CHAPTER XVII

THE ADVOCATES DEFENCE--THE VERDICT

He spoke in a calm and passionless voice, the clear tones of which

had an effect resembling that of a current of cold air through an

over-heated atmosphere. The audience had been led to expect a display

of fevered and passionate oratory; but neither in the Advocate's

speech nor in his manner of delivering it was there any fire or

passion; it was chiefly remarkable for earnestness and simplicity.

His first words were a panegyric of justice, the right of dispensing

which had been placed in mortal hands by a Supreme Power which watched

its dispensation with a jealous eye. He claimed for himself that the

leading principle of his life, not only in his judicial, but in his

private career, had been a desire for justice, in small matters as

well as in great, for the lowliest equally with the loftiest of human

beings. Before the bar of justice, prince and peasant, the most

ignorant and the most highly cultured, the meanest and the most noble

in form and feature, were equal. They had been told that justice was

demanded from them by law and by society. He would supply a strange

omission in this appeal, and he would tell them that, primarily and

before every other consideration, the prisoner it was who demanded

justice from them.

"That an innocent girl has been done to death," said the Advocate, "is

most unfortunately true, and as true that a man who inspires horror is

charged with her murder. You have been told that you have but to

glance at him to assure yourself of his guilt. These are lamentable

words to be used in an argument of accusation. The facts that the

victim was of attractive, and that the accused is of repulsive

appearance, should not weigh with you, even by a hair's weight, to the

prejudice of the prisoner. If it does, I call upon you to remember

that justice is blind to external impressions. And moreover, if in

your minds you harbour a feeling such as exists outside this court

against the degraded creature who stands before you, I charge you to

dismiss it.

"All the evidence presented to you which bears directly upon the crime

is circumstantial. A murder has been committed--no person saw it

committed. The last person proved to have been in the murdered girl's

company, is Gautran, her lover, as he declares himself to have been.

"And here I would say that I do not expect you to place the slightest

credence upon the statements of this man. His unblushing, astonishing

falsehoods prove that in him the moral sense is deadened, if indeed it

ever existed. But his own statement that, after the manner of his

brutal nature, he loved the girl, may be accepted as probable. It has

been sufficiently proved that the girl had other lovers, who were

passionately enamoured of her. She was left to herself, deprived of

the protection and counsel of a devoted woman, who, unhappily, was

absent at the fatal crisis in her life. She was easily persuaded and

easily led. Who can divine by what influences she was surrounded, by

what temptations she was beset, temptations and influences which may

have brought upon her an untimely death?

"Gautran was hear to say, 'I will kill you--I will kill you!' He had

threatened her before, and she lived to speak of it to her companions,

and to permit him, without break or interruption in their intimacy, to

continue to associate with her. What more probable than that this was

one of his usual threats in his moments of passion, when he jealously

believed that a rival was endeavouring to supplant him in her

affections?

"The handkerchief found about her neck belonged to Gautran. The gift

of a handkerchief among the lower classes is not uncommon, and it is

frequently worn round the neck. Easy, then, for any murderer to pull

it tight during the commission of the crime. But apart from this, the

handkerchief does not fix the crime of murder upon Gautran or any

other accused, for you have had it proved that the girl did not die by

strangulation, but by drowning. These are bare facts, and I present

them to you in bare form, without needless comment. I do not base my

defence upon them, but upon what I am now about to say.

"If in a case of circumstantial evidence there is reasonable cause to

believe that the evidence furnished is of insufficient weight to

convict; and if on the other side, on the side of the accused,

evidence is adduced which directly proves, according to the best

judgment we are enabled to form of human action in supreme moments--as

to the course it would take and the manner in which it would be

displayed--that it is almost beyond the bounds of possibility and

nature that the person can have committed the deed, you have no

option, unless you yourselves are bent upon judicial murder, than to

acquit that person, however vile his character may be, however

degraded his career and antecedents. It is evidence of this

description which I intend to submit to you at the conclusion of my

remarks.

"The character of Gautran has been exposed and laid bare in all its

vileness; the minuteness of the evidence is surprising; not the

smallest detail has been overlooked or omitted to complete the picture

of a ferocious, ignorant, and infamous being. Guilty, he deserves no

mercy; innocent, he is not to be condemned because he is vile.

"In the world's history there are records of countries and times in

which it was the brutal fashion to bring four-footed animals to the

bar of justice, there solemnly to try them for witchcraft and evil

deeds; and you will find upon examination of those records of man's

incredible folly and ignorance, that occasionally even these beasts of

the earth--pigs and such-like--have been declared innocent of the

crimes of which they have been charged. I ask no more for Gautran than

the principle involved in these trials. Judge him, if you will, as you

would an animal, but judge him in accordance with the principles of

justice, which neither extenuates nor maliciously and unreasonably

condemns.

"The single accusation of the murder of Madeline, a flower-girl, is

the point to be determined, and you must not travel beyond it to other

crimes and other misdeeds of which Gautran may have been guilty.

"It has been proved that the prisoner is possessed of great strength,

that he is violent in his actions, uncontrollable in his passions, and

fond of inflicting pain and prolonging it. He has not a redeeming

feature in his coarse, animal nature. Thwarted, he makes the person

who thwarts him suffer without mercy. An appeal to his humanity would

be useless--he has no humanity; when crossed, he has been seen to

behave like a wild beast. All this is in evidence, and has been

strongly dwelt upon as proof of guilt. Most important is this

evidence, and I charge you not for one moment to lose sight of it.

"I come now to the depiction of the murdered girl, as it has been

presented to you. Pretty, admired, gentle in her manners, and poor.

Although the fact of a person being poor is no proof of morality, we

may accept it in this instance as a proof of the girl's virtue. She

was fond of life: her disposition was a happy one; she was in the

habit of singing to herself.

"Thus we have the presentment of a young girl whose nature was joyous,

and to whom life was sweet.

"Another important piece of evidence must be borne in mind. She

possessed strength, greater strength than would have been supposed in

a form so slight. This strength she would use to protect herself from

injury: it has been proved that she used it successfully to protect

herself from insult. In the whole of this case nothing has been more

forcibly insisted upon than that she resisted her murder, and that

there was a long and horrible struggle in which she received many

injuries, wounds, bruises, and scratches, and in which her clothes

were rent and torn.

"This struggle, in the natural order of things, could not have been a

silent one; accompanying the conflict there must have been outcries,

frenzied appeals for mercy, screams of terror and anguish. No witness

has been called who heard such sounds, and therefore it must be a fact

that the murder must have been committed some time after Gautran's

threat, 'I will kill you, I will kill you!' was heard by persons who

passed along the bank of the river in the darkness of that fatal

night. Time enough for Gautran to have left her; time enough for

another--lover or stranger--to meet her; time enough for murder by

another hand than that of the prisoner who stands charged with the

commission of the crime.

"I assert, with all the force of my experience of human nature, that

it is impossible that Gautran could have committed the deed. There was

a long and terrible struggle--a struggle in which the murdered girl's

clothes were torn, in which her face, her hands, her arms, her neck,

her sides were bruised and wounded in a hundred cruel ways. Can you

for one moment entertain the belief that, in this desperate fight in

which two persons were engaged, only one should bear the marks of a

contest so horrible? If you bring yourselves to this belief it must be

by the aid of prejudice, not of reason. Attend to what follows.

"On the very morning after the murder, within four hours of the body

being discovered in the river, Gautran was arrested. He wore the same

clothes he had worn for months past, the only clothes he possessed. In

these clothes there was not a rent or tear, nor any indication of a

recent rent having been mended. How, then, could this man have been

engaged in a violent and prolonged hand-to-hand conflict? It is

manifestly impossible, opposed to all reasonable conjecture, that his

garments could have escaped some injury, however slight, at the hands

of a girl to whom life was very sweet, who was strong and capable of

resistance, and who saw before her the shadow of an awful fate.

"Picture to yourselves this struggle already so vividly painted, so

graphically portrayed. The unhappy girl clung to her destroyer, she

clutched his dress, his hands, his body in her wild despair--a despair

which inspired her with strength beyond her ordinary capacity. And of

still greater weight is the fact that there was not to be found on any

part of Gautran's body a scratch, a wound, or a bruise of any

description.

"What, then, becomes of the evidence of a terrible life and death

struggle in which it is said he was engaged? Upon this point alone the

entire theory of the prosecution breaks down. The absence from

Gautran's clothes and person of any mark or identification of a

physical contest is the strongest testimony of his innocence of this

ruthless, diabolical crime; and, wretched and degraded as is the

spectacle he presents, justice demands from you his acquittal.

"Still one other proof of his innocence remains to be spoken of; I

will touch upon it lightly, but it bears a very strange aspect, as

though the prosecution were fearful that its introduction would

fatally injure their case.

"When Gautran was searched a knife was found upon him--the knife,

without doubt, with which he inflicted upon the face of a comrade a

wound which he will bear to the grave. Throughout the whole of the

evidence for the prosecution I waited and looked for the production of

that knife; I expected to see upon it a blood proof of guilt. But it

was not produced; no mention has been made of it. Why? Because there

is upon its blade no mark of blood.

"Do you believe that a ruffian like Gautran would have refrained from

using his knife upon the body of his victim, to shorten the terrible

struggle? Even in light quarrels men in his condition of life threaten

freely with their knives, and use them recklessly. To suppose that

with so swift and sure a means at hand to put an end to the horrible

affair, Gautran, in the heat and fury of the time, refrained from

availing himself of it, is to suppose a thing contrary and opposed to

reason.

"Remember the answer given by one of the witnesses who knows the

nature of the man well, when I asked him whether in his passionate

moods Gautran would be likely to show coolness or cunning. 'He would

have no time to think; he would be carried away by his passion.' His

is the nature of a brute, governed by brute laws. You are here to try,

not the prisoner's general character, not his repulsive appearance,

not his brutish nature, but a charge of murder of which he is accused,

and of which, in the clear light of human motive and action, it is

impossible he can be guilty."

The Advocate's speech, of which this is but a brief and imperfect

summary, occupied seven hours, and was delivered throughout with a

cold impressive earnestness and with an absence of passion which

gradually and effectually turned the current which had set so fatally

against the prisoner. The disgust and abhorrence he inspired were in

no wise modified, but the Advocate had instilled into the minds of his

auditors the strongest doubts of Gautran's guilt.

Two witnesses were called, one a surgeon of eminence, the other a

nurse in an hospital. They deposed that there were no marks of an

encounter upon the prisoner's person, that upon his skin was no

abrasion, that his clothes exhibited no traces of recent tear or

repair, and that it was scarcely possible he could have been engaged

in a violent personal struggle.

Upon the conclusion of this evidence, which cross-examination did not

shake, the jury asked that Gautran should be examined by independent

experts. This was done by thoroughly qualified men, whose evidence

strengthened that of the witnesses for the defence. The jury asked,

also, that the knife found upon Gautran should be produced. It was

brought into court, and carefully examined, and it was found that its

blade was entirely free from blood-stain.

The jury, astounded at the turn the affair had taken, listened

attentively to the speech of the judge, who dwelt with great care upon

every feature in the case. The court sat late to give its decision,

and when the verdict was pronounced, Gautran was a free man.

Free, to enjoy the sunlight, and the seasons as they passed; free, to

continue his life of crime and shame; free, to murder again!

BOOK II.--THE CONFESSION.

