the black walls. She understood what was meant by this sign.
"But there was more to come, of which, up to that day, I had been
ignorant. On one of the walls was painted in white, the words,
"'The Grave Of Honour.'
"It was like an inscription on a tomb.
"When my lady opened her eyes they fell upon these cruel words. For
many minutes she stood in silence, with eyes fixed on the wall, and
then she turned towards me, and by a motion of her hand, ordered me to
leave the place with her. Never, never, had I seen such an expression
of anguish on a face as rested on hers. It was as though her own
heart, her own good name, her own honour, were lying dead in that
room! There are deeds which can never be atoned for. This deed of my
master's was one."
CHAPTER VII
HUSBAND AND WIFE
"Remain with me, Denise,' said my lady, as we walked back to the
house. 'I am weak, and may need you."
"Then, for the first time, I noticed what gave me hope. She took her
baby boy in her arms, and pressed him passionately to her bosom,
murmuring:
"'I have only you--I have only you!'
"It was not that hitherto she had been wanting in tenderness, but that
in my presence she had never so yearningly displayed it. It gladdened
me also to think that her child was a comfort to her in this grave
crisis.
"But the hope I indulged in was doomed to disappointment. In the
evening my lady bade me ascertain whether her husband was in the
villa.
"I went to him, and made the inquiry.
"'Tell my wife,' he said, in a gentle tone, 'that I am ready to wait
upon her whenever she desires it.'
"It was late in the night when my lady called me to assist her to
dress. I did so, wondering at the strange proceeding. She chose her
prettiest dress, one which she had worn in her maiden days. She wore
no ornaments, or flowers or ribbons of any colour. Simply a white
dress, with white lace for her head and shoulders.
"'Now go to your master,' she said, 'and say I desire to see him.'
"I gave him the message, and he accompanied me to this room, where my
lady was waiting to receive him, with as much ceremony as if he had
been a stranger guest.
"I am here at your bidding,' he said, and turning to me, 'You can go,
Denise.'
"'You will stay, Denise,' said my lady.
"The manner of both was stern, but there was more decision in my
lady's voice than in his. I hesitated, not knowing which of them to
obey.
"'Stay, then, Denise,' said my master, 'as your mistress desires it.'
"I retreated to a corner of the room, as far away from them as I could
get. I was really afraid of what was coming. Within the hearts of
husband and wife a storm was raging, all the more terrible because of
the outward calm with which they confronted each other.
"'You know,' said my lady, 'for what reason I desired to see you.'
"'I know,' he replied,' that I expected you would send for me. If you
had not, I should not have presented myself.'
"'You have in your mind,' she said, 'matters which concern us both, of
which it is necessary you should speak.'
"'It is more than necessary--it is imperative that I should speak of
the matters you refer to.'
"'The opportunity is yours. I also have something to say when you have
finished. The sooner our minds are unburdened the better it will
be--for you and me.'
"'It were preferable,' he added, 'that what we say to each other
should be said without witnesses. Consider whether it will not be best
that Denise should retire.'
"'There is no best or worst for me,' she rejoined; 'my course is
decided, and no arguments of yours can alter it. Denise will remain,
as I bade her, and what you have to say must be spoken in her
presence.'
"'Be it so. Denise is the most trusted servant of my house; I have
every confidence in her. Otherwise, I should insist upon her leaving
the room.'
"'It is right,' said my lady, 'that you should be made acquainted with
a resolution I have come to within the last few hours. After this
night I will never open my lips to you, nor, willingly, will I ever
listen to your voice. I swear most solemnly that I am in earnest--as
truly in earnest as if I were on my death-bed!'
"I shuddered; her voice and manner carried conviction with them. My
master turned to me, and said:
"'What you hear must never pass your lips while your mistress and I
are alive.'
"'It never shall,' I said, shaking like a leaf.
"'When we are dead, Denise, you can please yourself.' He stood again
face to face with his wife. 'Madame, it is necessary that I should
recall the past. When I spoke to your lady mother on the subject of my
love for you--being encouraged and in a measure urged to do so by
herself--I was frank and open with her. There was nothing in my life
which I concealed, which I had occasion to conceal. I had grave doubts
as to the suitability of a marriage with you, doubts which did not
place you at a disadvantage. I had not the grace of youth to recommend
me; there was a serious difference in our ages; my habits of life were
staid and serious. You were fit to be the wife of a prince; your
youth, your beauty, your accomplishments, entitled you to more than I
could offer--which was simply a life of ease and the homage of a
faithful heart. Only in one respect were we equal--in respect of
birth. Had I not been encouraged by your mother, I should not have had
the temerity to give expression to my feelings; but I spoke, and for
me there was no retreating. I begged your lady mother not to encourage
me with false hopes, but to be as frank with me as I was with her. Of
the doubts which disturbed me, one was paramount. You had moved in the
world--you had been idolised in society--and it scarcely seemed
possible that your heart could be disengaged. In that case, I informed
your lady mother that no earthly consideration could induce me to step
between you and your affections; nay, with all the force which
earnestness could convey, I offered to do all in my power--if it were
possible that my services could avail-- to aid in bringing your life
to its happiest pass. At such a moment as this, a solemn one, madame,
which shall never be forgotten by you or by me, I may throw aside
false delicacy, and may explain the meaning of these last words to
your mother. Having had in my hands the settlement of your father's
affairs, I knew that you were poor, and my meaning was, that if any
money of mine could assist in bringing about a union between you and
the object of your affections--did any such exist--it was ready,
cheerfully offered and cheerfully given for such a purpose. I made but
one stipulation in the matter--that it should never, directly or
indirectly, be brought to your knowledge.'
"He paused, in the expectation that his wife would speak, and she said
coldly:
"'You are doubtless stating the truth.'
"'The simple truth, madame, neither more nor less; and believe it or
not, as you will, it was your welfare, not mine, that was uppermost in
my mind. Your lady mother assured me that before you came to the villa
your heart was entirely free, but that since you honoured me by
becoming my guest, you had fixed your affections upon myself. My
astonishment was great; I could scarcely believe the evidence of my
senses. I entreated your lady mother not to mislead me, and she proved
to me--to me, to whom the workings of a woman's heart were as a sealed
book--in a hundred different ways, which she said I might have
discovered for myself if I had had the wit--that you most truly loved
me. She professed to be honoured by my proposal, which she accepted
for you, and which she said you would joyfully accept for yourself.
But she warned me not to be disappointed in the manner in which you
would receive me; that your pride and shame might impel you to
appear reluctant instead of joyful, and that it behoved me, as a wise
man--Heaven help me!--to put a right and sensible construction on the
natural maidenly reserve of a young girl. The rest you know. The wise
man, madame, has been sadly at fault; it has been fatally proved to
him that he knows little of the workings of the human heart.'
"She held up her hand as a sign that she wished to speak, and he
paused. A little thing struck me at the time, which has never passed
out of my mind. She held up her hand in front of the lamp, and the
light shone through the thin, delicate fingers. Seldom do I think of
my lady without seeing that slight, beautiful hand, with the pink
light shining through it.
"'My mother,' she said, 'did not speak the truth. M. Gabriel and I
were affianced before I became your guest.'
"'Your information comes too late,' said my master; 'you should have
told me so much when I offered you my name. It would have been
sufficient. I should not have forced myself upon you, and shame and
sin would have been avoided.'
"'There has been no sin,' said my lady, 'and who links me with shame
brings shame upon himself. I have been wronged beyond the hope of
reparation in this life. Before you spoke to me of marriage I
wrote to M. Gabriel frequently from this villa. My letters were
intercepted----'
"He interrupted her. 'To my knowledge no letters were intercepted; I
had no suspicion of such a proceeding.'
"I do not say you had; I am making you acquainted with a fact. Hurt
and vexed at receiving no reply to my letters, and being able to
account for it only on the supposition that they had not come into his
possession, I wrote one and gave it to Denise to post for me. That
also, as I learnt after my mother's death, was intercepted, and never
reached its destination. In the meantime, false information was given
to me respecting M. Gabriel; shameful stories were related to me, in
which he was the principal actor. He was vile and false, as I was led
to believe; and you were held up to me as his very opposite, as noble,
chivalrous, generous, disinterested----'
"'In all of which you will bear in mind, I was in no way inculpated,
being entirely ignorant of what was going on under my roof.'
"'And I was, besides, led to believe by my mother that you had laid us
under such obligations that there was but one repayment of them----'
"'Plainly speaking,' he interposed, 'that, in any kindness I had
shown, I was deliberately making a purchase, that in every friendly
office I performed, I had but one cowardly end in view. It needed this
to complete the story.'
"'My heart was almost broken,' she continued, making no comment on his
bitter interruption; 'but it was pointed out to me that I could at
least answer the call of gratitude and duty. Doubly did my mother
deceive me.'
"'And doubly,' said my master, 'did you deceive me.'
"'When, some time after our unhappy marriage, you introduced M.
Gabriel into this house, I was both angry and humiliated. It
looked as though you intended to insult me, and Denise was a witness
of my agitation. It was not unnatural that, remaining here, your
guest--bidden by you, not by me--for so long a time explanations
should pass between M. Gabriel and myself. Then it was that my eyes
were really opened to the pit into which I had been deliberately
dragged.'
"'Not by me were you dragged into this pit.'
"'Let it pass for a moment,' she said, in a disdainful voice. 'When my
eyes were opened to the truth, how was I to know that you had not
shared in the plot against me? How am I to know it now?'
"'By my denial. Doubt me if you will, and believe that I tricked to
obtain you. I shall not attempt to undeceive you. No good purpose
would be served by a successful endeavour to soften your feelings
towards me; I do not, indeed, desire that they should be softened, for
no link of love can ever unite us. It never did, and never can, and I
am not a man to live upon shams. If I tricked to obtain you, you will
not deny that I have my reward--a rich reward, the rank fruit of which
will cling to me and abide with me till the last moment of my life.'
"'I went into the summer-house this afternoon,' she said.
"'I know it.'
"'It was your intention that I should visit it.'
"'It was not exactly my intention; I left it to chance.'
"'You have made it a memorial of shame, of a cruel declaration against
me!'
