
battle is unequal; silence and seclusion will not help you to a
victory over yourself. Come and unbosom yourself to me, if you have
anything to unbosom, and do not fear that I shall intrude either
myself or my advice upon you against your inclination. If you have a
grief, meet it in the society of those who love you. There is a
medicine in a friendly smile, in a friendly word, which you cannot
find in solitude. One needs sometimes, not the sunshine of fair
weather, but the sunshine of the soul. Here it awaits you, and should
you bring dark vapours with you I promise you they will soon be
dispelled. I am disposed--out of purest friendliness--to insist upon
your coming, and to be so uncharitable as to accept it as an act of
weakness if you refuse me. When the case of Gautran is at an end I
shall be an idle man; you, and only you, can avert the injurious
effect idleness will have upon me. We will find occupation together,
and create reminiscences for future pleasant thought. It may be a long
time, if ever, before another opportunity so favourable occurs for
passing a few weeks in each other's society, undisturbed by
professional cares and duties. You see I am taking a selfish view of
the matter. Add an inestimable value to your hospitality by coming
here at once and sweetening my leisure.
"Your friend,
"Edward."
II
"My Own,--My husband is uneasy about you, and has imposed a task upon
me. You shall judge for yourself whether it is a disagreeable one. I
am to write to you immediately, to insist upon your coming to us
without an hour's delay. You have not the option of refusal. The
Advocate insists upon it, and I also insist upon it. You must come.
Upon the receipt of this letter you will pack up your portmanteau, and
travel hither in the swiftest possible way, by the shortest possible
route. Be sure that you do not disobey me. You are to come instantly,
without an hour's--nay, without a moment's delay. If you fail I will
not answer for the consequences, and upon you will rest the
responsibility of all that follows. For what reason, do you suppose,
did I accept the offer of your villa in this strangely quiet valley,
unless it was in the hope and the belief that we should be near each
other? And now that I _am_ here, pledged to remain, unable to leave
without an exhibition of the most dreadful vacillation--which would
not matter were I to have my own way, and were everything to be
exactly as I wish it--you are bound to fly swiftly to the side of one
who entertains for you the very sincerest affection. Do not be angry
with me for my disregard of your caution to be careful in my manner of
writing to you. I cannot help it. I think of you continually, and if
you wish me not to write what you fear other eyes than ours might see,
you must come and talk to me. I shall count the minutes till you are
here. The Advocate is uneasy about you, and is, indeed and indeed,
most anxious that you should be with us. He seems to have an idea that
you have some cause for melancholy, and that you are brooding over it.
Could anything be more absurd? Cause for melancholy! Just as if you
were alone in the world! You do not need to be told that there is one
being who will care for you till she is an old, old woman. Think of me
as I shall be then. An old woman, with white hair, walking with a
crutch-stick, as they do on the stage. If you _are_ sad, it is a just
punishment upon you. There was nothing in the world to prevent your
travelling with us. What do you think a friend of yours, a banker in
Geneva, suggested to the Advocate? He said that it was probable that
you had experienced a disappointment in love. Now, this sets me
thinking. Why have you chosen to hide yourself in the mountains, a
hundred and a hundred miles away? Have you been there before? Is there
some pretty girl to attract you, from whom you find it impossible to
tear yourself? If it is so, let her beware of me. You have no idea of
what I should be capable if you gave me cause for jealousy. What is
her disposition--pensive or gay? She is younger than I am, I
suppose--though I am not so old, sir!--with hands---- Ah, I am easier
in my mind; her hands must be coarse, for she is a peasant. I am
almost reconciled; you could never fall in love with a peasant. They
may be pretty and fresh for a month or two, but they cannot help
being coarse, and I know how anything coarse grates upon you. But a
peasant-girl might fall in love with you--there are more unlikely
things than that. Shall I tell you what the Advocate said of you this
evening? It will make you vain, but never mind. 'I have never in my
life known a man more likely to inspire love in a woman's heart than
Christian Almer.' There, sir, his very words. How true they are! Ah,
how cruel was the chance that separated us from each other, and
brought us together again when I was another man's wife! Oh, if I had
only known! If some kind fairy had told me that the man who, when I
was a child, enthralled me with his beautiful fancies, and won my
heart, and who then, as it seemed, passed out of my life--if I had
suspected that, after many years, he would return home from his
wanderings with the resolve to seek out the child and make her his
wife, do you for one moment suppose I would not have waited for him?