CHAPTER I

A LETTER FROM JOHN VANBRUGH

For a little while Gautran scarcely comprehended that he was at

liberty to wander forth. He had so completely given himself up as lost

that he was stupefied by the announcement that his liberty was

restored to him. He gazed vacantly before him, and the announcement

had to be twice repeated before he arrived at an understanding of its

purport; then his attitude changed. A spasm of joy passed into his

face, followed immediately by a spasm of fear; those who observed him

would indeed have been amazed had they known what was passing through

his mind.

"Free, am I?" he asked.

"You have been told so twice," a warder answered. "It astonishes you.

Well, you are not the only one."

As the warders fell from his side he watched them warily, fearing they

were setting a trap which might prove his destruction.

From where he stood he could not see the Advocate, who was preparing

to depart. Distasteful as the verdict was to every person in court,

with the exception of Gautran and his counsel, those members of the

legal profession who had not taken an active part in the trial were

filled with professional admiration at the skill the Advocate had

displayed. An eminent member of the bar remarked to him:

"It is a veritable triumph, the greatest and most surprising I have

ever witnessed. None but yourself could have accomplished it. Yet I

cannot believe in the man's innocence."

This lawyer held too high and honourable a position for the Advocate

to remain silent. "The man is innocent," he said.

"You know him to be so?"

"I know him to be so. I stake my reputation upon it."

"You almost convince me. It would be fatal to any reputation were

Gautran, after what has passed, to be proved guilty. But that, of

course, is impossible."

"Quite impossible," said the Advocate somewhat haughtily.

"Exactly so. There can be no room for doubt, after your statement that

you know the man to be innocent."

With no wish to continue the conversation, the Advocate turned to

leave the court when an officer presented himself.

"He wishes to speak to you, sir."

"He! Who?" asked the Advocate. He was impatient to be gone, his

interest at the trial being at an end. The victory was gained; there

was nothing more to be done.

"The prisoner, sir. He desired me to tell you."

"The prisoner!" said the Advocate. "You forget. The man is free."

He walked towards Gautran, and for the first time during the long days

of the trial gazed directly in his client's face. The magnetism in the

Advocate's eyes arrested Gautran's speech. His own dilated, and he

appeared to forget what he had intended to say. They looked at each

other in silence for a few moments, the expression on the face of the

Advocate cold, keen, and searching, that on the face of Gautran as of

a man entranced; and then the Advocate turned sternly away, without a

word having been spoken between them. When Gautran looked again for

his defender he was gone.

Gautran still lingered; the court was nearly empty.

"Be off," said the warder, who had been his chief attendant in his

cell; "we have done with you for the present."

But Gautran made no effort to leave. The warder laid his hand upon the

ruffian's shoulder, with the intention of expelling him from the

court.

Gautran shook him off with the snarl of a wild beast.

"Touch me again," he cried, "and I'll strangle you! I can do it easily

enough--two of you at a time!"

And, indeed, so ferocious was his manner that it seemed as if he were

disposed to carry his threat into execution.

"Women are more in your way," said the warder tauntingly. "Look you,

Gautran; if Madeline had been my daughter, your life would not be

worth an hour's purchase, despite the verdict gained by your clever

Advocate."

"You would not dare to say that to me if you and I were alone,"

retorted Gautran, scowling at the sullen faces of the officers about

him.

"Away with you!" exclaimed the warder, "at once, or we will throw you

into the streets!"

"I will go when I get my property."

"What property?"

"The knife you took from me when you dragged me to prison. I don't

move without it."

They deemed it best to comply with this demand, the right being on his

side, and his knife was restored to him. It was an old knife, with a

keen blade and a stout handle, and it opened and closed with a sharp

click. Gautran tried it three or four times with savage satisfaction

and then, with another interchange of threatening glances, he slunk

from the court.

The Advocate's carriage was at the door, ready to convey him to

Christian Almer's villa. But after his long confinement in the close

court, he felt the need of physical exercise, and he dismissed his

coachman, saying he intended to walk home. As the carriage drove off,

a person plucked him by the sleeve, and pressed a letter into his

hand. It was dusk, and the Advocate, although he looked quickly

around, could not discover the giver. His sight was short and strong,

and standing beneath the light of a street-lamp he opened and read the

letter.

"Old Friend,

"It will doubtless surprise you to see my handwriting, it is so long

since we met. The sight of it may displease you, but that is of small

consequence to me. When a man is in a desperate strait, he is

occasionally driven to desperate courses. When needs must, as you are

aware, the devil drives. I have been but an hour in Geneva, and

I have heard of your victory; I congratulate you upon it. I must see

you--soon. I know the House of White Shadows in the pretty valley

yonder. At a short distance from the gates--but far enough off, and so

situated as to enable a man to hide with safety if he desires--is a

hill upon which I will wait for your signal to come to you, which

shall be the waving of a white handkerchief from your study window.

At midnight and alone will be best. You see how ready I am to oblige

you. I shall wait till sunrise for the signal. If you are too busy

to-night, let it be tomorrow night, or the next, or any night this

week.

"I am, as ever, your friend,

"John Vanbrugh."

The Advocate placed the letter in his pocket, and murmured as he

walked through the streets of Geneva:

"John Vanbrugh! Has he risen from his grave? He would see me at

midnight and alone! He must be mad, or drunk, to make such a request.

He may keep his vigil, undisturbed. Of such a friendship there can be

no renewal. The gulf that separates us is too wide to be bridged over

by sentimental memories. John Vanbrugh, the vagabond! I can imagine

him, and the depth to which he has sunk. Every man must bear the

consequences of his actions. Let him bear his, and make the best, or

the worst, of them."

CHAPTER II

A STARTLING INTERRUPTION

The news of the acquittal of Gautran spread swiftly through the town,

and the people gathered in front of the _cafés_ and lingered in the

streets, to gaze upon the celebrated Advocate who had worked the

marvel.

"He has a face like the Sphynx," said one.

"With just as much feeling," said another.

"Do you believe Gautran was innocent?"

"Not I--though he made it appear so."

"Neither do I believe it, but I confess I am puzzled."

"If Gautran did not murder the girl, who did?" asked one, a waverer,

who formed an exception to the general rule.

"That is for the law to find out."

"It was found out, and the murderer has been set loose. We shall have

to take care of ourselves on dark nights."

"Would you condemn a man upon insufficient evidence?"

"I would condemn such as Gautran on any evidence. When you want to get

rid of vermin it does not do to be over particular."

"The law must be respected."

"Life must be protected. That is the first law."

"Hush! Here he is. Best not let him overhear you."

There was but little diversity of opinion. Even in the inn of The

Seven Liars, to which Fritz the Fool--who had attended the court every

day of the trial, and who had the fleetest foot of any man for a dozen

miles round--had already conveyed the news of Gautran's acquittal, the

discussion was loud and animated; the women regarding the result as an

outrage on their sex, the men more disposed to put Gautran out of the

question, and to throw upon the Advocate the opprobrium of the

verdict.

"Did I not tell you," said Fritz, "that he could turn black into

white? A great man--a great man! If we had more like him, murdering

would be a fine trade."

There were, doubtless, among those who thronged the streets to see the

Advocate pass, some sinners whose consciences tormented them, and who

secretly hoped, if exposure ever overtook them, that Heaven would send

them such a defender. His reception, indeed, partook of the character

of an ovation. These tributes to his powers made no impression upon

him; he pursued his way steadily onward, looking neither to the right

nor to the left, and soon the gaily-lighted shops and _cafés_ of

Geneva were far behind him.

His thoughts were upon John Vanbrugh, who had been one of his boy

friends, and whom for many years he had believed to be dead. In his

lonely walk to the House of White Shadows he recalled the image of

Vanbrugh, and dwelt, with idle curiosity, upon the recollection of

their youthful lives. He had determined not to see Vanbrugh, and was

resolved not to renew a friendship which, during its existence, had

been lacking in those sterling qualities necessary for endurance. That

it was pleasant while it lasted was the best that could be said of it.

When he and Vanbrugh grew to manhood there was a wide divergence in

their paths.

One walked with firm unfaltering step the road which leads to honour

and renown, sparing no labour, throwing aside seductive temptation

when it presented itself to him, as it did in its most alluring forms,

giving all his mental might to the cause to which he had devoted

himself, studying by day and night so earnestly that his bright and

strong intellect became stronger and clearer, and he could scarcely

miss success. Only once in his younger days had he allowed himself,

for a brief period, to be seduced from this path, and it was John

Vanbrugh who had tempted him.

The other threw himself upon pleasure's tide, and, blind to earnest

duty, drank the sunshine of life's springtime in draughts so

intemperate that he became intoxicated with poisonous fire, and,

falling into the arms of the knaves who thrive on human weakness and

depravity, his moral sense, like theirs, grew warped, and he ripened

into a knave himself.

Something of this, but not in its fulness, had reached the Advocate's

ears, making but small impression upon him, and exciting no surprise,

for by that time his judgment was matured, and human character was an

open book to him; and when, some little while afterwards, he heard

that John Vanbrugh was dead, he said, "He is better dead," and

scarcely gave his once friend another thought.

He was a man who had no pity for the weak, and no forgiveness for the

erring.

He walked slowly, with a calm enjoyment of the solitude and the quiet

night, and presently entered a narrow lane, dotted with orchards.

It was now dark, and he could not see a dozen yards before him. He was

fond of darkness; it contained mysterious possibilities, he had been

heard to say. There was an ineffable charm in the stillness which

encompassed him, and he enjoyed it to its full. There were cottages

here and there, lying back from the road, but no light or movement in

them; the inmates were asleep. Soft sighs proceeded from the drowsy

trees, and slender boughs waved solemnly, while the only sounds from

the farmyards were, at intervals, a muffled shaking of wings, and the

barking of dogs whom his footsteps had aroused. As he passed a high

wooden gate, through the bars of which he could dimly discern a line

of tall trees standing like sentinels of the night, the perfume of

limes was wafted towards him, and he softly breathed the words:

"My wife!"

He yielded up his senses to the thralldom of a delicious languor, in

which the only image was that of the fair and beautiful woman who was

waiting for him in their holiday home. Had any person seen the tender

light in his eyes, and heard the tone in which the words were

whispered, he could not have doubted that the woman they referred to

was passionately adored.

Not for long was he permitted to muse upon the image of a being the

thought of whom appeared to transform a passionless man into an ardent

lover; a harsher interruption than sweet perfume floating on a breeze

recalled him to his sterner self.

"Stop!"

"For what reason?"

"The best. Money!"

The summons proceeded from one in whom, as his voice betrayed, the

worst passions were dominant.

CHAPTER III

IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

There lived not in the world a man more fearless than the Advocate. At

this threatening demand, which meant violence, perhaps murder, he

exhibited as little trepidation as he would have done at an

acquaintance asking him, in broad daylight, for a pinch of snuff.

Indeed, he was so perfectly unembarrassed that his voice assumed a

lightness foreign to its usual serious tones. "Money, my friend! How

much?"

"All you've got."

"Terse, and to the point. If I refuse?"

"I am desperate. Look to yourself."

The Advocate smiled, and purposely deepened the airiness of his tones.

"This is a serious business, then?"

"You'll find it so, if you trifle with me."

"Are you hungry?"

"I am starving."

"You have a powerful voice for a starving man."

"Don't play with me, master. I mean to have what I ask for."

"How can you, if I do not possess it? How will you if, possessing it,

I refuse to give it you?"