"'I have made it a memorial of my own deep unhappiness. That studio
will never again be opened during your life and mine. Madame, in all
that you have said--and I have followed you attentively--you have not
succeeded in making me believe that I have anything to reproach myself
for. My blindness was deplorable, but it is not a reproach. My actions
were distinguished at least by absolute candour and frankness. Can you
assert the same? You loved M. Gabriel before you met me--was I to
blame for that? You were made to believe he was false to you--was I to
blame for that? You revenged yourself upon him by accepting my hand,
and I, unversed in woman's ways, believed that no pure-minded woman
would marry a man unless she loved him. I still believe so. When we
stood before the altar, I was happy in the belief that your heart was
mine; and certainly from that moment, your faith, your honour, were
pledged to me, as mine was pledged to you. M. Gabriel was my friend. I
was a man when he was a boy, and I became interested in him, and
assisted him in his career. We had not met for years: he knew that I
had married----'
"'But he did not know,' interrupted my lady, 'that you had married
_me!_'
"'Granted. Was I to blame for that? After our marriage you fell into
melancholy moods, which I at first ascribed to the tragic fate of your
parents. Most sincerely did I sympathise with you. Day after day,
night after night, did I ponder and consider how I could bring the
smile to your lips, how I could gladden your young heart. Reflect upon
this, madame, in the days that are before you, and reflect upon the
manner in which you received my attentions. At one time, when I had
invited to the villa a number of joyous spirits in the hope that their
liveliness and gaiety would have a beneficial effect upon you, I
received a letter from M. Gabriel with reference to a picture he was
painting. I invited him here, and he came. What was his duty, what was
yours, when you and he met in my presence, when I introduced you to
each other, for the first time as I thought? Madame, if not before
him, at least before you, there was but one honest course. Did you
pursue it? No; you received M. Gabriel as a stranger, and you
permitted me to rest in the belief that until that day you had been
unconscious of his existence. Without referring to my previous
sufferings--which, madame, were very great--in what position did I,
the husband, stand in relation to my wife and friend, who, in that
moment of introduction, tacitly conspired against my honour, and who,
after explanations had passed between them, met and conversed as
lovers? Their guilt was the more heinous because of its secrecy--and
utterly, utterly unpardonable because of their treachery towards him
who trusted in them both. A double betrayal! But at length the
husband's suspicions were aroused. In a conversation which he
accidentally overheard between two ladies who were visiting him--the
name of his wife--your name, madame--was mentioned in connection with
that of M. Gabriel; and from their conversation he learnt that their
too friendly intimacy had become a subject for common talk. Jealous of
his honour, and of his name, upon which there had hitherto been no
blot, he silenced the scandal-mongers; but from that day he more
carefully observed his wife and his friend, until the truth was
revealed. Then came retribution, and a black chapter in the lives of
three human beings was closed--though the book itself is not yet
completed.'
"He paused, a long time as it seemed to me, before he spoke again. The
silence was awful, and in the faces of the husband and the wife there
were no signs of relenting. They bore themselves as two persons might
have done who had inflicted upon each other a mortal wrong for which
there was no earthly forgiveness. From my heart I pitied them both."
CHAPTER VIII
THE COMPACT
"You sent for me, madame,' he said presently, 'because it was
necessary that some explanation should be given of the occurrences
that have taken place in my family, of which you are a member. Each of
us has reason to regret an alliance which has caused us so much
suffering. Unfortunately for our happiness and our peace of mind the
truth has been spoken too late; but it were idle now to waste time in
lamentations. There are in life certain bitter trials which must be
accepted; in that light I accept the calamity which has fallen upon
us, and which, had I known before our marriage what I know now, would
most surely have been averted. It was in your power to avert it; you
did not do so, but led me blindly into the whirlpool. You have
informed me that, after this night, you will never open your lips to
me, nor ever again listen to my voice.'
"'Nor will I,' she said, 'from the rising of to-morrow's sun.'
"'I shall do nothing to woo you from that resolve. But you bear my
name, and to some extent my honour is still in your keeping.'
"'Have you, then,' she asked, 'any commands to give me?'
"'It will depend,' he replied, 'upon what I hear from you. So far as
my honour is concerned I intend to exercise control over you; no
farther.'
"'Your honour is safe with me, as it has always been."
"'I will not debate the point with you. You say that you have decided
on your course, and that no arguments of mine will turn you from it.'
"'Yes; my course is decided. Am I free to go from your house?'
"'You are not free to go. Only one thing shall part us--death!'
"'We have a child,' she said, and her voice, for that moment,
insensibly softened.
"'Is he asleep?'
"'Yes.'
"He went into the inner room, and remained there for several minutes,
and my lady, with a white and tearless face, waited for his return.
"I thought I heard the sound of kisses in the bedroom, but I could not
be sure. There was, however, a tender light in my master's eyes when
he came back, a light which showed that his heart was touched.
"'Our child shall remain with you,' he said to my lady, 'if you wish.'
"'I do wish it," she said.
"'I will not take him from you, only that I must sometimes see him.'
"'He shall be brought to you every day.'
"'I am content. Let him grow up to love me or hate me, as the
prompting of his nature and your teaching shall direct. From my lips
he shall never hear a disparaging word of his mother.'
"'Nor shall he, from my lips, of his father.'
"He bowed to her as he would have bowed to a princess, and said:
"'I thank you. But little, then, remains to be said. We are bound to
each other irrevocably, and we cannot part without disgrace. We have
brought our griefs upon ourselves, and we must bear them in silence.
The currents of my life are changed, and these gates shall never again
be opened to friends. I have done with friendship as I have done with
love. I ask you what course you have determined upon?'
"'I propose,' said my lady, 'to make these rooms my home, if you will
give them to me to live in.'
"'They are yours,' he replied. 'Unless I am compelled by duty, or by
circumstances which I do not at present foresee, I will never enter
them during your lifetime.'
"'It is as I would have it,' she said. 'In daylight I shall not leave
them. If I walk in the grounds it shall be at nightfall. Outside your
gates I will never more be seen, nor will I allow a friend or an
acquaintance to visit me. Will you allow Denise to wait upon me?'
"'She is your servant, and yours only, from this moment. I am pleased
that you have selected her.'
"'Denise,' said my lady to me, 'are you willing to serve me?'
"'Yes, my lady,' I answered. I was almost choked with sobs, while they
were outwardly calm and unmoved.
"'Then there is nothing more to be said--except farewell.' And my lady
looked towards the door.
"He did not linger a moment. He bowed to her ceremoniously, and left
the room.
"When he was gone I felt as if some sudden and fearful shock must
surely take place, as if a thunderbolt would fall and destroy us, or
as if my lady would fall dead at my feet, the silence that ensued was
so unearthly. But nothing occurred, and when I had courage to look up
I saw my lady sitting in a chair, white and still, with a resigned and
determined expression on her face. It would have been a great relief
to me if she had cried, but there was not a tear in her eyes.
"'Do you believe me guilty, Denise?' she asked.
"'The saints forbid,' I cried, 'that such a wicked thought should
enter my mind! I know you to be an innocent, suffering lady.'
"'You will do as you have been bidden to do, Denise. While my husband
and I are living you will not speak of what has passed within this
room.'
"'I will not, my lady.'
"And never again was the subject referred to by either of us. She did
not make the slightest allusion to it, and I did not dare to do so."
CHAPTER IX
MOTHER DENISE HAS STRANGE FANCIES IN THE NIGHT
"A new life now commenced for us--a new and dreadful life. Mr. Almer
gave orders that no person was to be admitted to the villa without his
express permission. He denied himself to every chance visitor, and
from that time until you came, my lady, no friend of the family,
except a great banker, and occasionally Master Pierre Lamont, both of
whom came upon business, ever entered the gates. The doctor, of
course, when he was needed; but no one else.
"Mr. Almer passed most of his time in his study, writing and reading,
and pacing to and fro as he used to do in times gone by. He did not
make any enquiries about my lady, nor did she about him. She lived in
these rooms, and, in my remembrance, did not stir out of them during
the day. Master Christian slept in the inner room there, and was free
to roam about as he pleased.
"Every morning I took the child to his father, who sometimes would
kiss him and send him back to my lady, and sometimes would say:
"'You can leave him with me, Denise, for an hour.'
"Then he would take the child into the study, and lock the door, and
nurse and sing to him. I was in the habit of seeing him thus engaged
as I walked backwards and forwards in the grounds in front of the
study, waiting for his summons to carry master Christian to his
mother.
"His was not a happy childhood, for when he began ta speak and think,
the estrangement between his parents puzzled him deeply, and made him
sad. He was continually asking questions to which he received replies
which perplexed him more and more. With childlike, innocent cunning he
strove to draw them to each other. When he was with my lady, it was:
"'Mamma, why do you not go and speak to papa? There he is walking in
the garden. Come out with me, mamma--come quickly, or papa will be
gone.'
"And when he was with his father he would say:
"'Papa, I have a message for you.'
"'Yes, Christian,' my master would say.
"'You are to take hold of my hand, and come with me immediately to
mamma. Yes, papa, indeed, immediately! She wants to speak to you.'
"Mr. Almer knew that this was nothing but invention on the child's
part.
"What they learnt of each other's health and doings came through
Master Christian; it is very hard, my lady, to stop a child's innocent
prattle.
"'Papa, I wish to tell you something.'
"'Tell me, Christian.'
"'Mamma has a bad headache--such a bad, bad headache! I have been
smoothing her forehead with my hand, but it will not go away for me.
You cured my headache last week; come and cure mamma.'
"And at another time:
"'Papa, is not this beautiful?'
"'Yes, Christian, it is very pretty.'
"'Mamma painted it for me. Do you know, papa, she has painted me--yes,
my portrait, and has put it in a book. It is exactly like--you could
not tell it from me myself. Shall I ask her to give it to you--or will
you come and ask for it yourself?'
"With my lady it was the same.
"'Mamma, papa has been writing all day long. I peeped through the
window, and he looked so tired--just as you look sometimes. Now,
mamma, tell me--do you think papa is happy?'
"'Mamma, see what papa has given me--a musical-box! Only because I
said to him I should like a musical-box! Is he not good?'
"And so it went on day after day, week after week, but the child's
eager, anxious love brought them no nearer to each other.
"In the dark nights when the weather permitted, my lady walked in the
grounds. At first I offered to accompany her, but she refused my
company.
"'I will walk alone, Denise.'
"The servants used to say, as the moonlight fell on her white dress:
"'She looks like a white ghost.'
"And at other times:
"'She is like a white shadow moving in the moon's light.'
"Her husband was careful to keep out of her sight when she indulged in
these lonely rambles. They would not make the slightest advance to
each other.
"I must not forget to tell you what occurred about a month after this
estrangement. The duties of my attendance on my lady did not keep me
with her during the night unless she was ill, and was likely to
require my services. Generally I waited till I saw her abed and
asleep. She retired early, and this afforded me an opportunity of
looking after the room occupied by my husband and myself.
"I remember that on this night I drew the blind aside after I was
undressed, and looked toward my master's study. There were lights in
the windows, as usual. I was not surprised, for Mr. Almer frequently
sat up the whole night through.
"I went to bed, and soon fell asleep.
"Quite contrary to my usual habit, I woke up while it was dark, and
heard the sound of the clock striking the hour. I counted the strokes,
from one to twelve. It was midnight.
"I was such a good sleeper--seldom waking till the morning, when it
was time to get up--that I wondered to myself what it was that awoke
me. The striking of the clock? Hardly--for that was no new sound.
What, then? Gusts of wind were sweeping round the walls of the villa.
'Ah,' I thought, 'it was the wind that disturbed me;' and I settled
myself for sleep again, when suddenly another sound--an unusual one
this time--made me jump up in bed. The sound was like that of a heavy
object jumping, or falling, from a height within the grounds.
"'Can it be robbers,' I thought, 'who have climbed the gates, and
missed their footing?'
"The thought alarmed me, and I woke my husband, and told him what I
had heard. He rose, and looked out of the window.
"'Mr. Almer is up and awake,' said he. 'If there were any cause for
alarm he would not be sitting quietly in his study, poring over his
books. What you heard is the wind. Robbers, indeed! I pity the thief
who tries to pass our dogs; he would be torn to pieces. There! let me
get to sleep, and don't disturb me again with your foolish fancies;
and get to sleep yourself as quick as you can. Now your head is
stirring, you'll be imagining all sorts of things.'
"That was all the satisfaction I could get out of him; the next moment
he was fast asleep again.
"It was no easy thing for me to follow his example. I lay thinking and
thinking for an hour or more. I was glad my husband had mentioned the
dogs; in my alarm I had forgotten them. Martin was quite right. Any
stranger who attempted to pass them would have been torn to pieces.
