fixed on the House of White Shadows. Following with precision his line
of sight, it would have been discovered that the point which claimed
his attention were the windows of the Advocate's study. There was a
light in them, but no movement.
"Yet he is there," muttered the man, whose name was John Vanbrugh,
"for I see his shadow."
His sight unassisted would not have enabled him to speak with
authority upon this, but he held in his hand a field-glass, and he saw
by its aid what would otherwise have been hidden from him.
"His guests have gone," continued John Vanbrugh, "and he has time to
attend to me. I have that to sell, Edward, which it is worth your
while to purchase--nay, which it is vital you should purchase. Every
hour's delay increases its price. It must be near midnight, and still
no sign. Well, I can wait--I can wait."
He had no watch to take count of the time, which passed slowly; but he
waited patiently nevertheless, until the sound of footsteps,
approaching in his direction, diverted his attention. They came
nearer, nearer, until this other wanderer of the night was close upon
him.
"Who," he thought, "has taken it into his head to come my way? This is
no time for honest men to be about."
And then he said aloud--for the intruder had paused within a yard of
him:
"What particular business brings you here, friend, and why do you not
pass on?"
A sigh of intense relief escaped the breast of the newcomer, who was
none other than Gautran. With the cuff of his shirt he wiped the
perspiration from his forehead, and muttered in a grateful tone:
"A man's voice! That is something to be thankful for."
The sound of this muttering, but not the words, reached Vanbrugh's
ears.
"Well, friend?" said Vanbrugh, who, being unarmed, felt himself at a
disadvantage.
"Well?" repeated Gautran.
"Are you meditating an attack upon me? I am not worth the risk, upon
my honour. If you are poor, behold in me a brother in misfortune. Go
to a more profitable market."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"I'll take your word for it. Pass on, then. The way is clear for you."
He stepped aside, and observed that Gautran took step with him instead
of from him.
"Are _you_ going to pass on?" asked Gautran.
"Upon my soul this is getting amusing, and I should enjoy it if I were
not angry. Am I going to pass on? No, I am not going to pass on."
"Neither am I."
"In the name of all that is mischievous," cried Vanbrugh, "what is it
you want?"
"Company," was the answer, "till daylight. That is all. You need not
be afraid of me."
"Company!" exclaimed Vanbrugh. "My company?"
"Yours or any man's. Something human--something living. And you must
talk to me. I'm not going to be driven mad by silence."
"You are a cool customer, with your this and that. Are you aware that
you are robbing me?"
"I don't want to rob you."
"But you are--of solitude. And you appropriate it! No further fooling.
Leave me."
"Not till daylight."
"There is something strange in your resolve. Let me have a better look
at you."
He laid his hand upon Gautran's shoulder, and the man did not resent
the movement. In the evening, when he had arrived in Geneva, he had
made an unsuccessful attempt to enter the court-house; therefore,
Gautran being otherwise a stranger to him, he did not recognise in the
face of the man he was now looking into, and which he could but dimly
see in consequence of the darkness of the night, the prisoner whose
trial for murder had caused so great an excitement.
"If I am any judge of human nature," he said, "you are in a bad way. I
can see sufficient of you to discern that from a social point of view
you are a ruin, a very wreck of respectability, if your lines ever
crossed in that direction. In which respect I, who was once a
gentleman, and am still, cannot deny that there is something of moral
kinship between us. This confers distinction upon you--upon me, a
touch of obloquy. But I am old enough not to be squeamish. We must
take the world as we find it--a villainous world! What say you?"
"A villainous world! Go on talking."
Vanbrugh stood with his face towards the House of White Shadows,
watching for the signal he had asked the Advocate to give him.
Gautran, facing the man upon whom he had forced his company, stood,
therefore, with his back to the villa, the lights in which he had not
yet seen.
"Our condition may be borne," continued Vanbrugh, "with greater or
lesser equanimity, so long as we feed the body--the quality of our
food being really of no great importance, so far as the tissues are
concerned; but when the mind is thrown off its balance, as I see by
your eyes is the case with you, the condition of the man becomes
serious. What is it you fear?"
"Nothing human."
"Yet you are at war with society."
"I was; but I am a free man now."
"You have been in peril, then--plainly speaking, a gaol-bird. What
matters? The world is apt to be too censorious; I find no fault with
you for your misfortune. Such things happen to the best of us. But you
are free now, you say, and you fear nothing in human shape. What is
it, then, you do fear?"
"Were you ever followed by a spirit?" asked Gautran, in a hoarse
whisper.
"A moment," said Vanbrugh. "Your question startles me. I have about me
two mouthfuls of an elixir without which life would not be worth the
living. Share and share alike."
He produced a bottle containing about a quarter of a pint of brandy,
and saying, "Your health, friend," put it to his lips.
Gautran watched him greedily, and, when he received the bottle,
drained it with a gasp of savage satisfaction.
"That is fine, that is fine!" he said; "I wish there were more of it."
"To echo your wish is the extent of my power in the direction of
fulfilment. Now we can continue. Was I ever followed by a spirit? Of
what kind?"
"Of a woman," replied Gautran with a shudder.
"Being a spirit, necessarily a dead woman!"
"Aye, a dead woman--one who was murdered."
A look of sudden and newly-awakened intelligence flashed into
Vanbrugh's face. He placed his hand again upon Gautran's shoulder.
"A young woman?" he said.
"Aye," responded Gautran.
"Fair and beautiful?"
"Yes."
"Who met her death in the river Rhone?'
"Aye--it is known to all the world."
"One who sold flowers in the streets of Geneva--whose name was
Madeline?"
The utterance of the name conjured up the phantom of the murdered
girl, and Gautran, with violent shudders, gazed upon the spectre.
"She is there--she is there!" he muttered, in a voice of agony. "Will
she never, never leave me?"
These words confirmed Vanbrugh's suspicion. It was Gautran who stood
before him.
"Another winning card," he said, in a tone of triumph, and with a
strange smile. "The man is guilty, else why should he fear? Vanbrugh,
a life of ease is yours once more. Away with these rags, this
money-pinch which has nipped you for years. Days of pleasure, of
luxury, are yours to enjoy. You step once more into the ranks of
gentlemen. What would the great Advocate in yonder study think of this
chance encounter, knowing--what he has yet to learn--that I hold in my
hands what he prizes most--his fame and honour?"
Gautran heard the words; he turned, and followed the direction of
Vanbrugh's gaze.
"There is but one great Advocate, the man who set me free. He lives
yonder, then?"
"You know it, rogue," replied Vanbrugh. "There are the lights in his
study window. Gautran, you and I must be better acquainted."
But he was compelled to submit to a postponement of his wish, for the
next moment he was alone. Gautran had disappeared.