The reply was a crashing blow at an overhanging branch, which broke it

to the ground. It was evident that the man carried a stout weapon, and

that he meant to use it, with murderous effect, if driven to extremes.

They spoke at arm's-length; neither was quite within the other's

grasp.

"A strong argument," said the Advocate, without blenching, "and a

savage one. You have a staff in your hand, and, probably, a knife in

your pocket."

"Ah, I have, and a sharp blade to it."

"I thought as much. Would not that do your business more effectually?"

"Perhaps. But I've learnt a lesson to-day about knives, which teaches

me not to use mine too freely."

The Advocate frowned.

"Other scoundrels would run less risk of the gaol if their

proceeding's were as logical. Do you know me?"

"How should I?"

"It might be, then," continued the Advocate, secretly taking a box of

matches from his pocket, "that, like yourself, I am both a thief and a

would-be murderer."

As he uttered the last words he flung a lighted match straight at the

man's face, and for a moment the glare revealed the ruffian's

features. He staggered back, repeating the word "Murderer!" in a

hoarse startled whisper. The Advocate strode swiftly to his side, and

striking another match, held it up to his own face.

"Look at me, Gautran," he said.

The man looked up, and recognising the Advocate, recoiled, muttering:

"Aye, aye--I see who it is."

"And you would rob me, wretch!"

"Not now, master, not now. Your voice--it was the voice of another

man. I crave your pardon, humbly."

"So--you recommence work early, Gautran. Have you not had enough of

the gaol?"

"More than enough. Don't be hard on me, master; call me mad if you

like."

"Mad or sane, Gautran, every man is properly made accountable for his

acts. Take this to heart."

"It won't do me any good. What is a poor wretch to do with nothing but

empty pockets?"

"You are a dull-witted knave, or you would be aware it is useless to

lie to me. Gautran, I can read your soul. You wished to speak to me in

the court. Here is your opportunity. Say what you had to say."

"Give me breathing time. You've the knack of driving the thoughts

clean out of a man's head. Have you got a bit of something that a poor

fellow can chew--the end of a cigar, or a nip of tobacco?"

"I have nothing about me but money, which you can't chew, and should

not have if you could. Hearken, my friend. When you said you were

starving, you lied to me."

"How do you know it?"

"Fool! Are there not fruit-trees here, laden with wholesome food,

within any thief's grasp? Your pockets at this moment are filled with

fruit."

"You have a gift," said Gautran with a cringing movement of his body.

"It would be an act of charity to put me in the way of it."

"What would you purchase?" asked the advocate ironically. "Gold, for

wine, and pleasure, and fine clothes?"

"Aye, master," replied Gautran with eager voice.

"Power, to crush those you hate, and make them smart and bleed?"

"Aye, master. That would be fine."

"Gautran, these things are precious, and have their price. What are

you ready to pay for them?"

"Anything--anything but money!"

"Something of less worth--your soul?"

Gautran shuddered and crossed himself.

"No, no," he muttered; "not that--not that!"

"Strange," said the Advocate with a contemptuous smile, "the value we

place upon an unknown quantity! We cannot bargain, friend. Say now

what you desire to say, and as briefly as you can."

But it was some time before Gautran could sufficiently recover himself

to speak with composure.

"I want to know," he said at length, with a clicking in his throat,

"whether you've been paid for what you did for me?"

"At your trial?"

"Aye, master."

"I have not been paid for what I did for you."

"When they told me yonder," said Gautran after another pause, pointing

in the direction of Geneva, where the prison lay, "that you were to

appear for me, they asked me how I managed it, but I couldn't tell

them, and I'm beating my head now to find out, without getting any

nearer to it. There must be a reason."

"You strike a key-note, my friend."

"Someone has promised to pay you."

"No one has promised to pay me."

"You puzzle and confuse me, master. You're a stranger in Geneva, I'm

told."

"It is true."

"I've lived about here half my life. I was born in Sierre. My father

worked in the foundry, my mother in the fields. You are not a stranger

in Sierre."

"I am a stranger there; I never visited the town."

"My father was born in Martigny. You knew my father."

"I did not know your father."

"My mother--her father once owned a vineyard. You knew her."

"I did not know her."

Once more was Gautran silent. What he desired now to say raised up

images so terrifying that he had not the courage to give it utterance.

"You are in deep shadow, my friend," said the Advocate, "body and

soul. Shall I tell you what is in your mind?"

"You can do that?"

"You wish to know if I was acquainted with the unhappy girl with whose

murder you were charged."

"Is there another in the world like you?" asked Gautran, with fear in

his voice. "Yes, that is what I want to know."

"I was not acquainted with her."

Gautran retreated a step or two, in positive terror. "Then what," he

exclaimed, "in the fiend's name made you come forward?"

"At length," said the Advocate, "we arrive at an interesting point in

our conversation. I thank you for the opportunity you afford me in

questioning my inner self. What made me come forward to the assistance

of such a scoundrel? Humanity? No. Sympathy? No. What, then, was my

motive? Indeed, friend, you strike home. Shall I say I was prompted by

a desire to assist the course of justice--or by a contemptible feeling

of vanity to engage in a contest for the simple purpose of proving

myself the victor? It was something of both, mayhap. Do you know,

Gautran, a kind of self-despisal stirs within me at the present

moment? You do not understand me? I will give you a close

illustration. You are a thief."

"Yes, master."

"You steal sometimes from habit, to keep your hand in as it were, and

you feel a certain satisfaction at having accomplished your theft in a

workmanlike manner. We are all of us but gross and earthly patches. It

is simply a question of degree, and it is because I am in an idle

mood--indeed, I am grateful to you for this playful hour--that I make

a confession to you which would not elevate me in the eyes of better

men. You were anxious to know whether I have been paid for my

services. I now acknowledge payment. I accept as my fee the recreation

you have afforded me."

"I shall be obliged to you, master," said Gautran, "if you will leave

your mysteries, and come back to my trial."

"I will oblige you. I read the particulars of the case for the first

time on my arrival here, and it appeared to me almost impossible you

could escape conviction. It was simply that. I examined you, and saw

the legal point which, villain as you are, proclaimed your innocence.

That laugh of yours, Gautran, has no mirth in it. I am beginning to be

dangerously shaken. I will do, I said then, for this wretch what I

believe no other man can do. I will perform a miracle."

"You have done it!" cried Gautran, falling on his knees in a paroxysm

of fear, and kissing the Advocate's hand, which was instantly snatched

away. "You are great--you are the greatest! You knew the truth!"

"The truth!" echoed the Advocate, and his face grew ashen white.

"Aye, the truth--and you were sent to save me. You can read the soul;

nothing is hidden from you. But you have not finished your work. You

can save me entirely--you can, you can! Oh, master, finish your work,

and I will be your slave to the last hour of my life!"

"Save you! From what?" demanded the Advocate. He was compelled to

exercise great control over himself, for a horror was stealing upon

him.

The trembling wretch rose, and pointed to the opposite roadside.

"From shadows--from dreams--from the wild eyes of Madeline! Look

there--look there!"

The Advocate turned in the direction of Gautran's outstretched

trembling hand. A pale light was coining into the sky, and weird

shadows were on the earth.

"What are you gazing on?"

"You ask me to torture me," moaned Gautran. "She dogs me like my

shadow--I cannot shake her off! I have threatened her, but she does

not heed me. She is waiting--there--there--to follow me when I am

alone--to put her arms about me--to breathe upon my face, and turn my

heart to ice! If I could hold her, I would tear her piecemeal! You

_must_ have known her, you who can read what passes in a man's

soul--you who knew the truth when you came to me in my cell! She will

not obey me, but she will you. Command her, compel her to leave me, or

she will drive me mad!"

With amazing strength the Advocate placed his hands on Gautran's

shoulders, and twisted the man's face so close to his own that not an

inch of space divided them. Their eyes met, Gautran's wavering and

dilating with fear, the Advocate's fixed and stern, and with a fire in

them terrible to behold.

"Recall," said the Advocate, in a clear voice that rang through the

night like a bell, "what passed between you and Madeline on the last

night of her life. Speak!"

CHAPTER IV

THE CONFESSION

"I sought her in the Quartier St. Gervais," said I Gautran, speaking

like a man in a dream, "and found her at eight o'clock in the company

of a man. I watched them, and kept out of their sight.

"He was speaking to her softly, and some things he said to her made

her smile; and every time she showed her white teeth I swore that she

should be mine and mine alone. They remained together for an hour, and

then they parted, he going one way, Madeline another.

"I followed her along the banks of the river, and when no one was near

us I spoke to her. She was not pleased with my company, and bade me

leave her, but I replied that I had something particular to say to

her, and did not intend to go till it was spoken.

"It was a dark night; there was no moon.

"I told her I had been watching her, and that I knew she had another

lover. 'Do you mean to give me up?' I said, and she answered that she

had never accepted me, and that after that night she would never see

me again. I said it might happen, and that it might be the last night

we should ever see each other. She asked me if I was going away, and I

said no, it might be her that was going away on the longest journey

she had ever taken. 'What journey?' she asked, and I answered, a

journey with Death for the coachman, for I had sworn a dozen times

that night that if she would not swear upon her cross to be true and

faithful to me, I would kill her.

"I said it twice, and some persons passed and turned to look at us,

but there was not light enough to see us clearly.

"Madeline would have cried to them for help, but I held my hand over

her mouth, and whispered that if she uttered a word it would be her

last, and that she need not be frightened, for I loved her too well to

do her any harm.

"But when we were alone again, and no soul was near us, I told her

again that as sure as there was a sky above us I would kill her,

unless she swore to give up her other lover, and be true to me. She

said she would promise, and she put her little hand in mine and

pressed it, and said:

"'Gautran, I will be only yours; now let us go back.'

"But I told her it was not enough; that she must kneel, and swear upon

the holy cross that she would have nothing to do with any man but me.

I forced her upon her knees, and knelt by her side, and put the cross

to her lips; and then she began to sob and tremble. She dared not put

her soul in peril, she said; she did not love me--how could she swear

to be true to me?

"I said it was that or death, and that it would be the blackest hour

of my life to kill her, but that I meant to do it if she would not

give in to me. I asked her for the last time whether she would take

the oath, and she said she daren't. Then I told her to say a prayer,

for she had not five minutes to live. She started to her feet and ran

along the bank. I ran after her, and she stumbled and fell to the

ground, and before she could escape me again I had her in my arms to

fling her into the river.

"She did not scratch or bite me, but clung to me, and her tears fell

all about my face. I said to her:

"'You love me, kissing me so; swear then; it is not too late!'

"But she cried:

"No, no! I kiss you so that you may not have the heart to kill me!'

"Soon she got weak, and her arms had no power in them, and I lifted

her high in the air, and flung her far from me into the river.

"I waited a minute or two, and thought she was dead, but then I heard

a bubbling and a scratching, and, looking down, saw that by a miracle

she had got back to the river's brink, and that there was yet life in

her. I pulled her out, and she clung to me in a weak way, and

whispered, nearly choked the while, that the Virgin Mary would not let

me kill her.

"Will you take the oath?' I asked, and she shook her head from side to

side.

"'No! no! no!'

"I took my handkerchief, and tied it tight round her neck, and she

smiled in my face. Then I lifted her up, and threw her into the river

again.

"I saw her no more that night!"