"Well, but there _was_ somebody walking on the gravelpaths! I heard
soft footsteps crunching the stones, stepping cautiously, as though
fearful of disturbing the people in the house. These sounds came to my
ears between the gusts of wind, which were growing stronger and
stronger.
"I was on the point of rousing my husband again when it occurred to me
that it might be my master, who, restless as usual, was walking about
the grounds.
"This explanation quieted me, and I was soon asleep. For how long I
cannot say, for suddenly I found myself sitting up in bed, wide awake,
listening to the wind, which was shaking the house to its foundations.
And yet the impression was so strong upon me that it was not the storm
that had frightened me, that I went to the window and looked out,
expecting to see Heaven only knows what. Nothing was to be seen, and
presently I reasoned myself out of my fears, and was not again
disturbed during the night.
"In the morning a strange discovery was made. A servant came running
to me before I was dressed, with the information that our two dogs
were dead. I hurried to the kennel and saw their bodies stretched out,
cold and stiff.
"Mr. Almer was very fond of these dogs, and I went to him and told him
what had occurred. There was a strange, wild look in his eyes which I
attributed to want of sleep. But stranger than this weary, wild
expression was the smile on his lips when he heard the news.
"He followed me to the kennel, and stooped down.
"'They are quite dead, Denise,' he said.
"'Yes, sir,' I said, 'but who could have done such a cruel thing?'
"'The dogs have been poisoned,' he said, 'here is the meat that was
thrown to them. There is still some white powder upon it.'
"'Poisoned!' I cried. 'The wretches.'
"'Whoever did this deed,' said my master, 'deserved to die. It is as
bad as killing a human creature in cold blood.'
"'Are you sure, sir,' I said, 'there has been nothing stolen from the
house?'
"'You can go and see, Denise.'
"I made an examination of the rooms. Nothing had been taken from them.
I tried the door of my master's study to examine that room also, but
it was locked. When I returned my master was still kneeling by the
dogs.
"'It does not appear that anything has been taken,' I said, 'but the
sounds I heard in the night prove that there have been robbers here.'
"'What sounds did you hear?' asked my master, looking up.
"I told him of my alarm, and of my waking my husband, and of my
fancies.
"'Fancies!' he said; 'yes--it could have been nothing but imagination.
I have been up the whole night, and had there been an attempt at
robbery, I must surely have known it. Were any of the other servants
disturbed?"
"'No, sir.'
"I had already questioned them, but they had all slept soundly and had
heard nothing. I had been also with my lady for a few moments, but she
had not been disturbed during the night by anything but the howling of
the wind.
"'Let the matter rest,' said my master; 'it will be best. It is my
wish that you do not speak of it. The dogs are dead, and nothing can
restore them to life. Evil deeds carry their own punishment with them!
The next time you are frightened by fancies in the night, and see a
light in my study, you may be satisfied that all is well.'
"So the dogs were buried, and no action was taken to punish their
murderers; and in a little while the whole affair was forgotten."
CHAPTER X
CHRISTIAN ALMER'S CHILD-LIFE
"The years went by in the lonely villa without any change, except that
my lady grew into the habit of taking her walks in the grounds later
in the night. Not a word was exchanged between her and her husband;
had seas divided them they could not have been further apart from each
other.
"A dreadful, dreary monotony of days. The direction and control of the
house was left entirely to me; my master took not the slightest
interest in what was going on. I should have asked to be relieved from
the service, had it not been for my affection for my mistress. To live
with her--as I did for years, attending upon her daily--without loving
her was not possible. Her gentleness, her resignation, her resolution,
her patience, were almost beyond belief with those who were not
constant witnesses of her lonely, blameless, suffering life.
"She never wrote or received a letter. She severed herself entirely
from the world, and these rooms were her living grave.
"She loved her child, but she did not give way to any violent
demonstration of feeling. I observed, as the lad grew up, that he
became more and more perplexed by the relations which existed between
his parents. Had one or the other been unkind to him, he might have
been able to put a reasonable construction upon the estrangement, but
they were equally affectionate, equally tender towards him. He
continued to exercise the prettiest cunning to bring them together,
but without avail. Without avail, also, the entreaties he used.
"'Mamma, the sun is shining beautifully. Do come out with me and speak
to papa. Do, mamma, do! See, he is walking in the garden.'
"'Mamma, may I bring papa into your room? Say yes. I am sure he would
be glad.'
"'Papa, mamma is really very ill. I do so wish you would see her and
speak to her! There, papa, I have hold of your hand. Come, papa,
come!'
"It was heart-breaking to hear the lad, who loved both, who received
love from both.
"'Mamma,' he said, 'are you rich?'
"'In what way, dear child?' she asked, I have no doubt wondering at
his question; 'in money? Do you mean that?'
"'Yes, mamma, I mean that.'
"'We are not in want of money, Christian.'
"'Then you can buy whatever you want, mamma.'
"'I want very little, Christian.'
"'But if you wanted a great deal,' he persisted, 'you have money to
pay for it?'
"'Yes, Christian.'
"'And papa, too?'
"'Yes, and papa too.'
"'I can't make it out,' he said. 'Yesterday, I saw a poor little girl
crying. I asked her what she was crying for, and she said her mamma
was in great trouble because they had no money. I asked her if money
would make her mamma happy, and she said yes. Then why does it not
make you happy?'
"'Would you like some money, Christian,' said my lady, 'to give to
this poor girl's mamma?'
"'Yes, mamma.'
"Here is my purse. Denise will go with you at once.'
"We went to the cottage, and found that the family were in deep
distress. The father was in arrears with his rent, having been unable
to work, through illness, for a good many weeks; he was now strong
enough to return to his employment, but he was plunged into such
difficulties that all his courage had deserted him. The mother was
weak with overpowering anxiety, and the children were in want of food.
"I saw that the family were deserving of assistance, and I directed
Master Christian what to give them. He visited them daily for a week
and more, and the roses came back to the children's cheeks, and the
hearts of the father and mother were filled with hope and gladness.
"'Mamma,' said Master Christian, 'you have no idea how happy they
are--and all because I gave them a little money. They play and sing
together--yes, mamma, all of them; it is beautiful to see them. They
call me their good angel.'
"'I am very glad you have made them happy, my dear,' said my lady.
"'Mamma, they are happy because they love each other, and because they
laugh and sing together. Let me be your good angel, mamma, and papa's.
Tell me what to do, so that we may live like those poor people!'
"These were hard things for parents to hear, and harder because no
answers could be given to them.
"We went out for a stroll every fine day for an hour or so, and when
Master Christian saw a child walking between father and mother, who
smiled at each other and their little one, and spoke pleasantly and
kindly one to the other, his eyes would fill with tears. He would peep
through cottage windows--nay, he would go into the cottages, where he
was always welcome, and would furnish himself with proofs of domestic
happiness which never gladdened his heart in his own home. With scanty
food, with ragged clothes, the common peasant children were enjoying
what was denied to him.
"He had one especial friend, a delicate child, who at length was laid
on a bed of sickness from which he never rose. Master Christian, for a
few weeks before this child died, visited him daily in my company, and
took the poor little fellow many comforting things, for which the
humble family were very grateful. My young master would stand by the
bedside of the sick child, and witness, in silent pain, the evidences
of paternal love which lightened the load of the little sufferer.
"The day before the child died we approached the cottage, and Master
Christian peeped through the window. The child was dying, and by his
bedside sat the sorrowing parents. The man's arm was round the woman's
waist, and her head was resting on her husband's shoulder. We entered
the cottage, and remained an hour, and as we walked home Master
Christian said:
"'If I were dying, would my mamma and papa sit like that?'
"I could find no words to answer this question, which showed what was
passing in Master Christian's mind.
"'Cannot you tell me,' said Master Christian, 'whether my rich parents
would do for me what that little boy's poor parents are doing for him?
It is so very much, Denise--so very, very much! It is more than money,
for money is no use in Heaven, where he is going to. I wish my mamma
and papa had been poor; then they would have lived together and have
loved each other. Denise, tell me what it all means.'
"'Hush, Master Christian,' I said, trying to soothe him, for his
little bosom was swelling with grief. 'When you are a man you will
understand.'
"'I want to understand now--I want to understand now!' he cried.
'There is something very wicked about our house. I hate it--I hate
it!'
"And he stamped his foot, and broke into a fit of sobbing so charged
with sorrow that I could not help sobbing with him.
"Something of this must have reached his parents' ears, and how they
suffered only themselves could have known. My master grew thin and
wan; dark circles came round his eyes, and they often had a wild look
in them which made me fear he was losing his senses. And my lady
drooped and drooped, like a flower planted in unwholesome soil. Paler
and quieter she grew every day; sweeter and more resigned, if that
were possible, with every setting of the sun; so weak at last that she
could not take her walk in the grounds.
"Sitting by the window, looking at the lovely sky, she said to me one
peaceful evening:
"'I shall soon be there, Denise.'
"'Oh, my lady!' was all I could say.
"'It rejoices me to think,' she said, 'that this long agony is coming
to an end. I pray that the dear child I shall leave behind me will not
suffer as I have suffered, that his life may be happy, and his end be
peaceful. Denise, my mother is in that invisible spirit-land to which
I am going. When she sees me coming, will she not be frightened to
meet me? for, if it had not been for her, all this misery would have
been averted.'
"'My lady,' I said--so saint-like was her appearance that I could have
knelt to her, 'let me go to my master and bring him to you.'
"'He would not come,' she said, 'at your bidding, Denise. Has he not
been often entreated by our child?'
"Believing that this was a sign of relenting on her part, I said:
"'He knows that I dare not deceive him. He will come if I say you sent
for him.'
"'Perhaps, perhaps,' she said; 'but I would not have him come yet.
When I summon him here he will not refuse me.'
"'You will send for him one day, my lady?'
"'Yes, Denise, unless I die suddenly in my sleep--an end I have often
prayed for. But this great blessing may be denied to me.'
"Ah, how sad were the days! It fills me with grief, even now, to speak
of them. All kinds of strange notions entered my head during that
time. I used to think it would be a mercy if a terrible flood were to
come, or if someone would set fire to the villa. It would bring these
two unhappy beings together for a few minutes at least. But nothing
happened; the days were all alike, except that I saw very plainly that
my lady could not live through another summer. She was fading away
before my eyes.
"The end came at last, when Master Christian was nearly nine years
old."
CHAPTER XI
BEATRICE ALMER GIVES A PROMISE TO HER SON
"It was a spring morning, and my lady was alone. Master Christian was
in the woods with his father; he was to be home at noon, and my lady
was watching for him at her window.
"Exactly at noon the lad returned, beaming with delight; the hours he
spent with his father were memorable hours in his life.
"'You have enjoyed yourself, Christian,' said my lady, drawing her boy
to her side, and smoothing his hair. 'It does you good to go out with
papa.'