CHAPTER IV
THE SILENT VOICE
Alone in his study the Advocate had time to review his position. His
first feeling, when he listened to Gautran's confession, had been one
of unutterable horror, and this feeling was upon him when he entered
the villa.
From his outward demeanour no person could have guessed how terrible
was his inward agitation. Self-repression was in him a second nature.
The habit of concealing his thoughts had been of incalculable value in
his profession, and had materially assisted in many of his great
victories.
But now he was alone, and when he had locked the study-door, he threw
off the mask.
He had been proud of this victory; it was the greatest he had ever
achieved. He knew that it would increase his fame, and that it was an
important step in the ladder it had been the delight of his life to
climb. Cold as he appeared, and apparently indifferent to success, his
ambition was vast, overpowering. His one great aim had been not only
to achieve the highest distinction while he lived, but to leave behind
him a name which should be placed at the head of all his class--a
clear and unsullied name which men in after times would quote as a
symbol of the triumph of intellect.
It was the sublimity of egoism, contemptible when allied with
intellectual inferiority and weakness of character, but justifiable in
his case because it was in association with a force of mental gifts
little short of marvellous.
In the exercise of his public duties he had been careful never to take
a false step. Before he committed himself to a task he invariably made
a study of its minutest detail; conned it over and over, stripped it
of its outward coverings, probed it to its very heart, added facets to
it which lay not only within the region of probability, but
possibility; and the result had been that his triumphs were spoken of
with wonderment, as something almost higher than human, and within the
capacity of no other man.
It had sometimes occurred that the public voice was against a prisoner
whose defence he had undertaken, but it was never raised against
himself, and perhaps the sweetest reward which was ever bestowed upon
him was when, in an unpopular cause which he had conducted to victory,
it was afterwards proved that the man he had championed--whose very
name was an offence--was in honest truth a victim instead of a
wronger. It had grown into a fashion to say, "He must have right on
his side, or the Advocate would not defend him."
Here, then, was a triple alliance of justice, truth, and humanity--and
he, their champion and the vindicator and upholder of right. In
another sphere of life, and in times when the dragon of oppression was
weighing heavily upon a people's liberties, such achievements as his
would have caused the champion to be worshipped as a saint--certainly
as a hero imbued with kingly qualities.
No man really deserves this altitude, though it be sometimes reached.
Human nature is too imperfect, its undercurrents are not sufficiently
translucent for truth's face to be reflected as in a crystal. But we
judge the deed, not the doer, and the man is frequently crowned, the
working of whose inner life, were it laid bare, would shock and
disgust.
It was when he was at the height of his fame that the Advocate met
Adelaide.
Hitherto he had seen but little of women, or, seeing them, had passed
them lightly by, but there comes a time in the lives of most men, even
of the greatest, when they are abruptly arrested by an influence which
insensibly masters them.
Only once in his life had the Advocate wandered from the path he had
formed for himself; but it was an idle wandering, partly prompted by a
small and unworthy desire to prove himself of two men, the superior,
and he had swiftly and effectually thrown the folly aside, never again
to be indulged in or renewed. That was many years ago, and had been
long forgotten, when Adelaide appeared to him, a star of loveliness,
which proved, what few would have believed, that he had a heart.
The new revelation was to him at first a source of infinite gladness,
and he yielded to the enchantment. But after a time he questioned
himself as to the wisdom of this infatuation. It was then, however,
too late. The spell was upon him, and it did not lay in his power to
remove it. And when he found that this sweet pleasure did not--as it
would have done with most men--interfere with his active duties, nay,
that it seemed to infuse a keener relish into their fulfilment, he
asked himself the question, "Why not?" In the simple prompting of the
question lay the answer.
He possessed an immense power of concentration. With many subjects
claiming close attention he could dismiss them all but the one to
which it was necessary he should devote himself, and after much
self-communing he satisfied himself that love would be no block to
ambition.
And indeed so it proved. Adelaide, dazzled by the attentions of a man
who stood so high, accepted his worship, and, warned by friends not to
be exigent, made no demands upon his time which interfered with his
duties.
He was a devoted but not a passionate lover. On all sides she was
congratulated--it gratified her. By many she was envied--it delighted
her; and she took pleasure in showing how easily she could lead this
man, who to all other women was cold as ice.
In those days it was out of her own vanity and thirst for conquest
that she evolved pleasure from the association of her name with his.
After their marriage he strove to interest her in the cases upon which
he was engaged, but, discovering that her taste did not lie in that
direction, he did not persist in his endeavour. It did not lessen his
love for her, nor her hold upon him. She was to him on this night as
she had ever been, a sweet, affectionate, pure woman, who gave him as
much love and honour as a man so much older than herself could
reasonably expect.
Something of what has been here expressed passed through his mind as
he reflected upon the events of the day. How should he deal with
Gautran's confession? That was the point he debated.
When he undertook the defence he had a firm belief in the man's
innocence. He had drawn the picture of Gautran exactly as he had
conceived it. Vile, degraded, brutal, without a redeeming feature--but
not the murderer of Madeline the flower-girl.
He reviewed the case again carefully, to see whether he could have
arrived at any other conclusion. He could not perceive a single defect
in his theory. He was justified in his own eyes. He knew that the
entire public sentiment was against him, and that he had convinced men
against their will. He knew that there was imported into this matter a
feeling of resentment at his successful efforts to set Gautran free.
What, then, had induced him to come forward voluntarily in defence of
this monster? He asked the question of himself aloud, and he answered
it aloud: A reverence for justice.
He had not indulged in self-deception when he declared to Gautran's
judges that the leading principle of his life had been a desire for
justice in small matters as well as great, for the meanest equally
with the loftiest of his fellow-creatures. That it did not clash with
his ambition was his good fortune. It was not tainted because of this
human coincidence. So far, then, he was justified in his own
estimation.
Rut he must be justified also in the eyes of the world. And here
intruded the torturing doubt whether this were possible. If he made it
known to the world that Gautran was guilty, the answer would be:
"We know it, and knew it, as we believe you yourself did while you
were working to set him free. Why did you prevent justice being done
upon a murderer?"
"But I believed him innocent," he would say. "Only now do I know him
to be guilty!"
"Upon what grounds?" would be asked.
"Upon Gautran's own confession, given to me, alone, on a lonely road,
within an hour after the delivery of the verdict."
He saw the incredulous looks with which this would be received. He put
himself in the place of the public, and he asked:
"Why, at such a time, in such a spot, did Gautran confess to you? What
motive had he? You are not a priest, and the high road is not a
confessional."
He could supply to this question no answer which common-sense would
accept.