* * * * * *

The Advocate removed his eyes, with a shudder, from the eyes of the

wretch who had made this horrible confession, and who now sank to the

ground, quivering in every limb, crying:

"Save me, master, save me!"

"Monster!" exclaimed the Advocate. "Live and die accursed!"

But the terror-stricken man did not hear the words, and the Advocate,

upon whose features, during Gautran's narration, a deep gloom had

settled, strode swiftly from him through the peaceful narrow lane,

fragrant with the perfume of limes, at the end of which the lights in

the House of White Shadows were shining a welcome to him.

BOOK III.--THE GRAVE OF HONOUR.

CHAPTER I

PREPARATIONS FOR A VISITOR

At noon the same day the old housekeeper, Mother Denise, and her

pretty granddaughter Dionetta were busily employed setting in order

and arranging the furniture in a suite of rooms intended for an

expected visitor. There were but two floors in the House of White

Shadows, and the rooms in which Mother Denise and Dionetta were busy

were situated on the upper floor.

"I think they will do now," said Mother Denise, wiping imaginary dust

away with her apron.

"All but the flowers." said Dionetta. "No, grandmother, that desk is

wrong; it is my lady's own desk, and is to be placed exactly in this

corner, by the window. There--it is right now. Be sure that everything

is in its proper place, and that the rooms are sweet and bright--be

sure--be sure! She has said that twenty times this week."

"Ah," said Mother Denise testily, "as if butterflies could teach bees

how to work! My lady is turning your head, Dionetta, it is easy to see

that; she has bewitched half the people in the village. Here is

father, with the flowers. Haste, Martin, haste!"

"Easy to say, hard to do," grumbled Martin, entering slowly with a

basket of cut flowers. "My bones get more obstinate every day. Here's

my lady been teasing me out of my life to cut every flower worth

looking at. She would have made the garden a wilderness, and spoilt

every bed, if I had not argued with her."

"And what did she say," asked Mother Denise, "when you argued with

her?"

"Say? Smiled, and showed all her white teeth at once. I never saw

such teeth in my young days, nor such eyes, nor such hair, nor such

hands--enough to drive a young man crazy."

"Or an old one either," interrupted Mother Denise. "She smiled as

sweet as honey--you silly old man--and wheedled you, and wheedled you,

till she got what she wanted."

"Pretty well, pretty well. You see, Dionetta, there are two ways of

getting a thing done, a soft way and a hard way."

"There, there, there!" cried Mother Denise impatiently. "Do your work

with a still tongue, and let us do ours. Get back to the garden, and

repair the mischief my lady has caused you to do. What does a man want

with a room full of roses?" she muttered, when Martin, quick to obey

his domestic tyrant, had gone.

"It is a welcome home," said Dionetta. "If I were absent from my place

a long, long while, it would make me feel glad when I returned, to see

my rooms as bright as this. It is as though the very roses remembered

you."

"You are young," said Mother Denise, "and your thoughts go the way of

roses. I can't blame you, Dionetta."

"It was ten years since the master was here, you have told me,

grandmother."

"Yes, Dionetta, yes, ten years ago this summer, and even then he did

not sleep in the house. Christian Almer hates the place, and of all

the rooms in the villa, this is the room he would be most anxious to

avoid."

"But why, grandmother?" asked Dionetta, her eyes growing larger and

rounder with wonder; "and does my lady know it?"

"My lady is a headstrong woman; she would not listen to me when I

advised her to select other rooms for the young master, and she

declares--in a light way to be sure, but these are not things to make

light of--that she is very disappointed to find that the villa is not

haunted. Haunted! I have never seen anything, nor has Martin, nor you,

Dionetta."

"Oh, grandmother!" said the girl, in a timid voice, "I don't know

whether I have or not. Sometimes I have fancied----"

"Of course you have fancied, and that is all; and you have woke up in

the night, and been frightened by nothing. Mark me, Dionetta, if you

do no wrong, and think no wrong, you will never see anything of the

White Shadows of this house."

"I am certain," said Dionetta, more positively, "when I have been

almost falling asleep, that I have heard them creeping, creeping past

the door. I have listened to them over and over again, without daring

to move in bed. Indeed I have."

"I am certain," retorted Mother Denise, "that you have heard nothing

of the kind. You are a foolish, silly girl to speak of such things.

You put me quite out of patience, child."

"But Fritz says----"

"Fritz is a fool, a cunning, lazy fool. If I were the owner of this

property I would pack him off. There's no telling which master he

serves--Christian Almer or Master Pierre Lamont. He likes his bread

buttered on both sides, and accepts money from both gentlemen. That is

not the conduct of a faithful servant. If I acted in such a manner I

should consider myself disgraced."

"I am sure," murmured Dionetta, "that Fritz has done nothing to

disgrace himself."

"Let those who are older than you," said Mother Denise, in a sharp

tone, "be judges of that. Fritz is good for nothing but to chatter

like a magpie and idle round the place from morning to night. When

there's work to do, as there has been this week, carrying furniture

and moving heavy things about, he must run away to the city, to the

court-house where that murderer is being tried. Dionetta, I am not in

love with the Advocate or his lady. The Advocate is trying to get a

murderer off; it may be the work of a clever man, but it is not the

work of a good man. If I had a son, I would sooner have him good than

clever; and I would sooner you married a good man than a clever one, I

hope you are not thinking of marrying a fool."

"Oh, grandmother, whoever thinks of marrying?"

"Not you, of course, child--would you have me believe that? When I was

your age I thought of nothing else, and when you are my age you will

see the folly of it. No, I am not in love with the Advocate. He is

performing unholy work down there in Geneva. The priest says as much.

If that murderer escapes from justice, the guilt of blood will weigh

upon the Advocate's soul."

"Oh, grandmother! If my lady heard you she would never forgive you."

"If she hears it, it will not be from my tongue. Dionetta, it was a

young girl who was murdered, about the same age as yourself. It might

have been you--ah, you may well turn white--and this clever lawyer,

this stranger it is, who comes among us to prevent justice being done

upon a murderous wretch. He will be punished for it, mark my words."

Dionetta, who knew how useless it was to oppose her grandmother's

opinions, endeavoured to change the subject by saying:

"Tell me, grandmother, why Mr. Almer should be more anxious to avoid

this room than any other room in the house? I think it is the

prettiest of all."

Mother Denise did not reply. She looked round her with the air of a

woman recalling a picture of long ago.

"The story connected with this part of the house," she presently said,

"gave to the villa the name of the House of White Shadows. You are old

enough to hear it. Let me see, let me see. Christian Almer is now

thirty-one years old--yes, thirty-one on his last birthday. How time

passes! I remember well the day he was born----"

"Hush, grandmother," said Dionetta, holding up her hand. "My lady."

The Advocate's wife had entered the room quietly, and was regarding

the arrangements with approval.

"It is excellently done," she said, "exactly as I wished. Dionetta, it

was you who arranged the flowers?"

"Yes, my lady."

"You have exquisite taste, really exquisite. Mother Denise, I am

really obliged to you."

"I have done nothing," said Mother Denise, "that it was not my duty to

do."

"Such an unpleasant way of putting it; for there is a way of doing

things----"

"Just what grandfather said," cried Dionetta, gleefully, "a hard way

and a soft way." And then becoming suddenly aware of her rudeness in

interrupting her mistress, she curtsied, and with a bright colour in

her face, said, "I beg your pardon, my lady."

"There's no occasion, child," said Adelaide graciously. "Grandfather

is quite right, and everything in this room has been done

beautifully." She held a framed picture in her hand, a coloured

cabinet photograph of herself, and she looked round the walls to find

a place for it. "This will do," she said, and she took down the

picture of a child which hung immediately above her desk, and put her

own in its stead. "It is nice," she said to Mother Denise, smiling,

"to see the faces of old friends about us. Mr. Almer and I are very

old friends."

"The picture you have taken down," said Mother Denise, "is of

Christian Almer when he was a child."

"Indeed! How old was he then?"

"Five years, my lady."

"He was a handsome boy. His hair and eyes are darker now. You were

speaking of him, Mother Denise, as I entered. You were saying he was

thirty-one last birthday, and that you remember the day he was born."

"Yes, my lady."

"And you were about to tell Dionetta why this villa was called the

House of White Shadows. Give me the privilege of hearing the story."

"I would rather not relate it, my lady."

"Nonsense, nonsense! If Dionetta may hear it, there can be no

objection to me. Mr. Almer would be quite angry if he knew you refused

me so simple a thing. Listen to what he says in his last letter," and

Adelaide took a letter from her pocket, and read: "'Mother Denise, the

housekeeper, and the most faithful servant of the house, will do

everything in her power to make you comfortable and happy. She will

carry out your wishes to the letter--tell her, if necessary, that it

is my desire, and that she is to refuse you nothing.' Now, you dear

old soul, are you satisfied?"

"Well, my lady, if you insist----"

"Of course I insist, you dear creature. I am sure there is no one in

the village who can tell a story half as well as you. Come and stand

by me, Dionetta, for fear of ghosts."

She seated herself before the desk, upon which she laid the picture of

the lad, and Mother Denise, who was really by no means loth to recall

old reminiscences, and who, as she proceeded, derived great enjoyment

herself from her narration, thus commenced:

CHAPTER II

A LOVE STORY OF THE PAST

"I was born in this house, my lady; my mother was housekeeper here

before me. I am sixty-eight years old, and I have never slept a night

away from the villa; I hope to die here. Until your arrival the house

has not been inhabited for more than twenty years. I dare say if Mr.

Christian Almer, the present master, had the power to sell the estate,

he would have done so long ago, but he is bound by his father's will

not to dispose of it while he lives. So it has been left to our care

all these years.

"Christian Almer's father lived here, and courted his young wife here;

a very beautiful lady. That is her portrait hanging on the wall. It

was painted by M. Gabriel, and is a faithful likeness of Mr. Christian

Almer's mother. His father, perhaps he may have told you, was a

distinguished author; there are books upon the library shelves written

by him. I will speak of him, if you please, as Mr. Almer, and my

present master I will call Master Christian; it will make the story

easier to tell.

"When Mr. Almer came into his property, which consisted of this villa

and many houses and much land in other parts, all of which have been

sold--this is the only portion of the old estates which remains in the

family--there were at least twenty servants employed here. He was fond

of passing days and nights shut up with his books and papers, but he

liked to see company about him. He had numerous friends and

acquaintances, and money was freely spent; he would invite a dozen,

twenty at a time, who used to come and go as they pleased, living in

the house as if it were their own. Mr. Almer and his friends

understood each other, and the master was seldom intruded upon. In his

solitude he was very, very quiet, but when he came among his guests he

was full of life and spirits. He seemed to forget his books, and his

studies, and it was hard to believe he was the same gentleman who

appeared to be so happy when he was in solitude. He was a good master,

and although he appeared to pay no attention to what was passing

around him, there was really very little that escaped his notice.

"At the time I speak of he was not a young man; he was forty-five

years of age, and everybody wondered why he did not marry. He laughed,

and shook his head when it was mentioned, and said sometimes that he

was too old, sometimes that he was happy enough with his books,

sometimes that if a man married without loving and being loved he

deserved every kind of misfortune that could happen to him; and then

he would say that, cold as he might appear, he worshipped beauty, and

that it was not possible he could marry any but a young and beautiful

woman. I have heard the remark made to him that the world was full of

young and beautiful women, and have heard him reply that it was not

likely one would fall at the feet of a man of his age.