"'Yes, mamma,' said the lad, in his eager, excited voice. 'There is no
one in the world like papa--no man, I mean. He knows everything--yes,
mamma, everything! There isn't a thing you ask him that he can't tell
you all about it. We have had such a beautiful walk; the forests are
full of birds and squirrels. Papa knows the name of every bird and
flower. See, mamma, all these are wild flowers--papa helped me to
gather them, and showed me where some of the prettiest are to be
found. You should hear him talk about the flowers! He has told me such
wonderful, wonderful things about them! I believe they live, as we do,
and that they have a language of their own. Papa smiled when I said I
thought the flowers were alive, and he told me that the world was full
of the loveliest mysteries, and that, although men thought themselves
very wise, they really knew very little. Perhaps it is so--with all
men but papa. It is because he isn't vain and proud that he doesn't
set himself above other men. In the middle of the woods papa stopped
and said, as he waved his hand around, "This, Christian, is Nature's
book. Not all the wisdom of all the men in all the world could write
one line of it. That little bird flying in the air to the nest which
it has built for its young, and which is so small that I could hold it
in the palm of my hand, is in itself a greater and more marvellous
work than the united wisdom of all mankind shall ever be able to
produce." There, mamma, you would hardly believe that I should
remember papa's words; but I repeated them to myself over and over
again as we walked along--they sounded so wonderful! Mamma, are there
flowers in heaven?'
"'Yes, my dear,' she answered, gazing upwards, 'forever blooming.'
"'Then it is always summer there, mamma?'
"'Yes, dear child--it is the better land on which we dwell in hope.
Peace is there, and love.'
"'We shall all go there, mamma?'
"'Yes, dear child--one day.'
"'And shall live there in peace and love?'
"'Yes, Christian.'
"'Mamma,' said the child solemnly, 'I shall be glad when the day comes
on which you and papa and I shall be together there, in peace and
love. Mamma, you are crying. I have not hurt you, have I?'
"'No, dear child, no. To hear you speak gives me great joy.'
"'Ah, but I can't speak like papa. He has told me of that better
world, and though I can't understand all he says, I know it must be
very beautiful. Papa is a good man. I love him more than any other
man--and I love you, mamma, better than any other woman. Papa is a
good man, is he not, mamma?'
"'Yes, my child,' said my lady, 'your father is a good and a just
man.'
"My heart leapt into my throat as I heard her speak these words of her
husband. Was it possible that this dreadful estrangement was to end,
and that my master and his wife would at length be reconciled, after
all these weary years?
"My lady was lying back in her chair, gazing now at her boy, now at
the bright clouds which were floating in the heavens. Ah, my lady, if
we were but to follow God's teaching, and learn the lessons He sends
us every day and every hour, how much unhappiness should we be spared!
But it seems as if there was a wicked spirit within us which is
continually dropping poison into the fairest things, for the mere
pleasure of destroying their beauty and making us wretched.
"There was an angelic expression on my lady's face as she encouraged
her boy to speak of his father.
"'I have often wished to tell you,' said Master Christian, 'that papa
is not strong--not as strong as I am. He soon gets tired, while I can
run about all day. This morning he often stopped to rest, and once he
threw himself upon the ground, and fell fast asleep. I sat by his side
and listened to the birds, who were all so happy, while papa's face
was filled with pain. Yes, mamma, he was in great pain, and he sighed,
oh, so heavily! as though sleep was hurting him instead of doing him
good. And he spoke in his sleep, and his words made me tremble. "I
call God to witness"--that was what he said, mamma--"I call God to
witness that there was in my mind no design to do wrong." And then he
said something about sin and sorrow springing from the flower of
innocence. A bird was flying near us, stopping to look at us, and not
at all frightened, because I was so very, very quiet. "Little bird," I
whispered, "that my father could hold in the palm of his hand, do you
know what he is dreaming of, and will you, because he is my father and
a good man, do something to make him happy?" Oh, mamma, the bird at
that very moment began to sing, and papa smiled in his sleep, and all
the pain in his face disappeared. That bird, mamma, was a fairy-bird,
and knew that papa ought not to suffer. And presently papa awoke, and
folded me tight in his arms, and we sat there quite still, for a long,
long time, listening to the singing of the bird. Oh, mamma, mamma! why
will you not love papa as I do?'
"Who could resist such pleading? My lady could not.
"'My child,' she said, 'I will send for papa to-morrow.'
"'You will--you will!' cried the child. 'Oh, how glad I am! Papa will
be here to-morrow, and we shall live together as poor people do, and
be happy, as they are!' He sprang from her side, ready to fly out of
the room. 'Shall I go and tell papa now? Yes, I may, I may--say that I
may, mamma!'
"'Not till to-morrow, Christian. Come and sit quietly by me, and talk
to me.'
"He obeyed her, though it was difficult for him to control himself,
his joy was so great. He devised numberless schemes in which he and
his parents were to take part. They were to go here, and to go
there--always together. His friends were to be their friends, and they
were to share each other's pleasures. Rambles in the woods, hunting
for wild flowers, visits to poor cottages--he planned all these things
in the delight of his heart.
"So they passed the day, the mother and child, and when night came he
begged again to be allowed to go to his father and tell him what was
in store for him. But my lady was firm.
"'No, Christian,' she said, 'you must wait yet for a few hours. They
will soon pass away. You are tired, dear child. Go to bed and sleep
well.'
"Good mamma! beautiful mamma!' said the lad, caressing his mother and
stroking her face. 'I shall dream all night long of to-morrow!'
"She never kissed her child with deeper tenderness than she did on
this night. He knelt at her knees and said his prayers, and of his own
accord ended with the words: 'And make my papa and my mamma love each
other to-morrow!'
"'Good-night, dear child.'
"'Good-night, dear mamma. I want to-morrow to come quickly.
Good-night, Denise.'
"'Good-night, Master Christian.'
"In a few minutes he was asleep. Then my lady called me to her, and
spoke gratefully of the manner in which I had performed my services to
her.
"'You have been a good and faithful servant to me,' she said, 'and you
have helped to comfort me. Your duties have been difficult, and you
have performed them well.'
"'My lady,' I said sobbing; I could not keep back my tears, she was so
gracious and sweet. 'I have done nothing to deserve such thanks. If
what you have said to Master Christian comes true I shall be very
happy. Forgive me for asking, but is it really true that you will send
for my master to-morrow?'
"'It will be so, Denise, unless God in His mercy takes me to-night. We
are in His hands, and I wait for His summons. His will be done!
Denise, wear this cross in remembrance of me. I kiss it before I give
it to you--and I kiss you, Denise!'
"And as she put the cross round my neck, which she took from her own,
she kissed me on the lips. Her touch was like an angel's touch.
"Then she said, pointing to the posy which had been gathered in the
woods by her husband and her child:
"'Give me those flowers, you faithful woman.'
"Do not think me vain or proud for repeating the words she spoke to
me. They were very, very precious to me, and the sweetness has not
died out of them, though she who uttered them is dust.
"I gave her the flowers, and she held them to her heart, and
encouraged me to sit with her later than usual. Two or three times in
the midst of our conversation, she asked me to go to Master
Christian's room to see if he was asleep, and when I told her he was
sleeping beautifully, and that he looked like an angel, she smiled,
and thanked me.
"'He will grow into a noble man,' she said, 'and will, I trust, think
of me with tenderness. I often look forward and wonder what his life
will be.'
"'A happy one, I am sure,' I said.
"'I pray that it may be so, and that he will meet with a woman who
will truly and faithfully love him.'
"Then she asked me if there was a light in her husband's study, and
going out into the balcony to look, I said there was, and said,
moreover, that my master often sat up the whole night through, reading
and studying.
"'You have been in his service a long time, Denise,' said my lady.
"'Yes, my lady. I was born in this house, and my mother lived and died
here.'
"'Was your master always a student, Denise?'
"Always, my lady. Even when he was a boy he would shut himself up with
his books. He is not like other men. From his youngest days we used to
speak of him with wonder.'
"'He is very learned,' said my lady. 'How shall one be forgiven for
breaking up his life?'
"'Ah, my lady,' I said, 'if I dared to speak!'
"'Speak freely, Denise!'
"And then I described to her what a favourite my master was when he
was a lad, and how everybody admired him, although he held himself
aloof from people. I spoke of his gentleness, of his kindness, of his
goodness to the poor, whom he used to visit and help in secret. I told
her that never did woman have a more faithful and devoted lover than
my master was to her, nor a man with a nobler heart, nor one who stood
more highly in the world's esteem.
"She listened in silence, and did not chide me for my boldness, and
when I was done, she said she would retire to rest. But she was so
weak that she could scarcely rise from her chair.
"'I had best remain with you to-night, my lady,' I said; 'you may need
my services.'
"'It is not necessary," she said; 'I shall require nothing, and I
shall be better to-morrow.'
"I considered it my duty to make my master acquainted with his wife's
condition, but I did not tell him of her intention to ask him to come
to her to-morrow for fear that she should alter her mind. There had
been disappointment and vexation enough in the house, and I would not
add to it.
"I could not rest, I was so anxious about my lady, and an hour after I
was abed, I rose and dressed myself and went to her room. She was on
her knees, praying by the bedside of her child, and I stole softly
away without disturbing her.
"Again, later in the night, I went to her room. She was sleeping
calmly, but her breathing was so light that I could scarcely hear it.
In the morning I helped her to dress, and afterwards assisted her to
her favourite seat by the window.
"Master Christian was already up and about, and shortly after his
mother was dressed he came in loaded with flowers, to make the room
look beautiful, he said, on this happy day.
"It was a day he was never to forget."
CHAPTER XII
THE LAST MEETING BETWEEN HUSBAND AND WIFE
"The morning passed, and my lady made no sign. Master Christian,
flitting restlessly in and out and about the room, waited impatiently
for his mother's instructions to bring her husband to her. I offered
her food, but she could not eat it. On the previous day the doctor,
who regularly attended her, had said that his services were required
at a great distance from the villa, and that he should not be able to
visit my lady on the morrow. She had replied:
"'Do not trouble, doctor; you can do nothing for me.'
"And, indeed, there appeared to be no special necessity for his
presence. My lady was not in pain; she looked happy and contented. But
she was so quiet, so very, very quiet! Not a word of complaint or
suffering, not a moan, not a sigh. Why, therefore, did my heart sink
as I gazed at her?
"At length Master Christian was compelled to speak; he could no longer
control his impatience.
"'Mamma, do you like the way I have arranged the flowers? The room looks
pretty, does it not?'
"'Yes, my child.'
"'I wanted it to look very bright to-day. So did you, did you not,
mamma? Papa will be pleased when he comes.'
"'I hope so, my dear.'
"'And I shall tell him that it is not so every day, and that it is done
for him. Shall I go for him now?'
"'Presently, my dear. Wait yet a little while.'
"'But, mamma, it was to be to-day, you know, and it is nearly afternoon.
Just look at the clock, mamma, it is nearly two---- Ah, but you are
tired, and I am worrying you! Now I will sit quite still, and when the
clock strikes two, you shall tell me to go for papa. Say yes, or look
it, mamma.'
"'Yes, my dear, at two o'clock you shall go. Denise will accompany
you, for perhaps, Christian, your papa will think that the message
comes from your affectionate heart, and not from me.'
"'That,' said Master Christian,' is because I have tried to bring papa
to you before. But I did it out of love, mamma.'
"'I know, my dear, I know. If, when you were a little baby, and could
not speak or think of things, I had reflected, it might all have been
different. Perhaps I have been to blame.'
"'No, mamma, you shall not say that; I will not let you say that. You
can't do anything wrong, and papa can't do anything wrong. Now I shall
be quite still, and watch the clock, and I will not say another word
till it strikes.'
"He sat, as he had promised, quite still, with his eyes fixed on the
clock, and I saw by the motion of his lips that he was counting the
seconds. Slowly, oh, so slowly, the hands moved round till they
reached the hour, and then the silver chimes were heard. First, the
four divisions of the hour, then the hour itself. One, Two. In my ears
it was like the chapel bell calling the people to prayer.