Do you think it possible I could ever have accepted the hand of
another man? No, it could not have been, for even as a child I used to
dream of you, and held you in my heart above all other human beings.
But you were gone--I never thought of seeing you again--and I was so
young that I could have had no foreshadowing of what was to come.
"Have you ever considered how utterly different my life might have
been had you not crossed it? Not that I reproach you--do not think
that; but how strangely things turn out, without the principal actor
having anything to do with them! It is exactly like sitting down
quietly by yourself, and seeing all sorts of wonderful things happen
in which you have no hand, though if you were not in existence they
could never have occurred. Just think for a moment. If it had not
happened that you knew me when I was a child, and was fond of me then,
as you have told me I don't know how many times--if it had not
happened that your restless spirit drove you abroad where you remained
for years and years and years--if it had not happened that, tired of
leading a wandering life, you resolved to come home and seek out the
child you used to pet and make love to (but she did not know the
meaning of love then)--if it had not happened that, entirely ignorant
of what was passing in your mind, the child, grown into a pretty woman
(I think I may say that, without vanity), was persuaded by her friends
that to refuse an offer of marriage made to her by a great lawyer,
famous and rich, was something too shocking to contemplate--if it had
not happened that she, knowing nothing of her own heart, knowing
nothing of the world, allowed herself to be guided by these cold
calculating friends to accept a man utterly unsuited to her, and with
whom she has never had an hour's real happiness--if it had not
happened by the strangest chance, that this man and you were
friends---- There, my dear, follow it out for yourself, and
reflect how different our lives might have been if everything
had happened in the way it ought to have done. I was cheated and
tricked into a marriage with a man whose heart has room for only one
sentiment--ambition. I am bound to him for life, but I am yours till
death--although the bond which unites us is, as you have taught me,
but a spiritual bond.
"Are you angry with me for putting all this on paper? You must not be,
for I cannot help it if I am not wise. Wisdom belongs to men. Come,
then, and give me wise counsel, and prevent me from committing
indiscretions. For I declare to you, upon my heart and honour, if you
do not very soon present yourself at the House of White Shadows, I
will steal from it in the night and make my way to the mountains to
see what wonderful attraction it is that separates us. What food for
scandal! What wagging and shaking of heads! How the women's tongues
would run! I can imagine it all. Save me from exposure as you are a
true man.
"You have made the villa beautiful. As I walk about the house and
grounds I am filled with delight to think that you have effected such
a magic change for my sake. Master Lamont has shown really exquisite
taste. What a singular old man he is. I can't decide whether I like
him or not. But how strange that you should have had it all done by
deputy, and that you have not set foot in the house since you were a
child. You see I know a great deal. Who tells me? My new maid
Dionetta. Do you remember, in one of the letters you showed me from
your steward, that he spoke about the old housekeeper, Mother Denise,
and a pretty granddaughter? I made up my mind at the time that the
pretty granddaughter should be my maid. And she is, and her name is
Dionetta. Is it not pretty?--but not prettier than the owner. Will
that tempt you? I have sent my town maid away, much to her
displeasure; she spoke to the Advocate in complaint, but he did not
mention it to me; I found it out for myself. He is as close as the
grave. So I am here absolutely alone, with none but strangers around
me.
"I am very much interested in the pictures in the studio of the old
châlet, especially in a pair which represents, the first, two lovers
with the sun shining on them; the second, the lovers parted by a cold
grey sea. They stand on opposite shores, gazing despairingly at each
other. He must have been a weak-minded man indeed; he should have
taken a boat, and rowed across to her; and if he was afraid to do
that, she should have gone to him. That would have been the most
sensible thing.
"I could continue my gossip till daylight breaks, but I have already
lost an hour of my beauty sleep, and I want you, upon your arrival, to
see me at my best.
"My heart goes with this letter; bring it swiftly back to me."
"Yours for ever,
"Adelaide."