"My mother and I were privileged servants--my mother had been his

nurse, and he had an affection for her--so that we had opportunities

of hearing and knowing more than the others.

"One summer there came to the villa, among the visitors, an old

gentleman and his wife, and their daughter. The young lady's name was

Beatrice.

"She was one of the brightest beings I have ever beheld, with the

happiest face and the happiest laugh, and a step as light as a

fairy's. I do not know how many people fell in love with her--I think

all who saw her. My master, Mr. Almer, was one of these, but, unlike

her other admirers, he shunned rather than followed her. He shut

himself up with his books for longer periods, and took less part than

ever in the gaieties and excursions which were going on day after day.

No one would have supposed that her beauty and her winning ways had

made any impression upon him.

"It is not for me to say whether the young lady, observing this, as

she could scarcely help doing, resolved to attract him to her. When

we are young we act from impulse, and do not stop to consider

consequences. It happened, however, and she succeeded in wooing him

from his books. But there was no love-making on his part, as far as

anybody could see, and his conduct gave occasion for no remarks; but I

remember it was spoken of among the guests that the young lady was in

love with our master, and we all wondered what would come of it.

"Soon afterwards a dreadful accident occurred.

"The gentlemen were out riding, and were not expected home till

evening, but they had not been away more than two hours before Mr.

Almer galloped back in a state of great agitation. He sought Mdlle.

Beatrice's mother, and communicated the news to her, in a gentle

manner you may be sure. Her husband had been thrown from his horse,

and was being carried to the villa dreadfully hurt and in a state of

insensibility. Mr. Almer's great anxiety was to keep the news from

Mdlle. Beatrice, but he did not succeed. She rushed into the room and

heard all.

"She was like one distracted. She flew out of the villa in her white

dress, and ran along the road the horsemen had taken. Her movements

were so quick that they could not stop her, but Mr. Almer ran after

her, and brought her back to the house in a fainting condition. A few

minutes afterwards the old gentleman was brought in, and the house was

a house of mourning. No dancing, no music, no singing; all was

changed; we spoke in whispers, and moved about slowly, just as if a

funeral was about to take place. The doctors gave no hopes; they said

he might linger in a helpless state for weeks, but that it was

impossible he could recover.

"Of course this put an end to all the festivities, and one after

another the guests took their departure, until in a little while the

only visitors remaining were the family upon whom such a heavy blow

had fallen.

"Mr. Almer no longer locked himself up in his study, but devoted the

whole of his time to Mdlle. Beatrice and her parents. He asked me to

wait upon Mdlle. Beatrice, and to see that her slightest wish was

gratified. I found her very quiet and very gentle; she spoke but

little, and the only thing she showed any obstinacy in was in

insisting upon sitting by her father's bedside a few hours every day.

I had occasion, not very long afterwards, to learn that when she set

her mind upon a thing, it was not easy to turn her from it. These

gentle, delicate creatures, sometimes, are capable of as great

determination as the strongest man.

"'Denise,' said Mr. Almer to me, 'the doctors say that if Mdlle.

Beatrice does not take exercise she will herself become seriously ill.

Prevail upon her to enjoy fresh air: walk with her in the garden an

hour or so every day, and amuse her with light talk; a nature like

hers requires sunshine.'

"I did my best to please Mr. Almer; the weather was fine, and not a

day passed that Mdlle. Beatrice did not walk with me in the grounds.

And here Mr. Almer was in the habit of joining us. When he came, I

fell back, and he and Mdlle. Beatrice walked side by side, sometimes

arm in arm, and I a few yards behind.

"I could not help noticing the wonderful kindness of his manner

towards her; it was such as a father might show for a daughter he

loved very dearly. 'Well, well!' I thought. I seemed to see how it

would all end, and I believed it would be a good ending, although

there were such a number of years between them--he forty-five, and she

seventeen.

"A month passed in this way, and the old gentleman's condition became

so critical that we expected every moment to hear of his death. The

accident had deprived him of his senses, and it was only two days

before his death that his mind became clear. Then a long private

interview took place between him and Mr. Almer, which left my master

more than ever serious, and more than ever gentle towards Mdlle.

Beatrice.

"I was present when the old gentleman died. He had lost the power of

speech; his wife was sitting by his bedside holding his hand; his

daughter was on her knees with her face buried in the bed-clothes; Mr.

Almer was standing close, looking down upon them; I was at the end of

the room waiting to attend upon Mdlle. Beatrice. She was overwhelmed

with grief, but her mother's trouble, it appeared to me, was purely

selfish. She seemed to be thinking of what would become of her when

her husband was gone. The dying gentleman suddenly looked into my

master's face, and then turned his eyes upon his daughter, and my

master inclined his head gravely, as though he was answering a

question. A peaceful expression came upon the sufferer's face, and in

a very little while he breathed his last."

Here Mother Denise paused and broke off in her story, saying:

"I did not know it would take so long a-telling; I have wearied you,

my lady."

"Indeed not," said the Advocate's wife; "I don't know when I have been

so much interested. It is just like reading a novel. I am sure there

is something startling to come. You must go on to the end, Mother

Denise, if you please."

"With your permission, my lady," said Mother Denise, and smoothing

down her apron, she continued the narrative.

CHAPTER III

A MOTHER'S TREACHERY

"Two days after Mdlle. Beatrice's father was buried, Mr. Almer said to

me:

"'Denise, I am compelled to go away on business, and I shall be absent

a fortnight at least. I leave Mdlle. Beatrice in your care. As a mark

of faithful service to me, be sure that nothing is left undone to

comfort both her and her mother in their great trouble.'

"I understood without his telling me that it was really Mdlle.

Beatrice he was anxious about; everyone who had any experience of the

old lady knew that she was very well able to take care of herself.

"On the same day a long conversation took place between my master and

the widow, and before sundown he departed.

"It got to be known that he had gone to look after the affairs of the

gentleman who died here, and that the ladies, instead of being rich,

as we had supposed them to be, were in reality very poor, and likely

to be thrown upon the world in a state of poverty, unless they

accepted assistance from Mr. Almer. They were much worse off than poor

people; having been brought up as ladies, they could do nothing to

help themselves.

"While Mr. Almer was away, Mdlle. Beatrice and I became almost

friends, I may say. She took great notice of me, and appeared to be

glad to have me with her. The poor young lady had no one else, for

there was not much love lost between her and her mother. The selfish

old lady did nothing but bewail her own hard fate, and spoke to her

daughter as if the young lady could have nothing to grieve at in being

deprived of a father's love.

"But sorrow does not last forever, my lady, even with the old, and the

young shake it off much more readily. So it was, to my mind, quite

natural, when Mr. Almer returned, which he did after an absence of

fifteen days, that he should find Mdlle. Beatrice much more cheerful

than when he left. He was pleased to say that it was my doing, and

that I should have no cause to regret it to the last day of my life. I

had done so little that the great store he set upon it made me think

more and more of the ending to it all. There could be but one natural

ending, a marriage, and yet never for one moment had I seen him

conduct himself toward Mdlle. Beatrice as a lover. He brought bad news

back with him, and when he communicated it to the old lady she walked

about the grounds like a distracted person, moaning and wringing her

hands.

"I got to know about it, through my young lady. We were out walking in

the lanes when we overtook two wretched-looking women, one old and one

young. They were in rags, and their white faces and slow, painful

steps, as they dragged one foot after another, would have led anybody

to suppose that they had not eaten a meal for days. They were truly

misery's children.

"Mdlle. Beatrice asked in a whisper, as they turned and looked

pitifully at her:

"'Who are they, Denise?'

"'They are beggars,' I answered.

"She took out her purse, and spoke to them, and gave them some money.

They thanked her gratefully, and crawled away, Mdlle. Beatrice looking

after them with an expression of thoughtfulness and curiosity in her

lovely face.

"Denise,' she said presently, 'Mr. Almer, who, before my father's

death, promised to look after his affairs, has told us we are

beggars.'

"I was very, very sorry to hear it, but I could not reconcile the

appearance of the bright young creature standing before me with that

of the wretched beings who had just left us; and although she spoke

gravely, and said the news was shocking, she did not seem to feel it

as much as her words would have led one to believe. It was a singular

thing, my lady, that Mdlle. Beatrice wore black for her father for

only one day. There was quite a scene between her and her mother on

the subject, but the young lady had her way, and only wore her black

dress for a few hours.

"'I hate it,' she said; 'it makes me feel as if I were dead.'

"I am sure it was not because she did not love her father that she

refused to put on mourning for him. Never, except on that one day, did

I see her wear any dress but white, and the only bits of colour she

put on were sometimes a light pink or a light blue ribbon. That is how

it got to be said, when she was seen from a distance walking in the

grounds:

"'She looks like a white shadow.'

"So when she told me she was a beggar, and stood before me, fair and

beautiful, dressed in soft white, with a pink ribbon at her throat,

and long coral earrings in her ears, I could not understand how it was

possible she could be what she said. It was true, though; she and her

mother had not a franc, and Mr. Almer, who brought the news, did not

seem to be sorry for it. The widow cried for days and days--did

nothing but cry and cry, but that, of course, could not go on forever,

and in time she became, to all appearance, consoled. No guests were

invited to the villa, and my master was alone with Mdlle. Beatrice and

her mother.

"It seemed to me, after a time, that he made many attempts to get back

into his old groove; but he was not his own master, and could not do

as he pleased. Now it was Mdlle. Beatrice who wanted him, now it was

her mother, and as they were in a measure dependent upon him he could

not deny himself to them. He might have done so had they been rich; he

could not do so as they were poor. I soon saw that when Mdlle.

Beatrice intruded herself upon him it was at the instigation of her

mother, and that, had she consulted her own inclination, she would

have retired as far into the background as he himself desired to be.

The old lady, however, had set her heart upon a scheme, and she left

no stone unturned to bring it about. Oh, she was cunning and clever,

and they were not a match for her, neither her daughter, who knew

nothing of the world, nor Mr. Almer, who, deeply read as he was, and

clever, and wise in many things, knew as little of worldly ways as the

young lady he loved and was holding aloof from. For this was clear to

me and to others, though I dare say our master had no idea that his

secret was known--indeed, that it was common talk.

"One morning I had occasion to go into Geneva to purchase things for

the house, which I was to bring back with me in the afternoon. As I

was stepping into the waggon, Mdlle. Beatrice came out of the gates

and said:

"'Denise, will you pass the post-office in Geneva?'

"'Yes, mademoiselle,' I replied.

"'Here is a letter,' she then said, 'I have just written, and I want

it posted there at once. Will you do it for me?'

"'Certainly I will,' I said, and I took the letter.

"'Be sure you do not forget, Denise,' she said, as she turned away.

"'I will not forget, mademoiselle,' I said.

"There was no harm in looking at the envelope; it was addressed to a

M. Gabriel. I was not half a mile on the road to Geneva before I heard

coming on behind me very fast the wheels of a carriage. We drove aside

to let it pass; it was one of our own carriages, and the old lady was

in it.

"'Ah, Denise,' she said, are you going to Geneva?'

"'Yes, my lady.'

"'I shall be there an hour before you; I am going to the post-office

to get some letters.' As she said that I could not help glancing at

the letter Mdlle. Beatrice had given me, which I held in my hand for

safety. 'It is a letter my daughter has given you to post,' she said.