"'Now, mamma!' cried Master Christian, starting up.
"She took his pretty face between her hands, and drew it close to
hers. She kissed his lips and his forehead, and then her hands fell to
her side.
"'May I go now, mamma?'
"He saw in her eyes that she was willing he should bring his father,
and he embraced her joyfully, and ran out of the room crying:
"'Come, Denise, come! Papa, papa!'
"He did not wait for me, and when I arrived at the study door, the
father and son were standing together, and Master Christian was trying
to pull my master along.
"'This little fellow here,' said my master, striving to speak
cheerfully, but his lips trembled, and his voice was husky, 'has a
strong imagination, and his heart is so full of love that it runs away
with his tongue.'
"'It does not, papa, it does not,' cried Master Christian very
earnestly. 'And it is not imagination. Mamma wants you to come and
love her.'
"My master turned his enquiring eyes to my face.
"'My lady wishes you to come to her, sir,' I said simply.
"I knew that the fewer words I spoke at such a time the better it
would be.
"He did not question me. He was satisfied that I spoke the truth.
"His agitation was great, and he walked a few steps from me, holding
Master Christian by the hand, and then stood still for quite a minute.
Then he stooped and kissed his son, and suffered himself to be led to
my lady's room.
"I followed them at a little distance, and remained outside my lady's
room, while they entered and closed the door behind them. It was not
right that any eyes but theirs should witness so sacred a meeting; but
though I denied myself the pleasure of being present, my heart was in
my ears. It was proper that I should be within call. In my lady's weak
state, my services might be required.
"From where I stood, I heard Master Christian's eager, happy voice:
"'Mamma, mamma--here is papa! He is come at last, mamma! Speak to him,
and love him, as I do! Papa, put your arms around mamma's neck, and
kiss her.'
"Then all was quiet--so quiet, so quiet! Not a sound, not a breath.
Ah, Holy Mother! I can _hear_ the silence now:--I can _feel_ it about
me! It was in this very room, and my lady was sitting in the chair in
which you are seated.
"Suddenly the silence was broken. My master was calling loudly for me.
"'Denise--Denise! Where are you? Come quickly, for God's sake!'
"Before the words were out of his lips, I was in the room. My master
was looking wildly upon his wife and child. The lad, with his arms
about his mother, was kissing her passionately, and crying over her.
"'Mamma, mamma! why do you not speak? Here is papa waiting for you.
Oh, mamma, say only one word!'
"'Is it true,' my master whispered to me, 'that your lady sent you for
me?'
"'It is true, sir,' I replied in a low tone.
"'What, then, is the meaning of this?' he asked, still in the same
unnatural whisper. 'I have spoken to her--she will not answer me. She
will not even look at me!'
"A sudden fear smote my heart. I stepped softly to my lady's side. I
gently unwound Master Christian's arms from his mother's neck. I took
her hand in mine, and pressed it. The pressure was not returned. Her
fingers, though still warm, were motionless.
"'What is it, Denise?' my master asked hoarsely. 'The truth--the
truth!'
"He read the answer in my eyes. We were gazing on the face of a dead
woman!
"Yes, she was dead, and no word had been exchanged between them--no
look of affection--no token of forgiveness. How truly, how
prophetically, had she spoken to her husband in their last interview
on this spot, eight years before! 'After this night I will never open
my lips to you, nor, willingly, will I ever again listen to your
voice!'
"From that hour to this he had never heard the sound of her voice, and
now that, after their long agony--for there is no doubt that his
sufferings were as great as hers--she had summoned him to her, she was
dead! Ah, if she had only lived to say:
"'Mine was the fault; it was not only I who was betrayed; let there be
peace and forgiveness between us!'
"Did she know, when she called him to her, that he would look upon her
dead face? Could she so measure her moments upon earth as to be
certain that her heart would cease to beat as he entered the room at
her bidding? No, it could not have been, for this premeditation would
have proclaimed her capable of vindictive passion. She was full of
tender feeling and sweet compassion, and the influence of her child
_must_ have softened her heart towards the man who had loved and
married her, and had done her no wrong.
"That she knew she was dying was certain, and she was willing--nay
more than willing, wishful to forgive and to ask forgiveness as she
stood upon the brink of another world. The sight of his worn and
wasted face may have shocked her and caused her sudden death. But it
remained a mystery whether she had seen him--whether her spirit had
not taken flight before her husband presented himself to her. It was a
question none could answer.
"I am aware that there are people who would say that my lady
deliberately designed this last bitter blow to her husband. My master
did not think so. When the first shock of his grief was spent, his
face expressed nothing but sorrow and compassion. He kissed her
once--on her forehead, not on her lips--and after her eyes were closed
and she lay, white and beautiful, upon her bed, he sat by her side the
whole of the day and night--for a great part of the time with Master
Christian in his arms.
"There were those in the villa who declared that on the night of her
death the white shadow of my lady was seen gliding about the grounds,
and from that day the place was supposed to be haunted. For my own
part I knew that these were foolish fancies, but you cannot reason
people out of them.
"The next day my master made preparations for the funeral. His strange
manner of conducting it strengthened the superstition. He would not
have any of his old friends at the funeral, although many wrote to
him. Only himself and Master Christian and the servants followed my
lady to her grave. He would not allow any black crape to be worn, and
all the female servants of the house were dressed in white.
"It caused a great deal of talk, a good many people saying that it was
a sinful proceeding on the part of my master, and that it was a sign
of joy at his wife's death. They must have been blind to the grief in
his face--so plainly written there that the tears came to my eyes as I
looked at it--when they uttered this slander. And yet, if the truth
were told, if it were deeply searched for among the ashes in his
heart, it is not unlikely that my master was sorrowfully grateful that
his wife's martyrdom was at an end. For her sake, not for his own, did
he experience this sad feeling of gratitude. It was entirely in
accordance with his stern sense of justice--in the exercise of which
he was least likely to spare himself of all people in the world--that,
while he was bowed down to the earth in grief, he should be glad that
his wife was dead.
"All kinds of rumours were afloat concerning the house and the family.
The gossips declared that on certain nights the grounds were filled
with white shadows, mournfully following each other in a long funeral
train. That is how the villa grew to be called The House of Shadows.
"It was like a tomb. Not a person was permitted to pass the gates. Not
a servant could be prevailed upon to stop. All of them left, with the
exception of Martin and myself, and my daughter, Dionetta's mother.
Dionetta was not born at the time. We were glad to take Fritz the Fool
into the place, to run of errands and do odd jobs. He was a young lad
then, an orphan, and has been hanging about ever since. But for all
the good he is, he might as well be at the other end of the world.
"The rumours spread into distant quarters, and one day a priest, who
had travelled scores of miles for the purpose of seeing my master,
presented himself at the gates, which were always kept locked by my
master's orders. I asked the priest what he wanted, and he said he
must speak to Mr. Almer. I told him that no person was admitted, and
that my master would see none, but he insisted that I should give his
errand. I did so, and my master accompanied me to the gates.
"'You have received your answer from my servant,' said my master. 'Why
do you persist in your attempts to force yourself upon me?'
"'My errand is a solemn one,' said the priest; 'I am bidden by Heaven
to come to you.'
"My master smiled scornfully. 'What deeds in my life,' he said, 'I
shall be called upon to answer for before a divine tribunal, concern
me, and me only. Were you an officer of justice you should be
admitted; but you are a priest, and I do not need you. I am my own
priest. Begone.'
"He was importunate, and was not so easily got rid of. Day after day,
for two weeks, he made his appearance at the gates, but he could not
obtain admittance, and at length he was compelled to forego his
mission, whatever it might have been, and to leave without having any
further speech with my master.
"Soon after he left, my master took Master Christian to school, at a
great distance from the village, and returning alone, resumed his
solitary habits.
"How well do I remember the evening on which he desired me not to
disturb him on any account whatever, and to come to his study at four
o'clock on the afternoon of the following day. At that hour, I knocked
at the door, and received no answer. I knocked several times, and,
becoming alarmed, tried the handle of the door. It was unlocked, and I
stepped into the study, and said:
"'It is I, sir, Denise; you bade me come at this hour.'
"I spoke to deaf ears. On the floor lay my master stone dead!
"He had not killed himself; he died a natural death, and must have
been forewarned that his moments on earth were numbered.
"That is all I have to tell, my lady."
CHAPTER XIII
THE ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER
"And you have really told it very well, Mother Denise," said the
Advocate's wife; "with such sentiment, and in such beautiful language!
It is a great talent: I don't know when I have been so interested.
Why, in some parts you actually gave me the creeps! And here is
Dionetta, as white as a lily. What a comfort it must have been to the
poor lady to have had a good soul like you about her! If such a
misfortune happened to me, I should like to have just such a servant
as you were to her."
"Heaven forbid, my lady," said Mother Denise, raising her hands, "that
such an unhappy lot should be yours!"
"Well, to tell you the truth," said Adelaide, with a bright
smile, "I do not think it at all likely to happen. Of course,
there is no telling what one might have to go through. Men are
such strange creatures, and lead such strange lives! They may do
anything--absolutely anything!--fight, gamble, make love without the
least sincerity, deceive poor women and forsake them--yes, they may do
all that, and the world will smile indulgently upon them. But if one
of us, Mother Denise, makes the slightest trip, dear me! what a fuss
is made about it--how shocked everybody is! A perfect carnival for the
scandal-mongers! 'Isn't it altogether too dreadful.' 'Did you ever
hear of such a thing?' 'Would you have believed it of her?' That is
what is said by all sorts of people. But if _I_ happened to be treated
badly I should not submit to it tamely--nor between you and me, Mother
Denise, in my opinion, did the lady whose story you have just
related."
"Everything occurred," said Mother Denise stiffly, "exactly as I have
described it."
"With a small allowance," said Adelaide archly, "for exaggeration, and
with here and there a chapter left out. Come, you must admit that!"
"I have omitted nothing, my lady. I am angry with myself for having
told so much. I doubt whether I have not done wrong."
"Mr. Christian Almer, whom I expect every minute"--and Adelaide looked
at her watch--"would have been seriously annoyed with you if you had
not satisfied my curiosity. Where is the harm? To be living here, with
such an interesting tale untold, would have been inexcusable,
perfectly inexcusable. But I am certain that you have purposely passed
over more than one chapter, and I admire you for it. It is highly to
your credit not to have told all you know, though it could hurt no one
at this distance of time."
"What do you think I have concealed, my lady?"
"There was a certain M. Gabriel," said Adelaide, "who played a most
important part in the story--a good many people would say, the most
important part. If it had not been for him, there would have been no
story to tell worth the hearing; there would have been no quarrel
between husband and wife, and the foolish young lady would not have
died, and I should not be here, listening to her story, and ready to
cry my eyes out in pity for her. M. Gabriel must have been a very
handsome young fellow, or there would not have been such a fuss made
about him. There! I declare you have never even given me a description
of him. Of course he was handsome."
She was full of vivacity, and as she leaned forward towards the old
housekeeper, it appeared as if, in her estimation, nothing connected
with the story she had heard was of so much importance as this
question, which she repeated anxiously, "Tell me, Mother Denise, was
he handsome?"
"He was exceedingly good-looking," Mother Denise was constrained to
reply, "but not so distinguished in his bearing as my unhappy master."
"Tall?"
"Yes, tall, my lady."
"Dark or fair? But I think you gave me the impression that he was
dark."