And say that Gautran were questioned, as he would assuredly be. He
would deny the statement point-blank. Liberty is sweet to all men.
Then it would be one man's statement against another's; he would be on
an equality with Gautran, reduced to his level; and in the judgment of
numbers of people Gautran would have the advantage over him. Sides
would be taken; he himself, in a certain sense, would be placed upon
his trial, and public resentment, which now was smothered and would
soon be quite hushed, would break out against him.
Was he strong enough to withstand this? Could he arrest the furious
torrent and stand unwounded on the shore, pure and scatheless in the
eyes of men?
He doubted. He was too profound a student of human nature not to know
that his fair fame would be blotted, and that there would be a stain
upon his reputation which would cling to him to the last day of his
life.
Still he questioned himself. Should he dare it, and brave it, and bow
his head? Who humbles himself lays himself open to the blow--and men
are not merciful when the chance is offered to them. But he would
stand clear in his own eyes; his conscience would approve. To none but
himself would this be known. Inward approval would be his sole reward,
his sole compensation. A hero's work, however.
For a moment or two he glowed at the contemplation. He soon cooled
down, and with a smile, partly of self-pity, partly of self-contempt,
proceeded to the calmer consideration of the matter.
The meaner qualities came into play. The world did not know; what
reason was there that it should be enlightened--that he should
enlighten it, to his own injury? The secret belonged to two men--to
himself and Gautran. It was not likely that Gautran would blurt it out
to others; he valued his liberty too highly. So that it was as safe as
though it were buried in a deep grave. As for the wrong done, it was a
silent wrong. To ruin one's self for a sentiment would be madness; no
one really suffered.
The unfortunate girl was at rest. She was a stranger; no person knew
her, or was interested in her except for her beauty; she left no
family, no father, mother, or sisters, to mourn her cruel death.
There was certainly the woman spoken of as Pauline, but she had
disappeared, and was probably in no way related to Madeline. What more
likely than that the elder woman's association with the younger arose
out of a desire to trade upon the girl's beauty, and appropriate the
profits to her own use? A base view of the matter, but natural, human.
And having reaped a certain profit out of their trade in flowers,
larger than was suspected, the crafty woman of the world had
deliberately deserted Madeline and left her to her fate.
Why, then, should he step forward as her avenger, to the destruction
of the great name he had spent the best fruits of his mind and the
best years of his life to build up? To think of such a thing was
Quixotism run mad.
One of the threads of these reflections--that which forced itself upon
him as the toughest and the most prominent--was contempt of himself
for permitting his thoughts to wander into currents so base. But that
was his concern; it affected no other person, so long as he chose to
hold his own counsel. The difficulty into which he was plunged was not
of his seeking. Fate had dealt him a hard stroke; he received it on
his shield instead of on his body. Who would say that that was not
wise? What other man, having the option, would not have done as he was
about to do?
"Cunning sophist, cunning sophist!" his conscience whispered to him;
"think not that, wandering in these crooked paths of reasoning, you
can find the talisman which will transform wrong into right, or remove
the stain which will rest upon your soul."
He answered his conscience: "To none but myself is my soul visible.
Who, then, can see the stain?"
His conscience replied: "God!"
"I will confess to Him." he said, "but not to man."
"There is but one right course," his conscience said; "juggle as you
may, you know that there is but one right course."
"I know it," he said boldly, "but I am cast in human mould, and am not
heroic enough for the sacrifice you would impose upon me."
"Listen," said his conscience, "a voice from the grave is calling to
you."
He heard the voice: "Blood for Blood."
He stood transfixed. The images raised by that, silent voice were
appalling. They culminated in the impalpable shape of a girl, with
pallid face, gazing sadly at him, over whose form seemed to be traced
in the air the lurid words, "Blood For Blood!"
Heaven's decree.
The vision lasted but for a brief space. In the light of his strong
will such airy terrors could not long exist.
Blood for blood! It once held undisputed sway, but there are great and
good men who look upon the fulfilment of the stern decree as a crime.
Mercy, humanity, and all the higher laws of civilisation were on their
side. But he could not quite stifle the voice.
He took another view. Say that he yielded to the whisperings of his
conscience--say that, braving all the consequences of his action, he
denounced Gautran. The man had already been tried for murder, and
could not be tried again. Set this aside. Say that a way was
discovered to bring Gautran again to the bar of earthly justice, of
what value was the new evidence that could be brought against him? His
own bare word--his recital of an interview of which he held no proof,
and which Gautran's simple denial would be sufficient to destroy.
Place this new evidence against the evidence he himself had
established in proof of Gautran's innocence, and it became a
feather-weight. A lawyer of mediocre attainments would blow away such
evidence with a breath. It would injure only him who brought it
forward.
He decided. The matter must rest where it was. In silence lay safety.
There was still another argument in favour of this conclusion. The
time for making public the horrible knowledge of which he had become
possessed was passed. After he had received Gautran's confession he
should not have lost a moment in communicating with the authorities.
Not only had he allowed the hours to slip by without taking action,
but in the conversation initiated that evening by Pierre Lamont, in
which he had joined, he had tacitly committed himself to the
continuance of a belief in Gautran's innocence. He saw no way out of
the fatal construction which all who knew him, as well as all who knew
him not, would place upon this line of conduct. He had been caught in
a trap of his own setting, but he could hide his wounds. Yes; the
question was answered. He must preserve silence.
This long self-communing had exhausted him. He could not sleep; he
could neither read nor study. His mind required relief and solace in
companionship. His wife was doubtless asleep; he would not disturb
her. He would go to his friend's chamber; Christian Almer would be
awake, and they would pass an hour in sympathising converse. Almer had
asked him, when they bade each other good-night, whether he intended
immediately to retire to rest, and he had answered that he had much to
do in his study, and should probably be up till late in the night.
"I will not disturb you," Almer had said, "but I, too, am in no mood
for sleep. I have letters to write, and if you happen to need society,
come to my room, and we will have one of our old chats."
As he quitted the study to seek his friend the soft silvery chimes of
a clock on the mantel proclaimed the hour. He counted the strokes. It
was midnight.
CHAPTER V
GAUTRAN FINDS A REFUGE
When John Vanbrugh found himself alone he cried:
"What! Tired of my company already? That is a fine compliment to pay
to a gentleman of my breeding. Gautran! Gautran!"
He listened; no answer came.
"A capital disappearance," he continued; "in its way dramatic. The
scene, the time, all agreeing. It does not please me. Do you hear me,
Gautran," he shouted. "It does not please me. If I were not tied to
this spot in the execution of a most important mission, I would after
you, my friend, and teach you better manners. He drank my brandy, too,
the ungrateful rogue. A waste of good liquor--a sheer waste! He gets
no more without paying its equivalent."