"'Yes, my lady,' I could say nothing else.

"'Give it to me,' she said, 'I know she wants it posted immediately.

It does not matter who posts a letter.'

"She said this impatiently and haughtily, for I think I was

hesitating. However, I could do nothing but give her the letter, and

as I did not suspect anything wrong I said nothing of the adventure to

Mdlle. Beatrice, especially as she did not speak of the letter to me.

Had she done so, I might have explained that her mother had taken it

from me to post, and quite likely--although I hope I am mistaken--the

strange and dreadful events that occurred before three years passed by

might have been avoided.

"'The old lady was very civil to me after this, and would continually

question me about my master.

"'He has a great deal of property?' she asked.

"'Yes, madame.'

"'He is very rich, Denise?'

"'Yes, madame.'

"'And comes from an old family?'

"'Yes, madame.'

"'It is a pity he writes books; but he is highly respected, is he not,

Denise?'

"'No gentleman stands higher, madame.'

"'His nature, Denise--though it is exceedingly wrong in me to ask, for

I have had experience of it--his nature is very kind?'

"'Very kind, madame, and very noble.'

"A hundred questions of this kind were put to me, sometimes when the

young lady was present, sometimes when the mother and I were alone.

While this was going on, I often noticed that Mdlle. Beatrice came

from her mother's room in great agitation. From a man these signs can

be hidden; from a woman, no; man is too often blind to the ways of

women. I am sure Mr. Almer knew nothing of what was passing between

mother and daughter; but even if he had known he would not have

understood the meaning of it--I did not at the time.

"Well, all at once the old lady made her appearance among us with a

face in which the greatest delight was expressed. She talked to the

servants quite graciously, and nodded and smiled, and didn't know what

to do to show how amiable she was. 'What a change in the weather!' we

all said. The reason was soon forthcoming. Our master and her daughter

were engaged to be married.

"We were none of us sorry; we all liked Mdlle. Beatrice, and it was

sad to think that a good old race would die out if Mr. Almer remained

single all the days of his life. Yes, we talked over the approaching

marriage, as did everybody in the village, with real pleasure, and if

good feeling and sincere wishes could bring happiness, Mr. Almer and

his young and beautiful wife that was to be could not have failed to

enjoy it.

"'It is true, mademoiselle, is it not?' I asked of her. 'I may

congratulate you?'

"'I am engaged to be married to Mr. Almer,' she said, 'if that is what

you mean.'

"'You will have a good man for your husband, mademoiselle,' I said;

'you will be very happy.'

"But here was something in her manner that made me hope the

approaching change in her condition would not make her proud. It was

cold and distant--different from the way she had hitherto behaved to

me.

"So the old house was gay again; improvements and alterations were

made, and very soon we were thronged with visitors, who came and went,

and laughed and danced, as though life were a perpetual holiday.

"But Mdlle. Beatrice was not as light-hearted as before; she moved

about more slowly, and with a certain sadness. It was noticed by many.

I thought, perhaps, that the contemplation of the change in her life

made her more serious, or that she had not yet recovered the shock of

her father's death. The old lady was in her glory, ordering here and

ordering there, and giving herself such airs that one might have

supposed it was she who was going to get married, and not her

daughter.

"Mr. Almer gave Mdlle. Beatrice no cause for disquiet; he was entirely

and most completely devoted to her, and I am sure that no other woman

in the world ever had a more faithful lover. He watched her every

step, and followed her about with his eyes in a way that would have

made any ordinary woman proud. As for presents, he did not know how to

do enough for the beautiful girl who was soon to be his wife. I never

saw such beautiful jewelry as he had made for her, and he seemed to be

continually studying what to do to give her pleasure. If ever a woman

ought to have been happy, she ought to have been."

CHAPTER IV

HUSBAND AND WIFE

"Well, they were married, and the day was never forgotten in the

village. Mr. Almer made everybody merry, the children, the grown-up

people, the poor, and the well-to-do. New dresses, ribbons, flags,

flowers, music and feasting from morning to night--there was never

seen anything like it. The bride, in her white dress and veil, was as

beautiful as an angel, and Mr. Almer's face had a light in it such as

I had never seen before--it shone with pride, and joy, and happiness.

"In the afternoon they departed on their honeymoon tour, and the

old lady was left mistress of the villa during the absence of the

newly-married pair. She exercised her authority in a way that was not

pleasing to us. No wonder, therefore, that we looked upon her with

dislike, and spoke of it as an evil day when she came among us; but

that did not lessen our horror at an accident which befell her, and

which led to her death.

"Mr. and Mrs. Almer had been absent barely three weeks when the old

lady going into a distant part of the grounds where workmen were

employed in building up some rocks to serve as an artificial

waterfall, fell into a pit, and was so frightfully bruised and shaken

that, when she was taken up, the doctors declared she could not live

another twenty-four hours. Letters were immediately sent off to Mr.

Almer, but there was no chance of his receiving them before the

unfortunate old lady breathed her last. We did everything we could for

her, and she took it into her head that she would have no one to

attend to her but me.

"'My daughter is fond of you,' she said on her deathbed, 'and will be

pleased that I have chosen you before the other servants. Keep them

all away from me.'

"It was many hours before she could be made to believe that there was

no hope for her, and when the conviction was forced upon her, she

cried, in a tone of great bitterness:

"'This is a fatal house! First my husband--now me! Will Beatrice be

the next?'

"And then she bemoaned her hard fate that she should have to die just

at the time that a life of pleasure was spread before her. Yes, she

spoke in that way, just as if she was a young girl, instead of an old

woman with white hair. A life of pleasure! Do some people never think

of another life, a life of rewards and punishments, according to their

actions in this world? The old lady was one of these, I am afraid.

Three or four hours before she died she said she must speak to me

quite alone, and the doctors accordingly left the room.

"'I want you to tell me the truth, Denise,' she said; I had to place

my ear quite close to her lips to hear her.

"'I will tell you,' I said.

"'It would be a terrible sin to deceive a dying woman,' she said.

"I answered I knew it was, and I would not deceive her.

"'Beatrice ought to be happy,' she said; 'I have done my best to make

her so--against her own wishes! But is it likely she should know

better than her mother? You believe she will be happy, do you not,

Denise?'

"I replied that I could not doubt it; that she had married a good man,

against whom no person could breathe a word, a man who commanded

respect, and who was looked upon by the poor as a benefactor--as

indeed he was.

"'That is what I thought,' said the dying woman; 'that is what I told

her over and over again. A good man, a kind man, a rich man, very rich

man! And then we were under obligations to him; had Beatrice refused

him he might have humiliated us. There was no other way to repay him.'

"I could not help saying to her then that when Mr. Almer rendered a

service to anyone he did not look for repayment.

"'Ah,' she said impatiently, 'but we are of noble descent, and we

never receive a favour without returning it. All I thought of was my

daughter's happiness. And there was the future--hers as well as

mine--it was dreadful to look forward to. Denise, did my daughter ever

complain to you?'

"'Never!' I answered.

"'Did she ever say I was a hard mother to her--that I was leading her

wrong--that I was selfish, and thought only of myself? Did she? Answer

me truly.'

"'Never,' I said, and I wondered very much to hear her speak in that

way. 'She never spoke a single word against you. If she had any such

thoughts it would not have been proper for her to have confided them

to me. I am only a servant.'

"'That is true,' she muttered. 'Beatrice has pride--yes, thank God,

she has pride, and if she suffers can suffer in silence. But why

should she suffer? She has everything--everything! I torment myself

without cause. You remember the letter my daughter gave you to

post--the one to M. Gabriel?'

"'Yes, madame; you took it from me on the road. I hope I did not do

wrong in parting with it. Mademoiselle Beatrice desired me to post it

with my own hands.'

"'You did right,' she said. 'It does not matter who posts a letter.

You did not tell my daughter I took it from you?'

"'No, madame.'

"'You are faithful and judicious,' she said, but her praise gave me no

pleasure. 'If I had lived I would have rewarded you. You must not

repeat to my daughter or to Mr. Almer what I have been saying to you.

Promise me.'

"I gave her the promise, and then she said that perhaps she would give

me a message to deliver to her daughter, her last message; but she

must think of it first, and if she forgot it I was to ask her for it.

After that she was quiet, and spoke to no one. A couple of hours

passed, and I asked the doctors whether she had long to live. They

said she could not live another hour. I then told them that she had

asked me to remind her of a message she wished me to give to her

daughter, and whether it was right I should disturb her. They said

that the wishes of the dying should be respected, and that I should

try to make her understand that death was very near. I put my face

again very close to hers.

"'Can you hear me?' I asked.

"'Who are you?' she said.

"Her words were but a breath, and I could only understand them by

watching the movements of her lips.

"'I am Denise.'

"'Ah, yes,' she replied. 'Denise, that my daughter is fond of.'

"'You wished to give me a message to your daughter.'

"'I don't know what it was. I have done everything for the best--yes,

everything. And she was foolish enough to rebel, and to tell me that I

might live to repent my work; but see how wrong she was. And presently

she said: 'Denise, when my daughter comes home ask her to forgive me.'

"These were her last words. Before the sun rose the next morning she

was dead.

"Mr. and Mrs. Almer arrived at the villa before she was buried. It was

a shocking interruption to their honeymoon, and their appearance

showed how much they suffered. It was as if the whole course of their

lives had been turned; tears took the place of smiles, sorrow of joy.

And how different was the appearance of the village! No feasting, no

music and dancing; everybody was serious and sad.

"And all within one short month!

"I gave Mrs. Almer her mother's dying message. When she heard the

words such a smile came upon her lips as I hope never again to see

upon a human face, it was so bitterly scornful and despairing.

"'It is too late for forgiveness,' she said, and not another word

passed between us on the subject.

"Mrs. Almer did not wear mourning for her mother, nor did her husband

wish her to do so. I remember his saying to her:

"With some races, white is the emblem of mourning; not for that

reason, Beatrice, but because it so well becomes you, I like you best

in white.'

"Now, as time went on, we all thought that the sadness which weighed

upon Mrs. Almer's heart, and which seemed to put lead into her feet,

would naturally pass away, but weeks and months elapsed, and she

remained the same. There used to be colour in her cheeks; it was all

gone now--her face was as white as milk. Her eyes used to sparkle and

brighten, but now there was never to be seen any gladness in them; and

she, who used to smile so often, now smiled no more. She moved about

like one who was walking slowly to her grave.

"Mr. Almer made great efforts to arouse her, but she met him with

coldness, and when he spoke to her she simply answered 'yes' or 'no,'

and she did nothing whatever to make his home cheerful and happy.

"This weighed upon his spirits, as it would upon the spirits of any

man, and during those times I often saw him gazing upon her from a

distance, when she was walking in the grounds, with a look in his eyes

which denoted how troubled he was. Then, as if some thought had

suddenly occurred to him, he would join her, and endeavour to entice

her into conversation; but she answered him only when she was

compelled, and he became so chilled by her manner that soon he would

himself grow silent, and they would pace the garden round and round

for an hour together in the most complete silence. It hurt one to see

it. They were never heard to quarrel, and the little they said to each

other was said in a gentle way; but that seemed to make matters worse.

Much better to have spoken outright, so that they might have known

what was in each other's minds. A storm now and then is naturally

good; it clears the air, and the sun always shines when it is over;

but here a silent storm was brooding which never burst, and the only

signs of it were seen in the sad faces of those who were suffering,

and who did not deserve to suffer.