"Yes, my lady, he was dark," replied Mother Denise, coldly, more and
more displeased at the frivolity of the questions.
"And young, of course--much younger than Mr. Almer?"
"Much younger, my lady."
"There would be no sense in the matter otherwise; anyone might guess
that he was young and handsome and fascinating. Well, as I was about
to say--I hope you will forgive me for flying off as I do; my head
gets so full of ideas that they tumble over one another--all at once
this M. Gabriel drops clean out of the story, and we hear nothing more
of him. If there is one thing more inexplicable than another in the
affair, it is that nothing more should be heard of M. Gabriel."
"We live out of the gay world, my lady; far removed from it, I am
happy to think. It is not at all strange that in this quiet village we
should not know what became of him."
"That is assuming that M. Gabriel went back into the gay world, as you
call it, which is not such a bad place, I assure you, Mother Denise."
"He could not have stopped in the village, my lady, without its being
known."
"Probably not; but, you dear old soul!" said Adelaide, her manner
becoming more animated as that of Mother Denise became more frigid,
"you dear old soul, they always come back! When lovers are dismissed,
as M. Gabriel was, they always come back. They think they never
will--they vow they never will--but they cannot help themselves. They
are not their own masters. It is the story of the moth and the candle
over again."
"You mean, my lady," said Mother Denise, very gravely, "that M.
Gabriel returned to the villa."
"That is my meaning exactly. What else could he do?"
"I will not say whether I am glad or sorry to disappoint you, my lady,
but M. Gabriel, after the summer-house was barred up, never made his
appearance again in the village."
"Of course, under the circumstances, he could not show himself to
everybody. It was necessary that he should be cautious. He had to come
quietly--secretly, if you like."
"He never came, my lady," said Mother Denise, with determination.
"But he wrote, and sent his letters by a confidential messenger; he
did that at least."
"I told you, my lady, that while my poor mistress lived in these rooms
she never received or wrote a letter."
"If that is so, his letters to her must have been intercepted."
"There were no letters," said Mother Denise, stubbornly.
"There were," said Adelaide, smiling a reproof to Mother Denise. "I
know the ways of men better than you do."
"By whom, my lady, do you suppose these imaginary letters were
intercepted?"
"By her husband, of course, you dear, simple soul!"
"Mr. Almer could not have been guilty of such an act."
The Advocate's wife gazed admiringly at the housekeeper. "Dionetta,"
she exclaimed, "never be tempted to betray your mistress's secrets;
take pattern by your grandmother."
"She might do worse, my lady," said Mother Denise, still unbending.
"Indeed she might. I am thinking of something. On the night you were
aroused from your sleep, and heard the sound of a man falling to the
ground----"
"I only fancied it was a man, my lady; we never learnt the truth."
"It was a man, and he climbed the wall. And he chose a dark and stormy
night for his adventure. He was a brave fellow. I quite admire him."
"Admire a thief!" exclaimed Mother Denise, in horror.
"My dear old soul, you _must_ know it was not a thief. The house was
not robbed, was it?"
"No, my lady, nothing was taken; but what is the use of speaking of
it?"
"When once I get an idea into my head," said Adelaide, "it carries me
along, whether I like it or not. So, then--some time after you heard a
man falling or jumping from the wall, you heard the sound of someone
walking in the paths outside. He was fearful of disturbing anyone in
the house, and he trod very, very softly. I should have done just the
same. Now can't you guess the name of that man?"
"No, my lady, it was never discovered. He was a villain, whoever he
was, to poison our dogs."
"That was a small matter. What is the life of a dog--of a thousand
dogs--when a man is in love?"
"My lady!" cried Mother Denise. "What is it you are saying?"
"Nothing will deter him," continued Adelaide, with an intense
enjoyment of the old woman's uneasiness, "nothing will frighten him,
if he is brave and earnest, as M. Gabriel was. You dear old soul, the
man you heard in the grounds that night was M. Gabriel, and he came to
see your mistress--perhaps to carry her off! This window is not very
high; I could almost jump from it myself."
Mother Denise pressed her hand to her side, as though to relieve a
sudden pain; her face was white with a newly born apprehension.
"Do you really believe, my lady," she asked in trembling tones, "that
M. Gabriel would have dared to enter the grounds in the dead of night,
like a thief, after what had occurred?"
"I certainly believe it; it was the daring of a lover, not of a thief.
Were any traces of blood discovered in the grounds?"
"None were discovered; but if blood was spilt, the rain would have
washed it away."
"Or it could have been wiped away in the dark night!"
"Is it possible," said Mother Denise under her breath, "that you can
be right, and that my master and M. Gabriel met on that night!"
"The most probable occurrence in the world," said Adelaide, with a
pleasant smile. "What should have made your old master so anxious that
you should not speak of the sounds you heard? He had a motive, depend
upon it."
Mother Denise, who had sunk into a chair in great agitation, suddenly
rose, and said abruptly:
"My lady, this is very painful to me. Will you allow me to go?"
"Certainly; do not let me detain you a moment. I cannot express to you
the obligations you have laid me under by relating the history of this
house and family. There is nothing more to do in these rooms, I
believe. How very, very pretty they look! We must do everything in our
power to make the place pleasant to the young master who is coming.
But I think I can promise he will be happy here."
Not even Adelaide's smiles and good-humour could smooth Mother
Denise's temper for the rest of the day.
"Mark my words, Martin," she said to her husband, "something wrong
will happen before the Advocate and his fine lady leave the villa. She
has put such horrible ideas into my head! Ah, but I will not think of
them; it is treason, rank treason! We shall rue the day she came among
us."
"Ha, ha!" chuckled the old man slyly. "You're jealous, Denise, you're
jealous! She is the pleasantest lady, and the sweetest spoken, and the
most generous, and the handsomest, for twenty miles round. The whole
village is in love with her."
"And you as well as the rest, I suppose," snapped Mother Denise.
"I don't say that--I don't say that," piped Martin, with a childish
laugh. "Never kiss and tell, Denise, never kiss and tell! If I was
young and straight----"
"But you're old and crooked," retorted Mother Denise, "and your mind's
going, if it hasn't gone already. You grow sillier and sillier every
day."
A reproach the old man received with gleeful laughs and tiresome
coughs. His worship of the beautiful lady was not to be lightly
disturbed.
"The sweetest and the handsomest!" he chuckled, as he hobbled away,
at the rate of half a mile an hour. "I'd walk twenty mile to serve
her--twenty mile--twenty mile!"
"And this is actually the room," said Adelaide, walking about it, "in
which that poor lady spent so many unhappy years! Her prison! Her
grave! Dionetta, my pretty one, when the chance of happiness is
offered to you, do not throw it away. Life is short. Enjoy it. A great
many people moralise and preach, but if you were to see what they do,
and put it in by the side of what they say, you would understand what
fools those people must be who believe in their moralising and
preaching. The persecuted lady whose story your grandmother has told
us--what happiness did she enjoy in her life? None. Do you know why,
Dionetta? Because it was life without love. Love is life's sunshine.
Better to be dead than to live without it! Hark! Is not that a
carriage driving up at the gates?"
She ran swiftly from the room, down the stairs, into the grounds. The
gates were thrown open. A young man, just alighted, came towards her.
She ran forward to meet him, with outstretched hands, with face
beaming with joy. He took her hands in his.
"Welcome, Mr. Almer," she said aloud, so that those around her could
hear her. "You have had a pleasant journey, I hope." And then, in a
whisper, "Christian!"
"Adelaide!" he said, in a tone as low as hers.
"Now I am the happiest woman!" she murmured. "It is an eternity since
I saw you. How could you have kept away from me so long?"
_BOOK IV.--THE BATTLE WITH CONSCIENCE_
CHAPTER I
LAWYER AND PRIEST
It happened that certain persons had selected this evening as a
suitable occasion for a friendly visit to the House of White Shadows;
Jacob Hartrich, the banker, was one of these. The banker was
accompanied by his wife, a handsome and dignified woman, and by his
two daughters, whose personal attractions, enhanced by their father's
wealth and their consequent expectations, would have created a
sensation in fashionable circles. Although in his religious
observances Jacob Hartrich was by no means orthodox, he did not
consider himself less a true Jew on that account. It is recognised by
the most intelligent and liberal-minded of his race in the civilised
countries of the world that the carrying-out of the Mosaic law in its
integrity would not only debar them from social relations, but would
check their social advancement. It is a consequence of the recognition
of this undoubted fact that the severe ordinances of the Jewish
religion should become relaxed in their fulfilment. Jacob Hartrich was
a member of this band of reformers, and though his conscience
occasionally gave him a twinge, he was none the less devoted, in a
curiously jealous and illogical spirit, to the faith of his
forefathers, to which he clung with the greater tenacity because his
daily habits compelled him to act, to some extent, in antagonism with
the decrees they had laid down.
Master Pierre Lamont was also at the villa. His bodily ailments were
more severe than usual, and the jolting over the rough roads, as he
was drawn from his house in his hand-carriage, had caused him
excruciating suffering. He bore it with grins and grimaces, scorning
to give pain an open triumph over him. Fritz was not by his side to
amuse him with his humour; the Fool was at the court, on this last day
of Gautran's trial, as he had been on every previous day, hastening
thence every evening to Pierre Lamont, to give him an account of the
day's proceedings.
Father Capel was there--a simple and learned ecclesiastic, with a
smile and a pleasant greeting for old and young, for rich and poor
alike. A benevolent, sweet-natured man, who, when trouble came to his
door, received it with cheerful resignation; universally beloved; a
man whose course through life was strewn with flowers of charity and
kindness.
The visit of these and other guests was unexpected by Adelaide, and
she inwardly resented the interruption to a contemplated quiet evening
with Christian Almer; but outwardly she was all affability.
The principal topic of conversation was the trial of Gautran, and
Pierre Lamont was enthusiastic on the theme.
"The trial will end this evening," he said, "and intellect will
triumph."
"Truth, I trust, will triumph," said Jacob Hartrich, gravely.
"Intellect is truth's best champion," said Pierre Lamont. "But some
mortals believe themselves to be omniscient, and set up a standard of
truth which is independent of proof. I understood that you were to
have been on the jury at the trial."
"I was excused," said Jacob Hartrich, "on the ground that I had
already formed so strong a view of the guilt of the prisoner that no
testimony could affect it."
"Decidedly," observed Pierre Lamont, "an unfit frame of mind to take
part in a judicial inquiry of great difficulty. For my own part, I
would willingly have given a year of my life, which cannot have too
many years to run, to have been able to be in Geneva these last few
days. It will be long before another trial so celebrated will take
place in our courts."
"I am happy to think so."
"It has always been a puzzle to me," said Adelaide, whose feelings
towards Pierre Lamont were of the most contradictory character--now
inclining her to be exceedingly partial to him, now to detest
him--"how such vulgar cases can excite the interest they do."
"It is surprising," was Pierre Lamont's comment, "that the wife of an
Advocate so celebrated should express such an opinion."
"There are stranger things than that in the world, Master Lamont."
"Truly, truly," said Pierre Lamont, regarding her with curiosity; "but
cannot you understand how even these vulgar cases become, at least for
a time, great and grand when the highest qualities of the mind are
engaged in unravelling the threads which bind them?"
"No, I cannot understand it," she replied with an amiable smile. "I
believe that you lawyers are only happy when people are murdering and
robbing each other."
"My friend the Advocate," said Pierre Lamont, bending gallantly, an
exertion which sent a twinge of pain through his body, "is at least
happy in one other respect--that of being the husband of a lady whom
none can see without admiring--if I were a younger man I should say
without loving."