Vanbrugh indulged in this soliloquy without allowing his wrath to
interfere with his watch; not for a single moment did he shift his
gaze from the windows of the Advocate's study.
"Now what induced him," he said after a pause, "to spirit himself away
so mysteriously? From the violent fancy he expressed for my company I
regarded him as a fixture; one would have supposed he intended to
stick to me like a limpet to a rock. Suddenly, without rhyme or
reason, and just as the conversation was getting interesting, he takes
French leave, and makes himself scarce.
"I hope he has not left his ghost behind him--the ghost of pretty
Madeline. Not likely, though. When a partnership such as that is
entered into--uncommonly unpleasant and inconvenient it must be--it is
not dissolved so easily.
"Perhaps he was spirited away--wanted, after the fashion of our dear
Lothario, Don Giovanni. There was no blue fire about, however, and I
smell no brimstone. No--he disappeared of his own prompting; it will
repay thinking over. He saw his phantom--even my presence could not
keep her from him. He murdered her--not a doubt of it--and the
Advocate has proved his innocence.
"Were it not a double tragedy I should feel disposed to laugh.
"We were speaking of the Advocate when he darted off. But you cannot
escape me, Gautran; we shall meet again. An acquaintanceship so
happily commenced must not be allowed to drop--nor shall it, while it
suits my purpose.
"At length, John Vanbrugh, you are learning to be wise. You allowed
yourself to be fleeced, sucked dry, and being thrown upon the rocks,
stripped of fortune and the means to woo it, you strove to live as
knaves live, upon the folly of others like yourself. But you were a
poor hand at the trade; you were never cut out for a knave, and you
passed through a succession of reverses so hard as almost to break an
honest man's heart. It is all over now. I see the sun; bright days are
before you, John, the old days over again; but you will spend your
money more prudently, my lad; no squandering; exact its value; be
wise, bold, determined, and you shall not go down with sorrow to the
grave. Edward, my friend, if I had the liquor I would drink to you. As
it is----"
As it was, he wafted a mocking kiss towards the House of White
Shadows, and patiently continued his watch.
Meanwhile Gautran had not been idle.
Upon quitting Vanbrugh, the direction he took was from the House of
White Shadows, but when he was at a safe distance from Vanbrugh, out
of sight and hearing, he paused, and deliberately set his face towards
the villa.
He skirted the hill at its base, and walking with great caution,
pausing frequently to assure himself that he was alone and was not
being followed, arrived at the gates of the villa. He tried the
gates--they were locked. Could he climb over them? He would have
risked the danger--they were set with sharp spikes--had he not known
that it would take some time, and feared that some person passing
along the high road might detect him.
He made his way to the back of the villa, and carefully examined the
walls. His eyes were accustomed to darkness, and he could see pretty
clearly; it was a long time before he discovered a means of ingress,
afforded by an old elm which grew within a few yards of the wall, and
the far-spreading branches of which stretched over the grounds.
He climbed the tree, and crept like a cat along the stoutest branch he
could find. It bent beneath his weight as he hung suspended from it.
It was a fall of twenty feet, but he risked it. He unloosed his hands,
and dropped to the earth. He was shaken, but not bruised. His purpose,
thus far, was accomplished. He was within the grounds of the villa.
All was quiet. When he had recovered from the shock of the fall, he
stepped warily towards the house. Now and then he was startled and
alarmed at the shadows of the trees which moved athwart his path, but
he mastered these terrors, and crept on and on till he heard the soft
sound of a clock striking the hour.
He paused, as the Advocate had done, and counted the strokes.
Midnight. When the sound had quite died away, he stepped forward, and
saw the lights in the study windows.
Was anybody there? He guessed shrewdly enough that if the room was
occupied it would be by no other person than the Advocate. Well, it
was the Advocate he came to see; he had no design of robbery in his
mind.
He stealthily approached a window, and blessed his good fortune to
find that it was partly open. He peered into the study; it was empty.
He climbed the sill, and dropped safely into the room.
What a grand apartment! What costly pictures and vases, what an array
of books and papers! Beautiful objects met his eyes whichever way he
turned. There was the Advocate's chair, there the table at which he
wrote. The Advocate had left the room for a while--this was Gautran's
correct surmise--and intended to return. The lamps fully turned up
were proof of this. He looked at the papers on the table. Could he
have read, he would have seen that many of them bore his own name. On
a massive sideboard there were bottles filled with liquor, and
glasses. He drank three or four glasses rapidly, and then, coiling
himself up in a corner of the room, in a few moments was fast asleep.
CHAPTER VI
PIERRE LAMONT READS LOVE-VERSES TO FRITZ THE FOOL
The bedroom allotted to Pierre Lamont by Mother Denise was situated on
the first floor, and adjoined the apartments prepared for Christian
Almer. As he was unable to walk a step it was necessary that the old
lawyer should be carried upstairs. His body-servant, expressly engaged
to wheel him about and attend to his wants, was ready to perform his
duties, but into Pierre Lamont's head had entered the whim that he
would be assisted to his room by no person but Fritz the Fool. The
servant was sent in search of Fritz, who could not easily be found. It
was quite half an hour before the fool made his appearance, and by
that time all the guests, with the exception of Pierre Lamont, had
left the House of White Shadows.
Out of sympathy with Pierre Lamont's sufferings Father Capel had
remained to chat with him until Fritz arrived. But the priest was
suddenly called away. Mother Denise, entering the room, informed him
that a peasant who lived ten miles from the House of White Shadows
urgently desired to see him. Father Capel was about to go out to the
man, when Adelaide suggested that he should be brought in, and the
peasant accordingly disclosed his errand in the presence of the
Advocate and his wife, Pierre Lamont, and Christian Almer.
"I have been to your house," said the peasant, standing, cap in hand,
in humble admiration of the grandeur by which he was surrounded, "and
was directed here. There is a woman dying in my hut."
"What is her name, and where does she come from?"
"I know not. She has been with us for over three weeks, and it is a
sore burden upon us. It happened in this way, reverend father. My hut,
you know, is in the cleft of a rock, at the foot of the Burger Pass, a
dangerous spot for those who are not familiar with the track. Some
twenty-four days ago it was that my wife in the night roused me with
the tale of a frightful scream, which, proceeding from one in agony
near my hut, pierced her very marrow, and woke her from sleep. I
sprang from my bed, and went into the open, and a few yards down I
found a woman who had fallen from a height, and was lying in delirious
pain upon the sharp stones. I raised her in my arms; she was bleeding
terribly, and I feared she was hurt to death. I did the best I could,
and carried her into my hut, where my wife nursed and tended her. But
from that night to this we have been unable to get one sensible word
from her, and she is now at death's door. She needs your priestly
offices, reverend father, and therefore I have come for you."