"Imagine what the house was, my lady, and how we all felt, who loved

our master, and would have loved our lady too, if she had allowed us.

Cold as she was to us, we could not help pitying her. For my own part

I used to think I would rather live in a hut with a quarrelsome

husband who would beat and starve me, than lead such a life as my

master and mistress were leading.

"Once more, after many months has passed in this dreadful way, my

master suddenly resolved to make another attempt to alter things for

the better. He locked up his study, and courted his wife with the

perseverance and the love of a lover. It was really so, my lady.

He gathered posies for her, and placed them on her desk and

dressing-table; he spoke cheerfully to her, taking no apparent notice

of her silence and reserve; he strove in a thousand little delicate

ways to bring pleasure into her life.

"'We will ride out to-day,' he would say.

"'Very well,' she would answer.

"He would assist her into the saddle, and they would ride away, they

two alone, he animated by but one desire--to make her happy; and they

would return after some hours, the master with an expression of

suffering in his face which he would strive in vain to hide, and she,

sad, resigned, and uncomplaining. But that silence of hers! That voice

so seldom heard, and, when heard, so gentle, and soft, and pathetic! I

would rather have been beaten with an oak stick every day of my life

than have been compelled to endure it, as he was compelled. For there

was no relief or escape for him except in the doing of what it was not

in his nature to do--to be downright cruel to her, or to find another

woman to love him. He would have had no difficulty in this, had he

been so minded.

"Still he did not relax his efforts to alter things for the better. He

bought beautiful books, and pictures, and dresses, and pet animals for

her; he forgot nothing that a man could possibly thing of to please a

woman. He had frequently spoken to her of inviting friends to the

villa, but she had never encouraged him to do so. Now, however,

without consulting her, he called friends and acquaintances around

him, and in a short time we were again overrun with company. She was

the mistress of the house, and it would have been sinful in her to

have neglected her duties as Mr. Almer's wife. Many young people came

to the villa, and among them one day appeared M. Gabriel, the artist

who painted the picture."

CHAPTER V

THE GATHERING OF THE STORM

"At about this time it was generally known that Mr. Almer expected to

become a father within three or four months, and some people

considered it strange that he should have selected the eve of an event

so important for the celebration of social festivities. For my own

part I thought it a proof of his wisdom that he should desire his wife

to be surrounded by an atmosphere of cheerfulness on such an occasion.

Innocent laughter, music, pleasant society--what better kind of

medicine is there in the world? But it did not do my lady good. She

moved about listlessly, without heart and without spirit, and not

until M. Gabriel appeared was any change observable in her. The manner

in which she received him was sufficiently remarkable. My lady was

giving me some instructions as Mr. Almer and a strange gentleman came

towards us.

"'Beatrice,' said Mr. Almer, 'let me introduce M. Gabriel to you. A

friend whom I have not seen for years.'

"She looked at M. Gabriel, and bowed, and when she raised her head,

her face and neck were crimson; her eyes, too, had an angry light in

them. M. Gabriel, also, whose natural complexion was florid, turned

deathly white as his eyes fell upon her.

"Whether Mr. Almer observed these signs I cannot say; they were plain

enough to me, and I did not need anyone to tell me that those two had

met before.

"My lady turned from her husband and M. Gabriel in silence, and taking

my arm walked into a retired part of the grounds. She could not have

walked without assistance, for she was trembling violently; the moment

we were alone her strength failed her, and she swooned dead away. I

thought it prudent not to call or run for assistance, and I attended

to her myself. Presently she recovered, and looking around with a

frightened air, asked if any person but myself had seen her swoon. I

answered 'No,' and for a moment I thought she had some intention of

confiding in me, but she said nothing more than 'Thank you, Denise; do

not speak of my fainting to any person; it is only that I am weak, and

that the least thing overcomes me. Be sure that no one hears of it.'

'No one shall from me, my lady,' I said. She thanked me again, and

pressed my hand, and then we went into the house.

"After that, there was no perceptible difference in her manner toward

M. Gabriel than towards her other guests, but I, whose eyes were in a

certain way opened, could not help observing that M. Gabriel watched

with anxiety her every movement and every expression. The summer-house

in which all those pictures are stored away was given to M. Gabriel

for a studio, and there he painted and passed a great deal of his

time. Mr. Almer often joined him there, and if appearances went for

anything, they spent many happy hours together. About three weeks

after M. Gabriel came to the villa my master took his wife into the

studio, and they remained there for some time. It was understood that

my lady had been prevailed upon to allow M. Gabriel to paint her

portrait. From that time my lady's visits to the summer-house were

frequent, at first always in her husband's company, but afterwards

occasionally alone. One day she said to me:

"'Denise, I have often wished to ask you a question, but till lately

have not thought it worth while.'

"'I am ready to answer anything, my lady,' I said.

"'One morning,' she said, after a pause, 'shortly after my dear father

died, I gave you a letter to post for me in Geneva.'

"'Yes, my lady,' I said, and it flashed upon me like a stroke of

lightning that the letter she referred to was addressed to M. Gabriel.

Never till that moment had I thought of it.

"'Did you post the letter for me, Denise, as I desired you? Did you do

so with your own hands? Do not tremble. Mistakes often happen without

our being able to prevent them--even fatal mistakes sometimes. I saw

you drive away with the letter in your hand. You did not lose it?'

"'No, my lady; but before I had gone a mile on the road to Geneva,

your mother overtook me, and said she knew you had given it to

me to post immediately in Geneva, and that as she would be at the

post-office a good hour before me--which was true--she would put it

into the post with other letters.'

"'And you gave her the letter, Denise?'

"'Yes, my lady.'

"'Did my mother desire you not to mention to me that she had taken the

letter from you?'

"'No, my lady, but on her deathbed----'

"I hesitated, and my mistress said. 'Do not fear, Denise; you did no

wrong. How should you know that a mother would conspire against her

daughter's happiness? On her deathbed my mother spoke to you of that

letter?'

"'Yes, my lady, and asked me if I had told you that she had taken it

from me. I answered no, and she said I had done right. My lady, in

telling you this. I am breaking the promise I gave her; I hope to be

forgiven.'

"'It is right that you should tell me the truth, when I desire you,

about an affair I entrusted to you. Had you told me of your own

account, it might have been a sin.'

"'I can see, my lady, that I should not have parted with the letter. I

am truly sorry.'

"'The fault was not yours, Denise: the wrong-doing was not yours. I

should have instructed you not to part with the letter to anyone;

although even then it could not have been prevented; you could not

have refused my mother. The past is lost to us forever.' Her eyes

filled with tears, and she said, 'We will not speak of this again,

Denise.'

"And it was never mentioned again by either of us, though we both

thought of it often enough.

"It was easy for me to arrive at an understanding of it. M. Gabriel

and my mistress had been lovers, and had been parted and kept apart by

my lady's mother. The old lady had played a false and treacherous part

towards her daughter, and by so doing had destroyed the happiness of

her life.

"Whether my young lady thought that Mr. Almer had joined in the plot

against her--that was what puzzled me a great deal at the time; but I

was certain that he was innocent in the matter, as much a victim to

the arts and wiles of a scheming old woman as the unfortunate lady he

had married.

"The motive of the treachery was plain enough. M. Gabriel was poor, a

struggling artist, with his place to make in the world. My master was

rich; money and estates were his, and the old woman believed she would

live to enjoy them if she could bring about a marriage between him and

her daughter.

"She succeeded--too well did she succeed, and she met with her

punishment. Though she was dead in her grave I had no pity for her,

and her daughter, also, thought of her with bitterness. What misery is

brought about by the mad worship of money which fills some persons'

souls! As though hearts count for nothing!

"I understood it all now--my lady's unhappiness, her silence, the

estrangement between her and her husband. How often did I repeat the

sad words she had uttered! 'The past is lost to us forever.' Yes, it

was indeed true. Sunshine had fled; a gloomy future was before her.

Which was the most to be pitied--my lady, or her innocent, devoted

husband, who lived in ignorance of the wrong which had been done?

"After the conversation I have just related, the behaviour of my

mistress toward M. Gabriel underwent a change; she was gracious and

familiar with him, and sometimes, as I noticed with grief, even

tender. They walked frequently together; she was often in his studio

when her husband was absent. Following out in my mind the course of

events, I felt sure that explanations had passed between them, and

that they were satisfied that neither had been intentionally false to

the other. It was natural that this should have happened; but what

good could come of this better understanding? Mischief was in the air,

and no one saw it but myself.

"My lady recovered her cheerfulness; the colour came back to her face;

her eyes were brighter, life once more appeared enjoyable to her. Mr.

Almer was delighted and unsuspicious; but behind these fair clouds I

seemed to hear the muttering of the thunder, and I dreaded the moment

when my master's suspicions should be aroused.

"As my lady's time to become a mother drew near, many of the guests

took their departure; but M. Gabriel remained. He and Mr. Almer were

the closest friends, and they would talk with the greatest animation

about pictures and books. M. Gabriel was very clever; the rapidity

with which he would paint used to surprise us; his sketches were

beautiful, and were hung everywhere about the house. Everybody sang

his praises. He had a very sweet voice, he was a fine musician, there

was not a subject he was not ready to converse upon. If it came to

deep scholarship and learning I have no doubt that Mr. Almer held the

first place, but my master was never eager, as M. Gabriel was, to

display his gifts, and to show off his brilliant qualities in society.

Certainly he could not win ladies' hearts as easily as M. Gabriel.

These things are in the nature of a man, and one will play for the

mere pleasure of winning, while another does not consider it worth his

while to try. Of two such men I know which is the better and more

deserving of love.

"Rapid worker as M. Gabriel was with his paintings and sketches, my

lady's portrait hung upon his hands; he did not seem to be able to

satisfy himself, and he was continually making alterations. When

Master Christian was born, his mother's picture was still unfinished

in M. Gabriel's studio."

CHAPTER VI

THE GRAVE OF HONOUR

"The birth of the heir was now the most important event; everything

gave way to it. Congratulations poured in from all quarters, and it

really seemed as if a better era had dawned. I believe I was the only

one who mistrusted appearances; I should have been easier in my mind

had M. Gabriel left the villa. But he remained, and as long as he and

my lady were near each other I knew that the storm-clouds were not far

off.

"In a few weeks my lady got about again; she was never strong, and now

she was so delicate and weak that the doctors would not allow her to

nurse her child. I was very sorry for this; had her baby drawn life

from her breast it might have diverted her attention from M. Gabriel.

"It is hard to believe that so joyful an event as the birth of her

first child should not have softened her heart towards her husband. It

is the truth, however; they were no nearer to each other than they had

been before. Mr. Almer was not to blame; he did all in his power to

win his wife to more affectionate ways, but he might as well have

hoped for a miracle as to hope to win a love that was given to

another.

"The child throve, and it was not till he was a year old that the

portrait of his mother was finished--the picture that is hanging on

the wall before me. It was greatly admired, and my master set great

store upon it.

"'It is in every way your finest work,' he said to M. Gabriel. 'Were

it not that I object to my wife's beauty being made a subject of

criticism, I should persuade you to exhibit the portrait.'