"Pierre Lamont," said Jacob Hartrich, "gives us here a proof that love
and law can go hand in hand."
"Nay," said Pierre Lamont, whose eyes and mind were industriously
studying the face of his beautiful hostess, "such proof from me is not
needed. The Advocate has supplied it, and words cannot strengthen the
case."
And he waved his hand courteously towards Adelaide.
These compliments were not wasted upon her, and Pierre Lamont laughed
secretly as he observed their effect.
"You are worth studying, fair dame," he thought, "with your smiling
face, and your heart of vanity, and your lack of sympathy with your
husband's triumphs. If not with his triumphs, then not with him!
Feeling you _must_ have, though it is born of selfishness. Ah! the
curtain is drawn aside. Which one, which one, you beautiful animal?"
His eyes travelled from one to the other in the room, until they fell
upon Christian Almer, whose eyes at that moment met those of Adelaide.
"Ah!" and he drew a deep breath of enjoyment. "Are you the favoured
one, my master of this House of Shadows! Then we must take you into
the game, for it cannot be played without you."
The old lawyer was in his element, probing character and motive, and
submitting them to mental analysis. Physically he was helpless amidst
the animated life around him; curled up in his invalid chair he was
dependent for every movement upon his fellow-creatures; despite his
intellect, he was at the mercy of a hind; but he was nevertheless the
strongest man in all that throng, the man most to be feared by those
who had anything to conceal, any secret which it behoved them to hide
from the knowledge of men.
"How such vulgar cases," he said aloud, to the astonishment of the
Advocate's wife, who deemed the subject dismissed, "can excite the
interest they do! It surprises you. But there is not one of these
cases which does not contain elements of human sympathy and affinity
with ourselves. This very case of Gautran--what is its leading
feature? Love--the theme of minstrel and poet, the sentiment without
which human and divine affairs would be plunged into darkness. Crimes
for which Gautran is being tried are caused by the human passions and
emotions which direct our own movements. The balance in our favour is
so heavy when our desires and wishes clash with the desires and wishes
of other men, that we easily find justification for our misdeeds.
Father Capel is listening to me with more than ordinary attention. He
perceives the justice of my argument."
"We travel by different roads," said Father Capel. "You do not take
into account the prompting of evil spirits, ever on the alert to
promote discord and instigate to crime. It is that consideration which
makes me tolerant of human error, which makes me pity it, which makes
me forgive it."
"I dispute your spiritual basis. All motive for crime springs from
within ourselves."
"Nay, nay," gently remonstrated Father Capel.
"Pardon me for restraining you. I was about to say that not only does
all motive for human crime spring from within ourselves, but all
motive for human goodness as well. If your thesis that evil spirits
prompt us to crime is correct, it must be equally correct that good
spirits prompt us to deeds of mercy, and charity, and kindness. Then
there is no merit in performing a good action. You rob life of its
grace, and you virtually declare that it is an injustice to punish a
man for murdering his fellow-creature. Plainly stated, you establish
the doctrine of irresponsibility. I will not do you the injustice of
believing that you are in earnest. Your tolerance of human error, and
your pity and forgiveness for it, spring from natural kindliness, as
my tolerance of it, and my lack of pity and forgiveness for it, spring
from a natural hardness of heart, begot of much study of the weakness,
perverseness, and selfishness of my species. In the rank soil of these
imperfections grows that wondrous, necessary tree known by the name of
Law, whose wide-spreading branches at once smite and protect. You may
thank this tree for preserving to some extent the decencies of
society."
"Well expressed, Pierre Lamont," said Jacob Hartrich approvingly. "I
regret that the Advocate is not present to listen to your eloquence."
"Ah," said Pierre Lamont, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, "does
your endorsement spring from judgment or self-interest?"
"You strike both friend and foe," said Father Capel, with much
gentleness. "It is as dangerous to agree with you as to dissent from
you. But in your extravagant laudation of the profession of which you
are a representative you lose sight of a mightier engine than Law,
towering far above it in usefulness, and as a protection, no less than
a solace to mankind. Without Religion, Law would be powerless, and the
world a world of wild beasts. It softens, humanizes----"
"Invents," sneered Pierre Lamont, with undisguised contempt, "fables
which sober reason rejects."
"If you will have it so, yes. Fables to divert men's minds from sordid
materialism into purer channels. Be thankful for Religion if you
practise it not. In the Sabbath's holy peace, in the hush and calm of
one day out of the turbulent seven, in the influences which touch you
closely, though you do not acknowledge them, in the restraint imposed
by fear, in the charitable feelings inspired by love, in the unseen
spirit which softens and subdues, in the yearning hope which chastens
grief when one dear to you is lost, lie the safeguard of your days and
much of the happiness you enjoy. So much for your body. For your soul,
I will pray to-night."
"Father Capel," said Pierre Lamont in a voice of honey, "if all
priests were like you, I would wear a hair-shirt to-morrow."
"What need, my son," asked Father Capel, "if you have a conscience?"
"Let me pay for my sins," said Pierre Lamont, handing his purse to the
priest.
Father Capel took a few francs from the purse. "For the poor," he
said. "In their name I bless you!"
"The priest has the best of it," said Adelaide to Christian Almer. "I
hate these dry arguments! It is altogether too bad that I should be
called upon to entertain a set of musty old men. How much happier we
should be, we two alone, even in the mountains where you have been
hiding yourself from me!"
"You are in better health and spirits," said Jacob Hartrich, drawing
Almer aside, "than when I last saw you. The mountain air has done you
good. It is strange to see you in the old house; I thought it would
never be opened again to receive guests."
"It is many years since we were together under this roof," said
Christian Almer thoughtfully.
"You were so young at the time," rejoined the banker, "that you can
scarcely have a remembrance of it."
"My remembrance is very keen. I could have been scarcely six years of
age, and we had no visitors. I remember that my curiosity was excited
because you were admitted."
"I came on business," said Jacob Hartrich, and then, unwilling to
revive the sad reminiscences of the young man's childhood, he said
abruptly: "Almer, you should marry." His eyes wandered to his two
comely daughters.
"What is that you are saying?" interposed the Advocate's wife; "that
Mr. Almer should marry? If I were a man--how I wish I were!--nothing,
nothing in the world would tempt me to marry. I would live a life
without chain or shackle."
"So, so, my fair dame," thought Pierre Lamont, who had overheard this
remark. "Bright as you appear, there is a skeleton in your cupboard.
Chains and shackles! But you are sufficiently self-willed to throw
these off." And he said aloud: "Can you ascertain for me if Fritz the
Fool has returned from Geneva?"
"Certainly," replied Adelaide, and Dionetta being in the room, she
sent her out to inquire.
"If he has returned," said Pierre Lamont, "the trial is over. I miss
the fool's nightly report of the proceedings, which he has given me
regularly since the commencement of the inquiry."
"If the trial is over," said Christian Almer, "the Advocate should be
here."
"You need not expect him so soon," said Pierre Lamont; "after such
exertion as he has gone through, an hour's solitude is imperative.
Besides, Fritz can travel faster than our slow-going horses; he is as
fleet as a hare."
"A favourite of yours, evidently."
"I have the highest respect for him. This particular fool is the
wisest fool in my acquaintance."
Dionetta entered the room with Fritz at her heels.
"Well, Fritz," called out Pierre Lamont, "is the trial over?"
"Yes, Master Lamont, and we're ready for the next."
"The verdict, Fritz, the verdict?" eagerly inquired Pierre Lamont, and
everybody in the room listened anxiously for the reply.
"If I were a bandy-legged man," said Fritz, ignoring the question, "I
would hire some scoundrel to do a deed, so that you might be on one
side and my lord the Advocate on the other. Then we should witness a
fine battle of brains."
"Come, Fritz--the verdict!" repeated Pierre Lamont impatiently.
"On second thoughts," said Fritz quietly, "you would be no match for
the greatest lawyer living. I would not have you on my side. It is as
well that your pleading days are ended."
"No fooling, Fritz. The verdict; Acquitted?"
"What else? Washed white as driven snow."
"I knew it would be so," cried the old lawyer triumphantly. "How was
it received?"
"The town is mad about it. The women are furious, and the men
thunderstruck. You should have heard the speech! Such a thing was
never known. Men's minds were twisted inside out, and the jury were
convinced against their convictions. Why, Master Lamont, even Gautran
himself for a few minutes believed himself to be innocent!"
"Enough," said Christian Almer sternly. "Leave the room."
Fritz darted a sharp look at the newly returned master, and with a low
bow quitted the apartment. The next moment the Advocate made his
appearance, and all eyes were turned towards him.
CHAPTER II
THE WHITE SHADOW
He entered the room with a cloud upon his face. Gautran's horrible
confession had deeply moved him, and, almost for the first time in his
life, he found himself at fault. His heart was heavy, and his mind was
troubled; but he had never yet lost his power of self-control, and the
moment he saw his guests the mask fell over his features, and they
assumed their usual tranquil expression. He greeted one and another
with calmness and courtesy, leaving his wife and Christian Almer to
the last.
"I am happy to tell you, Adelaide," he said, "that the trial is over."
"Oh, we have already had the news," she said coldly. "Fool Fritz has
given us a glowing account of it, and the excitement the verdict
created."
"Did it create excitement?" he asked. "I was not aware of it."
"I take no interest in such cases, as you are aware," she rejoined.
"You knew the man was innocent, or you would not have defended him. It
is a pity the monster is set free."
"Last, but not least," said the Advocate, turning to Christian Almer,
and cordially pressing his hand. "Welcome, and again welcome! You have
come to stay?"
Adelaide answered for him:
"Certainly he has: I have his promise."
"That is well," said the Advocate. "I am glad to see you looking so
bright, Christian."
"You have not derived much benefit from your holiday," said Christian
Almer, gazing at the Advocate's pale face. "Was it wise to take upon
yourself the weight of so harassing a trial?"
"Do we always do what is wise?" asked the Advocate, with a smile in
which there was no light.
"But seldom, I should say," replied Almer. "I once had great faith in
the power of Will; but I am beginning to believe that we are as
completely slaves to independent forces as feathers in a fierce wind:
driven this way or that in spite of ourselves. Not inward, but outward
magnetism rules us. Perhaps the best plan is to submit without a
struggle."
"Of course it is," said Adelaide with a bright look, "if it is
pleasant to submit. It is ridiculous to make one's head ache over
things. I can teach you, in a word, a wiser lesson than either of you
have ever learnt."
"What is that word, Adelaide?" asked the Advocate.
"Enjoy," she replied.
"A butterfly's philosophy. What say you, Christian? Shall we follow
the teaching of this Solon in petticoats?"
"May I join you?" said Pierre Lamont, who had caused himself to be
drawn to this group. "My infirmities make me a privileged person, and
unless I thrust myself forward, I might be left to languish like a
decrepit spider in a ruined web."
"Ill-natured people," remarked Adelaide, "might say that your figure
of speech is a dangerous one for a lawyer to employ."
"Fairest of dames," said Pierre Lamont, "your arrows are sugar-tipped;
there is no poison in them. Use me as your target, I beg. You put new
life into this old frame."
"The old school can teach the new," said Christian Almer. "You should
open a class of gallantry, Master Lamont."
"I! with my useless limbs! You mock me!"
"He will not allow me to be angry with him," said Adelaide, smiling on
the lawyer.