"How interesting!" exclaimed Adelaide. "Who will pay you for your
goodness to this poor creature?"
"God," said Father Capel, replying for the peasant. "It is the poor
who help the poor, and in the Kingdom of Heaven our Gracious Lord
rewards them."
"I am content," said the peasant.
"But in the contemplation of the Hereafter," said Pierre Lamont,
"let us not forget the present. There are many whose loads are too
heavy--for instance, asses. There are a few whose loads are too
light--scoffers, like myself. You have had occasion to rebuke me, this
night, Father Capel, and were I not a hardened sinner I should be
groaning in tribulation. That to the last hour of my life I shall
deserve your rebukes, proves me, I fear, beyond hope of redemption.
Still I bear in mind the asses' burden. You have used my purse once,
in penance; use it again, and pay this man for the loss inflicted upon
him by his endeavours to earn the great spiritual reward--which, in
all humility I say it, does not put bread into human stomachs."
Father Capel accepted Pierre Lamont's purse, and said: "I judge not by
words, but by works; your offering shall be justly administered. Come,
let us hasten to this unfortunate woman."
When he and the peasant had departed, Pierre Lamont said, with mock
enthusiasm:
"A good man! a good man! Virtue such as his is a severe burden,
but I doubt not he enjoys it. I prefer to earn my seat in heaven
vicariously, to which end my gold will materially assist. It is as
though paradise can be bought by weight or measure; the longer the
purse the greater the chance of salvation. Ah, here is Fritz.
Good-night, good-night. Bright dreams to all. Gently, Fritz, gently,"
continued the old lawyer, as he was being carried up the stairs, "my
bones are brittle."
"Brittle enough I should say," rejoined Fritz; "chicken bones they
might be from the weight of you."
"Are diamonds heavy, fool?"
"Ha, ha!" laughed Fritz, "if I had the selling of you, Master Lamont,
I should like to make you the valuer. I should get a rare good price
for you at that rate."
In the bedroom Pierre Lamont retained Fritz to prepare him for bed.
The old lawyer, undressed, was a veritable skeleton; there was not an
ounce of superfluous flesh on his shrivelled bones.
"What would you have done in the age of giants?" asked Fritz, making
merry over Pierre Lamont's attenuated form.
"This would have served," replied Pierre Lamont, tapping his forehead
with his forefinger. "I should have contrived so as to be a match for
them. Bring that small table close to the bedside. Now place the lamp
on it. Put your hand into the tail-pocket of my coat; you will find a
silk handkerchief there."
He tied the handkerchief--the colour of which was yellow--about his
head; and as the small, thin face peeped out of it, brown-skinned and
hairless, it looked like the face of a mummy.
Fritz gazed at him, and laughed immoderately, and Pierre Lamont nodded
and nodded at the fool, with a smile of much humour on his lips.
"Enjoy yourself, fool, enjoy yourself," he said kindly; "but don't
pass your life in laughter; it is destructive of brain power. What do
you think of the spirit, Fritz, the appearance of which so alarmed one
of the young ladies in our merry party to-night?"
"What do you think of it?" asked Fritz in return, with a quivering of
his right eyelid, which suspiciously resembled a wink.
"Ah, ah, knave!" cried Pierre Lamont, chuckling. "I half suspected
you."
"You will not tell on me, Master Lamont?"
"Not I, fool. How did you contrive it?"
"With a white sheet and a lantern. I thought it a pity that my lady
should be disappointed. Should she leave the place without some
warranty that spirits are here, the house would lose its character.
Then there is the young master, your Christian Almer. He spoke to me
very much as if I were a beast of the field instead of a--fool. So I
thought I would give him food for thought."
"A dangerous trick, Fritz. Your secret is safe with me, but I would
not try it too often. Are there any books in the room? Look about,
Fritz, look about."
"For books!" exclaimed Fritz. "People go to bed to sleep."
"I go to bed to think," retorted Pierre Lamont, "and read. People are
idiots--they don't know how to use the nights."
"Men are not owls," said Fritz. "There are no books in the room."
"How shall I pass the night?" grumbled Pierre Lamont. "Open that
drawer; there may be something to read in it."
Fritz opened the drawer; it was filled with books. Pierre Lamont
uttered a cry of delight.
"Bring half-a-dozen of them--quick. Now I am happy."
He opened the books which Fritz handed to him, and placed them by his
side on the bed. They were in various languages. Lavater, Zimmermann,
a Latin book on Demonology, poems of Lope da Vega, Klingemann's
tragedies, Italian poems by Zappi, Filicaja, Cassiani, and others.
"You understand all these books, Master Lamont?"
"Of course, fool."
"What language is this?"
"Latin."
"And this?"
"Spanish."
"And this?"
"Italian. No common mind collected these books, Fritz."
"The master that's dead--father of him who sleeps in the next room."
"Ha, ha!" interposed Pierre Lamont, turning over the pages as he
spoke. "He sleeps there, does he?
"Yes. His father was a great scholar, I've heard."
"A various scholar, Fritz, if these books are an epitome of his mind.
Love, philosophy, gloomy wanderings in dark paths--here we have them
all. The lights and shadows of life. Which way runs your taste, fool?"
"I love the light, of course. What use in being a fool if you don't
know how to take advantage of your opportunities?"
"Well said. Let us indulge a little. These poets are sly rascals. They
take unconscionable liberties, and play with women's beauty as other
men dare not do."
Fritz's eyes twinkled.
"It does not escape even you, Master Lamont."
"What does not escape me, fool?"
"Woman's beauty, Master Lamont."
"Have I not eyes in my head and blood in my veins?" asked Pierre
Lamont. "It warms me like wine to know that I and the loveliest woman
for a hundred miles round are caged within the same roof."
Fritz indulged in another fit of laughter, and then exclaimed:
"She has caught you too, eh? Now, who would have thought it? Two of
the cleverest lawyers in the world fixed with one arrow! Beauty is a
divine gift, Master Lamont. To possess it is almost as good as being
born a fool."
"I shall lie awake and read love-verses. Listen to Zappi, fool."
And in a voice really tender, Pierre Lamont read from the book:
"A hundred pretty little loves, in fun,
Were romping; laughing, rioting one day."
"A hundred!" cried Fritz, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "A
hundred--pretty--little loves! If Father Capel were to hear you, his
face would grow as long as my arm.
"Wrong, Fritz, wrong. His face would beam, and he would listen for the
continuation of the poem."
And Pierre Lamont resumed:
"'Let's fly a little now,' said one, 'I pray.'
'Whither?' 'To beauty's face.' 'Agreed--'tis done.'