"Not long afterwards, M. Gabriel was called away. I thanked God for

it. The danger I feared was removed; but he returned in the course of

a few weeks, and began to paint again in the summer-house. While he

was absent my lady fell into her former habits of listlessness; when

he returned she became animated and joyous. Truly he was to her as the

sun is to the flower. This change in her mood, from sadness to gaiety,

was so sudden that it frightened me, for I felt that Mr. Almer must be

the blindest of the blind if it did not force itself upon his

attention. It did not escape his notice; I saw that, from a certain

alteration in his manner toward his wife and his friend. It was not

that he was colder or less friendly; but when he looked at them he

seemed to be pondering upon something which perplexed him. He said

nothing to them, however, to express disapproval of their intimacy. He

was not an impulsive man, and I never knew him to commit himself to an

important act without deliberation.

"In the midst of his perplexity the storm burst. I was an accidental

witness of the occurrence which led to the tragic events of which I

have yet to speak.

"There was at this time among our guests an old dowager, who did

nothing but tittle-tattle from morning till night about her friends

and acquaintances, and who seemed to be always hunting for an

opportunity to make ill-natured remarks. A piece of scandal was a

great delight to her. Heaven save me from ever meeting with another

such a lady.

"I was in one of the wooded walks at some distance from the house,

gathering balsam for a fellow-servant whose hand had been wounded,

when the voice of this old dowager reached my ears. She was speaking

to a lady companion, and I should not have stopped to listen had not

Mrs. Almer's name been mentioned in a tone which set my blood

tingling.

"'It is scandalous, my dear,' the old dowager was saying, 'the way she

goes on with M. Gabriel. Of course, I wouldn't mention it to another

soul in the world but you, for it is not my affair. Not that it is not

natural, for she is young, and he is young, and Mr. Almer is old

enough to be their father; but they really should be more discreet. I

can't make up my mind whether Mr. Almer sees it, and considers it best

to take no notice, or whether he is really blind to what is going on.

Anyway, that does not alter the affair, so far as his wife and M.

Gabriel are concerned. Such looks at each other, my dear!--such

pressing of hands!--such sighs! One can almost hear them. It is easy

to see they are in love with each other.'

"And a great deal more to the same effect until they walked away from

the spot and were out of hearing.

"I was all of a tremble, and I was worrying myself as to what it was

best to do when I heard another step close to me.

"It was my master, who must also have been within hearing. His face

was stern and white, and there was blood on his lips as though he had

bitten them through.

"He walked my way and saw me.

"'How long have you been here, Denise?' he asked.

"I could not tell him a falsehood, and I had not the courage to answer

him.

"'It is enough,' he said; 'you have heard what I have heard. Not to a

living being must a word of what you have heard pass your lips. I have

always believed that you had a regard for the honour of my house and

name, and it is for that reason I have placed confidence in you. I

shall continue to trust you until you give me cause to doubt your good

faith. Hasten after that lady and her companion who have been

conversing here, and ask them to favour me with an interview. While I

speak to them, remain out of hearing.'

"I obeyed him in silence, and conducted the ladies to my master's

presence. I am in ignorance of what he said to them, but that evening

an excuse was made for their sudden departure from the villa. They

left, and did not appear again.

"Grateful as I was at the removal of this source of danger, I soon saw

that the time I dreaded had arrived. My master was in doubt whether

his wife was faithful to him.

"A more cruel suspicion never entered the mind of man, and as false as

it was cruel. Mrs. Almer was a pure woman; basely wronged as she had

been, she was a virtuous wife. As I hope for salvation this is my firm

belief.

"But how can I blame my master? Smarting with a grief which had sucked

all the light out of his days, which had poisoned his life and his

hopes, trusting as he had trusted, deceived as he had been deceived,

with every offer of love refused and despised, and with, as he

believed, dishonour staring him in the face--he might well be pardoned

for the doubt which now took possession of him.

"He planned out a course, and steadily followed it. Without betraying

himself, he watched his wife and his friend, and he could not fail to

see that the feelings they entertained for each other were stronger

than the ordinary feelings of friendship which may properly be allowed

between a man and a woman. I know, also, that he discovered that my

lady, before she married him, had accepted M. Gabriel as her lover.

This in itself was sufficient for him.

"Under such circumstances it was, in his opinion, a sin for any woman

to plight her faith and duty to another. To my master the words used

at the altar were, in the meaning they conveyed, most sacred, solemn

and binding. For a woman to utter them, with the image of another man

in her heart, was a fearful and unpardonable crime.

"These perjuries are common enough, I believe, in the great world

which moves at a distance from this quiet spot, but that they are

common does not excuse them. Mr. Almer had strict and stern views of

the duties of life, and roused as he was roused, he carried them out

with cruel effect.

"Gradually he got rid of all his guests, with the exception of M.

Gabriel; and then, one fatal morning, he surprised my lady and M.

Gabriel as they sat together in the summer-house. There was no guilt

between them; they were conversing innocently enough, but my lady was

in tears, and M. Gabriel was endeavouring to console her. Sufficient,

certainly, to work a husband into a furious state.

"None of us knew what passed or what words were spoken; something

terrible must have been uttered, for my lady, with a face like the

face of death, tottered from the summer-house to this very room, where

she lay in a fainting condition for hours. Her husband did not come

near her, nor did he make any inquiries after her, but in the course

of an hour he gave me instructions to have every sketch and painting

made by M. Gabriel taken from the walls of the villa, and conveyed to

the summer-house. I obeyed him, and all were removed except this

portrait of my lady; it seemed to me that I ought not to allow it to

be touched without her permission, and she was not in a fit condition

to be disturbed.

"While this work was being accomplished no servant but myself was

allowed to enter the studio. Two strange men carried the pictures into

the summer-house, and these men, who had paint-pots and brushes with

them, remained with Mr. Almer the whole of the afternoon.

"Dinner was served, but no one sat down to it. My lady was in her

chamber, her husband was still in the summer-house, and M. Gabriel was

wandering restlessly about. In the evening he addressed me.

"'Where is Mr. Almer?' he asked.

"'In the summer-house,' I replied.

"'Go to him,' he said, 'and say I desire to have a few words with

him.'

"In a few minutes they confronted each other on the steps which led to

the studio.

"'Enter,' said my master; 'you also, Denise, so that you may hear what

I have to say to M. Gabriel, and what he has to say to me.'

"I entered with them, and could scarcely believe my eyes. The walls of

the studio had been painted a deep black. Not only the walls, but the

woodwork of the windows which gave light to the room. The place

resembled a tomb.

"M. Gabriel's face was like the face of a corpse as he gazed around.

"'This is your doing,' he said to my master, pointing to the black

walls.

"'Pardon me,' said my master; 'it is none of my work. _You_ are the

artist here, and this is the picture you have painted on my heart and

life. Denise, are all M. Gabriel's sketches and paintings in this

studio?'

"'They are all here, sir,' I replied.

"There was a sense of guilt at my heart, for I thought of my lady's

portrait. Fortunately for me my master did not refer to it.

"'M. Gabriel,' said my master to the artist, 'these paintings are your

property, and are at your disposal for one week from this day. Within

that time remove them from my house. You will have no other

opportunity. At the end of the week this summer-house will be securely

locked and fastened, and thereafter, during my lifetime, no person

will be allowed to enter it. For yourself a carriage is now waiting

for you at the gates. I cannot permit you to sleep another night under

my roof.'

"'I had no intention of doing so,' said M. Gabriel, 'nor should I have

remained here so long had it not been that I was determined not to

leave without an interview with you.'

"'What do you require of me?'

"'Satisfaction.'

"'Satisfaction!' exclaimed my master, with a scornful smile. 'Is it

not I rather should demand it?'

"'Demand it, then,' cried M. Gabriel. 'I am ready to give it to you.'

"'I am afraid,' said my master coldly, 'that it is out of your power

to afford me satisfaction. Were you a man of honour events might take

a different course. It is only lately that I have seen you in your

true colours; to afford you the satisfaction you demand would be, on

my part, an admission that you are my equal. You are not; you are the

basest of cowards. Depart at once, and do not compel me to call my

servants to force you from my gates.'

"'Endeavour to evade me,' said M. Gabriel, as he walked to the door,

'in every way you can, you shall not escape the consequences of your

conduct.'

"He carried it with a high hand, this fine gentleman who had brought

misery into this house; had I been a man I should have had a

difficulty in preventing myself from striking him.

"When he was gone my master said:

"'You are at liberty to repeat to your lady what has passed between me

and M. Gabriel.'

"I did not repeat it: there was such a dreadful significance in the

black walls, and in my master's words, that that was the picture M.

Gabriel had painted on his heart and life, that I could not be so

cruel to my lady as to tell her what had passed between the two

gentlemen who held her fate in their hands.

"But she herself, on the following day, questioned me:

"'You were present yesterday,' she said, 'at an interview between M.

Gabriel and my husband?'

"'Yes, my lady,' I answered.

"'Did they meet in anger, Denise?'

"'M. Gabriel was angry, my lady,' I said.

"'And my husband?' she asked.

"'Appeared to be suffering, my lady.'

"'Did they part in anger?'

"'On M. Gabriel's side, my lady, yes.'

"'Is M. Gabriel in the villa?'

"'No, my lady. He departed last night.

"'Of his own accord?'

"'My master bade him go, and M. Gabriel said he intended to leave

without being bidden.'

"'It could not be otherwise. My husband is here?'

"'Yes, my lady.'

"That was all that was said on that day. The next day my lady asked me

again if her husband was in the villa and I answered 'Yes.' The next

day she asked me the same question, and I gave the same reply. The

fourth day and the fifth she repeated the question, and my reply that

my master had not been outside the gates afforded her relief. The fear

in her mind was that my master and M. Gabriel would fight a duel, and

that one would be killed.

"During these days my lady did not leave her chamber, nor did her

husband visit her.

"From the window of this room the summer-house can be seen, and my

lady for an hour or two each day sat at the window, gazing vacantly

out.

"On the evening of the fifth day my lady said:

"'Denise, there have been workmen busily engaged about the

summer-house. What are they doing?'

"I bore in mind my master's remark to me that I was at liberty to

repeat to my lady what had been said by him and M. Gabriel in their

last interview. It was evident that he wished her to be made

acquainted with it, and it was my duty to be faithful to him as well

as to my lady. I informed her of my master's resolve to fasten the

doors of the summer-house and never to allow them to be opened during

his lifetime.

"'There are only two more days,' she said, 'to-morrow and the next.'

"I prayed silently that she would not take the fancy in her head to

visit the summer-house before it was fastened up, knowing the shock

that the sight of the black walls would cause her.

"The next day she did not refer to the subject, but the next, which

was the last, she sat at the window watching the workmen bring their

tools and bars and bolts to complete the work for which they had been

engaged.

"'Come with me, Denise,' she said. 'A voice whispers to me that there

is something concealed in the summer-house which I must see before it

is too late.'

"'My lady,' I said, trembling, 'I would not go if I were in your

place.'

"I could not have chosen worse words.

"'You would not go if you were in my place!' she repeated. 'Then there

_is_ something concealed there which it is necessary for me to see.

Unless,' she added, looking at me for an answer, 'my husband prohibits

it.'

"'He has not prohibited it, my lady.'

"'And yet you would not go if you were in my place! Cannot you see

that I should be false to myself if I allowed that place to be sealed

forever against me, before making myself acquainted with something

that has taken place therein? You need not accompany me, Denise,

unless you choose.'

"'I will go with you, my lady,' I said, and we went out of the villa

together.

"We entered the summer-house, my lady first, I a few steps behind her.