Then Pierre Lamont drew the Advocate into a conversation on the trial
which the Advocate would gladly have avoided, could he have done so
without being considered guilty of a breach of courtesy. But Pierre
Lamont was not a man to be denied, and the Advocate was fain to answer
the questions put to him until the old lawyer was acquainted with
every detail of the line of defence.
"Excellent--excellent!" he exclaimed. "A masterstroke! You do not
share my enthusiasm," he said, addressing Jacob Hartrich, who had
stood silently by, listening to the conversation. "You have no
understanding of the intense, the fierce delight of such a battle and
such a victory."
"The last word is not spoken here on earth," said Jacob Hartrich.
"There is a higher tribunal."
"Well said, my son," said Father Capel.
"Son!" said Pierre Lamont to the banker, with a little scornful laugh.
"Resent the familiarity, man of another faith."
"Better any faith than none," warmly remarked Jacob Hartrich,
cordially taking the hand which Father Capel held out to him.
"Good! good! good!" cried Pierre Lamont. "I stand renounced by church
and synagogue."
"You are uncharitable only to yourself," said Father Capel. "I, for
one, will not take you at your word."
Pierre Lamont lowered his eyes. "You teach me humility," he said.
"Profit by it," rejoined Father Capel.
"You formed the opinion that Gautran was guilty," said Pierre Lamont
to the banker. "Upon what evidence?"
"Inward conviction," briefly replied Jacob Hartrich.
"You, at least," said Pierre Lamont, turning his wily face to Father
Capel, "although you look at human affairs through Divine light, have
a respect for the law."
"Undoubtedly," was the reply.
"But this man of finance," said Pierre Lamont, "would destroy its very
fabric when it clashes with his inward conviction. Argue with him, and
your words fall against a steel wall, impenetrable to logic, reason,
natural deduction, and even common sense--and behind this wall lurks a
self-sufficient imp which he calls Inward Conviction. Useful enough,
nay, necessary, in religion, for it needs no proof. Faith answers for
all. Accept, and rest content. I congratulate you, Jacob Hartrich. But
does it not occur to you that others, besides yourself, may have
inward convictions antagonistic to yours, and that occasionally theirs
may be the true conviction and yours the false? Our friend the
Advocate, for instance. Do you think it barely possible that he would
have undertaken the defence of Gautran unless he had an inward
conviction, formed upon a sure foundation, that the man was innocent
of the crime imputed to him?"
It was with some indignation that Jacob Hartrich replied, "That a man
of honour would voluntarily come forward as a defender under any
conditions than that of the firmest belief in the prisoner's innocence
is incredible."
"We agree upon this point I am happy to know, and upon another--that
in the profession to which I have the honour to belong, there are men
whose actions are guided by the highest and finest principles, and
whose motives spring from what I conceive to be the most ennobling of
all impulse, a desire for justice."
"Who can doubt it?"
"How, then, stands the case as between you and my brother the
Advocate? You have an inward conviction of Gautran's guilt--he an
inward conviction of Gautran's innocence. Up to a certain time you and
he are on an equality; your knowledge of the crime is derived from
hearsay and newspaper reports. Upon that evidence you rest; you have
your business to attend to--the value of money, the fluctuations of
the Exchanges, the public movements which affect securities, in
addition to the anxieties springing from your private transactions.
The Advocate cannot afford to depend upon hearsay and the newspapers.
It is his business to investigate, to unearth, to bring together the
scattered bones and fit them one with another, to reason, to argue, to
deduce. As all the powers of your mind are brought to bear upon your
business, which is money, so all the powers of his mind are brought to
bear upon his, which is Gautran, in connection with the crime of which
he stands accused. His inward conviction of the man's innocence is
strengthened no less by the facts which come to light than by the
presumptive evidence he is enabled by his patience and application to
bring forward in favour of his client. You and he are no longer on an
equality. He is a man informed, you remain in ignorance. He has
dissected the body, and all the arteries of the crime are exposed to
his sight and judgment. You merely raise up a picture--a dark night, a
river, a girl vainly struggling with her fate, a murderer (with veiled
face) flying from the spot, or looking with brutal calmness upon his
victim. That is the entire extent of your knowledge. You seize a
brush--you throw light upon the darkness--you paint the river and the
girl--you paint the portrait of the murderer, Gautran. All is clear to
you. You have formed your own court of justice, imagination affords
the proof, and prejudice is the judge. It is an easy and agreeable
task to find the prisoner guilty. You are satisfied. You believe you
have fulfilled a duty, whereas you have been but a stumbling-block in
the path of justice."
"Notwithstanding which," said Jacob Hartrich, who had thoroughly
recovered his good humour, "I have as firm a conviction as ever in the
guilt of Gautran the woodman."
"Admonish this member of a stiff-necked race, Father Capel," said
Pierre Lamont, "and tell him why reason was given to man."
Earnest as the old lawyer was in the discussion, and apparently
engaged in it to the exclusion of all other subjects, he had eyes and
ears for everything that passed in the room. Retirement from the
active practice of his profession had by no means rusted his powers;
on the contrary, indeed, for it had developed in him a finer and more
subtle capacity of observation. It gave him time, also, to devote
himself to matters which, at an earlier period of his life, he would
have considered trivial. Thus, when he moved in private circles, freed
from larger duties, there lurked in him always a possible danger, and
although he would not do mischief for mischief's sake, he was
irresistibly drawn in its direction. The quality of his mind was such
as to seek out for itself, and unerringly detect, human blemish. He
was ready, when it was presented to him, to recognise personal
goodness, but while he recognised he did not admire it. The good man
was in his eyes a negative character, pithless, uninteresting; his
dominant qualities, being on the surface, presented no field for
study. He himself, as has already been seen, was not loth to bestow
money in charity, but he was destitute of benevolence; his soul never
glowed with pity, nor did the sight of suffering touch his heart.
While goodness did not attract him, he took no interest in the
profligate or dissolute. His magnet was of the Machiavellian type.
Cunning, craft, duplicity, guile--here he was at home in his glory. As
easy to throw him off the scent as a bloodhound.
Chiefly on this occasion was his attention given to the Advocate's
wife. Not a movement, not a gesture, not a varying shade of expression
escaped him. Any person, noting his observance of her, would have
detected in it nothing but admiration; and to this conclusion Adelaide
herself--she knew when she was admired--was by no means averse. But
his eye was upon her when she was not aware of it.
"Have I not heard of a case," asked a guest of Pierre Lamont, "in
which a lawyer defended a murderer, knowing him to be guilty?"
"Yes," said Pierre Lamont, "there was such a case. The murder was a
ruthless murder; the lawyer a man of great attainments. His speech to
the court was eloquent and thrilling, and in it he declared his solemn
belief in the prisoner's innocence, and made an appeal to God to
strengthen the declaration. It created a profound impression. But the
evidence was conclusive, and the prisoner was found guilty. It then
transpired that the accused, in his cell, had confessed to his
advocate that he had perpetrated the murder."
"Confessed before his trial?"
"Yes, before the trial."
"What became of the lawyer?"
"He was ruined, socially and professionally. A great career was
blighted."
"A deserved punishment," remarked Father Capel.
"Yet it is an open question," said Pierre Lamont, "whether the secrets
of the prison-cell should not be held as sacred as those of the
confessional."
"Nothing can justify," said Father Capel, "the employment of such an
appeal, used to frustrate the ends of justice."
"Then," said Pierre Lamont with malicious emphasis, "you admit the
doctrine of responsibility. Your prompting of evil spirits, what
becomes of it?"
Father Capel did not have time to reply, for a cry of terror from a
visitor gave an unexpected turn to the gossip of the evening, and
diverted it into a common channel. The person who had uttered this cry
was the youngest daughter of Jacob Hartrich. She had been standing at
a window, the heavy curtains of which she had held aside, in an idle
moment, to look out upon the grounds, which were wrapped in a pall of
deep darkness. Upon the utterance of her terrified scream she had
retreated into the room, and was now gazing with affrighted eyes at
the curtains, which her loosened hold had allowed to fall over the
window. Her mother and sister hurried to her side, and most of the
other guests clustered around her. What had occasioned her alarm? When
she had sufficiently recovered she gave an explanation of it. She was
looking out, without any purpose in her mind, "thinking of nothing,"
as she expressed it, when, in a distant part of the grounds, there
suddenly appeared a bright light, which moved slowly onward, and
within the radius of this light, of which it seemed to form a part,
she saw distinctly a white figure, like a spirit. The curtains of the
window were drawn aside, and all within the room, with the exception
of Pierre Lamont, who was left without an audience, peered into the
grounds below.
Nothing was to be seen; no glimpse of light or white shadow; no
movement but the slight stir of leaf and branch, but the young lady
vehemently persisted in her statement, and, questioned more closely,
declared that the figure was that of a woman; she had seen her face,
her hair, her white robe.
The three persons whom her story most deeply impressed were the
Advocate's wife, Christian Almer, and Father Capel. With the Advocate
it was a simple delusion of the senses; with Jacob Hartrich, "nerves."
Christian Almer and Father Capel went out to search the grounds, and
when they returned reported that nothing was to be seen.
During this excitement Pierre Lamont was absolutely unnoticed, and it
was not till a groan proceeded from the part of the room where he sat
huddled up in the wheeled chair in which he was imprisoned that
attention was directed to him. He was evidently in great pain; his
features were contracted with the spasms which darted through his
limbs.
"It almost masters me," he said to the Advocate, as he laughed and
winced, "this physical anguish. I will not allow it to conquer me, but
I must humour it. I am tempted to ask you to give me a bed to-night."
"Stop with us by all means," said the Advocate; "the night is too
dark, and your house too far, for you to leave while you are
suffering."
So it was arranged, and within half an hour all the other guests had
taken their departure.
CHAPTER III
THE WATCH ON THE HILL
For more than twenty years the House of White Shadows may be said to
have been without a history. Its last eventful chapter ended with the
death of Christian Almer's father, the tragic story of whose life has
been related by Mother Denise. Then followed a blank--a dull
uniformity of days and months and years, without the occurrence of a
single event worthy of record in the annals of the family who had held
the estate for four generations. The doors and windows of the villa
were but seldom opened, and on those rare occasions only by Mother
Denise, who had too strict a regard for the faithful discharge of her
duties to allow the costly furniture to fall into decay. Suddenly all
this was altered. Light and life reigned again. Startling was the
transformation. Within a few short weeks the House of White Shadows
had become the centre of a chain of events, in which the affections
which sway and the passions which dominate mankind were displayed in
all their strangest variety.
At a short distance from the gate, on this dark night, upon the rise
of a hill which commanded a view of the villa, sometimes stood and
sometimes lay a man in the prime of life. Not a well-looking man, nor
a desirable man, and yet one who in his better days might have passed
for a gentleman. Even now, with the aid of fine feathers, he might
have reached such a height in the judgment of those who were not given
to close observation. His feathers at the present time were anything
but fine--a sad fall, for they have been once such as fine birds wear;
no barn-door fowl's, but of the partridge's quality. So that, between
the man and his garments, there was something of an affinity. He was
tall and fairly presentable, and he bore himself with a certain air
which, in the eyes of the vulgar, would have passed for grace. But his
swagger spoilt him; and his sensual mouth, which had begot a
coarseness from long and unrestrained indulgence, spoilt him; and the
blotches on his face spoilt him. His hands were white, and rings would
have looked well on them, if rings ever looked well on the hands of a
man--which may be doubted.