"Faster than bees to flowers they wing their way
To lovely maids--to mine, the sweetest one;
And to her hair and panting lips they run--
Now here, now there, now everywhere they stray.
"My love so full of loves--delightful sight!
Two with their torches in her eyes, and two
Upon her eyelids with their bows alight."
"You read rarely, Master Lamont," said Fritz. "It is true, is it not,
that, when you were in practice, you were called the lawyer with the
silver tongue?"
"It has been said of me, Fritz."
The picture of this withered, dried-up old lawyer, sitting up in bed,
with a yellow handkerchief for a night-cap tied round his head,
reading languishing verses in a tender voice, and striving to bring
into his weazened features an expression in harmony with them, was
truly a comical one.
"Why, Master Lamont," said Fritz in admiration, "you were cut out for
a gallant. Had you recited those lines in the drawing-room, you would
have had all the ladies at your feet--supposing," he added, with a
broad grin, "they had all been blind."
"Ah me!" said Pierre Lamont, throwing aside the book with a mocking
sigh. "Too old--too old!"
"And shrunken," said Fritz.
"It is not to be denied, Fritz. And shrunken."
"And ugly."
"You stick daggers into me. Yes--and ugly. Ah!" and with simulated
wrath he shook his fist in the air, "if I were but like my brother the
Advocate! Eh, Fritz--eh?"
Fritz shook his head slowly.
"If I were not a fool, I should say I would much rather be as you are,
old, and withered, and ugly, and a cripple, than be standing in the
place of your brother the Advocate. And so would you, Master Lamont,
for all your love-songs."
"I can teach you nothing, fool. Push the lamp a little nearer to me.
Give me my waistcoat. Here is a gold piece for you. I owe you as much,
I think. We will keep our own counsel, Fritz. Good-night."
"Good--night, Master Lamont. I am sorry that trial is over. It was
rare fun!"
CHAPTER VII
MISTRESS AND MAID
"Dionetta?"
"Yes, my lady."
The maid and her mistress were in Adelaide's dressing-room, and
Dionetta was brushing her lady's hair, which hung down in rich, heavy
waves.
She smiled at herself in the glass before which she was sitting, and
her mood became more joyous as she noted the whiteness of her teeth
and the beautiful expression of her mouth when she smiled. There was
an irresistible fascination in her smile; it flashed into all her
features, like a laughing sunrise.
She was never tired of admiring her beauty; it was to her a most
precious possession of which nothing but time could rob her. "To-day
is mine," she frequently said to herself, and she wished with all her
heart that there were no to-morrow.
Yes, to-day was hers, and she was beautiful, and, gazing at the
reflection of her fair self, she thought that she did not look more
than eighteen.
"Do you think I do, child?" she asked of Dionetta.
"Think you do what, my lady?" inquired Dionetta.
Adelaide laughed, a musical, child-like laugh which any man, hearing,
would have judged to be an expression of pure innocent delight. She
derived pleasure even from this pleasant sound.
"I was thinking to myself, and I believed I was speaking aloud. Do you
think I look twenty-five?"
"No, indeed, my lady, not by many years. You look younger than I do."
"And you are not eighteen, Dionetta."
"Not yet, my lady."
Adelaide's eyes sparkled. It was indeed true that she looked younger
than her maid, who was in herself a beauty and young-looking.
"Dionetta," she said, presently, after a pause, "I have had a curious
dream."
"I saw you close your eyes for a moment, my lady."
"I dreamt I was the most beautiful woman in all this wide world."
"You are, my lady."
The words were uttered in perfect honesty and simplicity. Her mistress
was truly the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.
"Nonsense, child, nonsense--there are others as fair, although I
should not fear to stand beside them. It was only a dream, and this
but the commencement of it. I was the most beautiful woman in the
world. I had the handsomest features, the loveliest figure, and a
shape that sculptors would have called perfection. I had the most
exquisite dresses that ever were worn, and everything in that way a
woman's heart could desire."
"A happy dream, my lady!"
"Wait. I had a palace to live in, in a land where it was summer the
whole year through. Such gardens, Dionetta, and such flowers as one
only sees in dreams. I had rings enough to cover my fingers a dozen
times over; diamonds in profusion for my hair, and neck, and
arms,--trunks full of them, and of old lace, and of the most wonderful
jewels the mind can conceive. Would you believe it, child, in spite of
all this, I was the most miserable woman in the universe?"
"It is hard to believe, my lady."
"Not when I tell you the reason. Dionetta, I was absolutely alone.
There was not a single person near me, old or young--not one to look
at me, to envy me, to admire me, to love me. What was the use of
beauty, diamonds, flowers, dresses? The brightest eyes, the loveliest
complexion, the whitest skin--all were thrown away. It would have been
just as well if I had been dressed in rags, and were old and wrinkled
as Pierre Lamont. Now, what I learn from my dream is this--that beauty
is not worth having unless it is admired and loved, and unless other
people can see it as well as yourself."
"Everybody sees that you are beautiful, my lady; it is spoken of
everywhere."
"Is it, Dionetta, really, now, is it?"
"Yes, my lady. And you are admired and loved."
"I think I am, child; I know I am. So that my dream goes for nothing.
A foolish fancy, was it not, Dionetta?--but women are never satisfied.
I should never be tired--never, never, of hearing the man I love say,
'I love you, I love you! You are the most beautiful, the dearest, the
sweetest!'"
She leant forward and looked closely at herself in the glass, and then
sank back in her chair and smiled, and half-closed her eyes.
"Dionetta," she said presently, "what makes you so pale?"
"It is the Shadow, my lady, that was seen to-night," replied Dionetta
in a whisper; "I cannot get it out of my mind."
"But you did not see it?"
"No, my lady; but it was there."
"You believe in ghosts?"
"Yes, my lady."
"You would not have the courage to go where one was to be seen?"
"Not for all the gold in the world, my lady."
"But the other servants are more courageous?"
"They may be, but they would not dare to go; they said so to-night,
all of them."
"They have been speaking of it, then?"
"Oh, yes; of scarcely anything else. Grandmother said to-night that if
you had not come to the villa, the belief in the shadows would have
died away altogether."
"That is too ridiculous," interrupted Adelaide. "What can I have to do
with them?"
"If you had not come," said Dionetta, "grandmother said our young
master would not be here. It is because he is in the house, sleeping
here for the first night for so many, many years, that the spirit of
his mother appeared to him."
"But your grandmother has told me she did not believe in the shadows."
"My lady, I think she is changing her opinion--else she would never
have said what she did. It is long since I have seen her so
disturbed."
Adelaide rose from her chair, the fairest picture of womanhood eyes
ever gazed upon. A picture an artist would have contemplated with
delight. She stood still for a few moments, her hand resting on her
writing-desk.
"Your grandmother does not like me, Dionetta."
"She has not said so, my lady," said Dionetta after an awkward pause.
"Not directly, child," said Adelaide, "and I have no reason to
complain of want of respect in her. But one always knows whether one
is really liked or not."
"She is growing old," murmured Dionetta apologetically, "and has seen
very little of ladies."
"Neither have you, child. Yet you do not dislike me."
"My lady, if I dare to say it, I love you."
"There is no daring in it, child. I love to be loved--and I would
sooner be loved by the young than the old. Come here, pretty one. Your
ears are like little pink shells, and deserve something better than
those common rings in them. Put these in their place."
She took from a jewel-case a pair of earrings, turquoise and small
diamonds, and with her own hands made the exchange.
"Oh, my lady," sighed Dionetta with a rose-light in her face. "They
are too grand for me! What shall I say when people see them?"
The girl's heart was beating quick with ecstasy. She looked at herself
in the glass, and uttered a cry of joy.
"Say that I gave them to you because I love you. I never had a maid
who pleased me half as much. Does this prove it?" and she put her lips
to Dionetta's face. The girl's eyes filled with tears, and she kissed
Adelaide's hand in a passion of gratitude.
"I love you, Dionetta, because you love me, and because I can trust
you."
"You can, my lady. I will serve you with all my heart and soul. But I
have done nothing for you that any other girl could not have done."
"Would you like to do something for me that I would trust no other to
do?"
"Yes, my lady," eagerly answered Dionetta. "I should be proud."
"And you will tell no one?'
"Not a soul, my lady, if you command me."
"I do command you. It is easy to do--merely to deliver a note, and to
say: 'This is from my mistress.'"
"Oh, my lady, that is no task at all. It is so simple."
"Simple as it is, I do not wish even your grandmother to hear of it."
"She shall not--nor any person. I swear it."
In the extravagance of her gratitude and joy, she kissed a little
cross that hung from her neck.
"You have made me your friend for life," said Adelaide, "the best
friend you ever had, or ever will have."
She sat down to her desk, and on a sheet of note-paper wrote these
words:
"Dear Christian:
"I cannot sleep until I wish you good-night, with no horrid people
around us. Let me see you for one minute only.
"Adelaide."
Placing the sheet of note-paper in an envelope, she gave it to
Dionetta, saying:
"Take this to Mr. Almer's room, and give it to him. It is nothing of
any importance, but he will be pleased to receive it."
Dionetta, marvelling why her lady should place any value upon so
slight a service, went upstairs with the note, and returned with the
information that Christian Almer was not in his room.
"But his door is open, my lady," she said, "and the lamps are
burning."
"Go then, again," said Adelaide, "and place the note on his desk.
There is no harm, child; he cannot see you, as he is not there, and if
he were, he would not be angry."
Dionetta obeyed without fear, and when she told her mistress that the
note was placed where Christian Almer was sure to see it, Adelaide
kissed her again, and wished her "Good-night."
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD
Upon no person had the supposed appearance of a phantom in the grounds
of the House of White Shadows produced so profound an impression as
upon Christian Almer. This was but natural. Even supposing him not to
have been a man of susceptibility, the young lady's terror, as she
gazed at the shadow, could not have failed to make an impression upon
him.
It was the first night of his return, after an absence of many years,
to the house in which he had been born and had passed his unhappy
childhood's life: and the origin of the belief in these white shadows
which were said to haunt his estate was so closely woven into his
personal history as almost to form a part of himself. He had never
submitted his mind to a rigid test of belief or disbelief in these
signs; one of the principal aims of his life had been, not only to
avoid the villa, but to shut out all thought of the tragic events
which had led to the death of his parents.
He loved them both with an equal love. When he thought of his mother
he saw a woman patient in suffering, of a temper exquisitely sweet,
whose every word and act towards her child was fraught with
tenderness. When he thought of his father he saw a man high-principled
and just, inflexible in matters of right and conscience, patient also
in suffering, and bearing in silence, as his mother did, a grief which
had poisoned his life and hers.
Neither of his parents had ever spoken a word against the other;
the mystery which kept this tender, loving woman, and this just,
high-principled man, apart, was never disclosed to their child. On
this subject they entrenched themselves behind a barrier of silence
which the child's love and winning ways could not penetrate. Only when
his mother's eyes were closed and her lips sealed by death was he
privileged to witness how deeply his father had loved her.
Much of what had been disclosed to the Advocate's wife by Mother
Denise was absolutely unknown to him. Doubtless he could have learned
every particular of the circumstances which had led to the separation
of his parents, had his wish lain in that direction; but a delicate
instinct whispered to him not to lift the veil, and he would permit no
person to approach the subject in his presence.
The bright appearance of his sitting-room cheered him when he entered
it, after bidding the Advocate good-night. But this pleasurable sense
was not unalloyed. His heart and his conscience were disturbed, and as
he took up a handful of roses which had been thrown loose into a bowl
and inhaled their fragrance, a guilty thrill shot through his veins.
With the roses in his hand he stood before the picture of Adelaide,
which she had hung above his desk. How bright and beautiful was the
face, how lovely the smile with which she greeted him! It was almost
as if she were speaking to him, telling him that she loved him, and
asking him to assure her once more that her love was returned.
For a moment the fancy came upon him that Adelaide and he were like
two stars wandering through a dark and dangerous path, and that before
them lay death, and worse than death--dishonour and irretrievable
ruin; and that she, the brighter star, holding him tightly by the
hand, was whispering:
"I will guide you safely; only love me!"
There was one means of escape--death! A coward's refuge, which might
not even afford him a release from dishonour, for Adelaide in her
despair might let their secret escape her.
Why, then, should he torture himself unnecessarily? It was not in his
power to avert the inevitable. He had not deliberately chosen his
course. Fate had driven him into it. Was it not best, after all, to do
as he had said to the Advocate that night, to submit without a
struggle? Men were not masters, but slaves.
When the image of the Advocate, of his friend, presented itself to
him, he thrust it sadly from him. But it came again and again, like
the ghost of Banquo; conscience refused to be tricked.
Crumbling the roses in his hand, and strewing the floor with the
leaves, he turned, and saw, gazing wistfully at him, the eyes of his
mother.
The artist who had painted her picture had not chosen to depict her in
her most joyous mood. In _his_ heart also, as she sat before him,
love's fever was burning, and he knew, while his brush was fixing her
beauty on the canvas, that his love was returned, though treachery had
parted them. He had striven, not unsuccessfully, to portray in her
features the expression of one who loved and to whom love was denied.
The look in her eyes was wistful rather than hopeless, and conveyed,
to those who knew her history, the idea of one who hoped to find in
another world the happiness she had lost in this.
Sad and tender reminiscences of the years he had lived with his mother
in these very rooms stole into Christian Almer's mind, and he allowed
his thoughts to dwell upon the question, "Why had she been unhappy?"
She was young, beautiful, amiable, rich; her husband was a man
honoured and esteemed, with a character above reproach. What secret
would be revealed if the heart of this mystery were laid bare to his
sight? If it were in his power to ascertain the truth, might not the
revelation cause him additional sorrow? Better, then, to let the
matter rest. No good purpose could be served by raking up the ashes of
a melancholy past. His parents were dead----
And here occurred a sudden revulsion. His mother was dead--and, but a
few short minutes since, her spirit was supposed to have appeared in
the grounds of the villa. Almost upon the thought, he hurriedly left
the room, and made his way into the gardens.
* * * * * *
"My neighbour, and master of this house," said Pierre Lamont, who was
lying wide awake in the adjoining room, "does not seem inclined to
rest. Something disturbs him."
Pierre Lamont was alone; Fritz the Fool had left him for the night,
and the old lawyer, himself in no mood for sleep, was reading and
listening to the movements around him. There was little to hear, only
an occasional muffled sound which the listener interpreted as best
he could; but Christian Almer, when he left his room, had to pass
Pierre Lamont's door in his progress to the grounds, and it was the
clearer sound of his footsteps which led Pierre Lamont to his correct
conclusion.
"He is going out of the house," continued Pierre Lamont. "For what? To
look for his mother's ghost, perhaps. Fool Fritz, in raising this
particular ghost, did not foresee what it might lead to. Ghosts! And
fools still live who believe in them! Well, well, but for the world's
delusions there would be little work for busy minds to accomplish. As
a fantastic piece of imagery I might conjure up an army of men
sweeping the world with brooms made of brains--of knavery, folly,
trickery, and delusion. What is that? A footstep! Human? No. Too light
for any but the feet of a cat!"
But here Pierre Lamont was at fault. It was Dionetta who passed his
door in the passage, conveying to Christian Almer's room the note
written by the Advocate's wife. Before the arrival of her new
mistress, Dionetta had always worn thick boots, and the sound of her
footstep was plain to hear; but Adelaide's nerves could not endure the
creaking and clattering, and she had supplied her maid with shoes.
Besides, Dionetta had naturally a light step.
* * * * * *
Christian Almer met with nothing in the grounds to disturb him. No
airy shadow appeared to warn him of the danger which threatened him.
Were it possible for the spirits of the dead to make themselves seen
and heard, assuredly the spirit of his mother would have appeared and
implored him to fly from the house without delay. Happy for him would
it have been were he one of the credulous fools Pierre Lamont held in
despisal--happy for him could he have formed, out of the shadows which
moved around him, a spirit in which he would have believed, and could
he have heard, in the sighing of the breeze, a voice which would have
impressed him with a true sense of the peril in which he stood.
But he heard and saw nothing for which he could not naturally account,
and within a few minutes of midnight he re-entered his room.
* * * * * *
"My neighbour has returned," said Pierre Lamont, "after his nocturnal
ramble in search of the spirit of his dead mother. Hark! That sound
again! As of some living thing stepping cautiously on the boards. If I
were not a cripple I would satisfy myself whether this villa is
tormented by restless cats as well as haunted by unholy spirits. When
will science supply mankind with the means of seeing, as well as
hearing, what is transpiring on the other side of stone and wooden
walls?
"Ah, that door of his is creaking. It opens--shuts. I hear a murmur of
voices, but cannot catch a word. Almer's voice of course--and the
Advocate's. No--the other voice and the soft footsteps are in
partnership. Not the Advocate's, nor any man's. Men don't tread like
cats. It was a woman who passed my door, and who has been admitted
into that room. Being a woman, what woman? If Fool Fritz were here, we
would ferret it out between us before we were five minutes older.
"Still talking--talking--like the soft murmur of peaceful waves. Ah! a
laugh! By all that's natural, a woman's laugh! It is a woman! And I
should know that silvery sound. There is a special music in a laugh
which cannot be mistaken. It is distinctive--characteristic.
"Ah, my lady, my lady! Fair face, false heart--but woman, woman all
over!"
And Pierre Lamont rubbed his hands, and also laughed--but his laugh
was like his speech, silent, voiceless.
CHAPTER IX
CHRISTIAN ALMER RECEIVES TWO VISITORS
Upon Christian Almer's desk lay the note written by Adelaide. He saw
it the moment he entered the room, and knew, therefore, that some
person had called during his absence. At first he thought it must have
been the Advocate, who, not finding him in his room, had left the note
for him; but as he opened the envelope a faint perfume floated from
it.
"It is from Adelaide," he murmured. "How often and how vainly have I
warned her!"
He read the note:
"Dear Christian:
"I cannot sleep until I wish you good-night, with no horrid people
around us. Let me see you for one minute only.
"Adelaide."
To comply with her request at such an hour would be simple folly;
infatuated as he was he would not deliberately commit himself to such
an act.
"Surely she cannot have been here," he thought. "But if another hand
placed this note upon my desk, another person must share the secret
which it is imperative should never be revealed. I must be firm with
her. There must be an end to this imprudence. Fortunately there is no
place in Edward's nature for suspicion."
He blushed with shame at the unworthy thought. Five years ago, could
he have seen--he who up to that time never had stooped to meanness and
deceit--the position in which he now stood, he would have rejected the
mere suspicion of its possibility with indignation. But by what
fatally easy steps had he reached it!
In the midst of these reflections his heart almost stopped beating at
the sound of a light footstep without. He listened, and heard a soft
tapping on the door, not with the knuckles, but with the finger-tips;
he opened the door, and Adelaide stood smiling before him.
With her finger at her lips she stepped into the room, and closed the
door behind her.
"It would not do for me to be seen," she whispered. "Do not be
alarmed; I shall not be here longer than one little minute. I have
only come to wish you good-night. Give me a chair, or I shall sink to
the ground. I am really very, very frightened. Quick; bring me a
chair. Do you not see how weak I am?"
He drew a chair towards Her, and she sank languidly into it.
"As you would not come to me," she said, "I was compelled to come to
you."
"Compelled!" he said.
They spoke in low tones, fearful lest their voices should travel
beyond the room.
"Yes, compelled. I was urged by a spirit."
His face grew white. "A spirit!"
"How you echo me, Christian. Yes, by a spirit, to which you yourself
shall give a name. Shall we call it a spirit of restlessness, or
jealousy, or love?" She gazed at him with an arch smile.
"Adelaide," he said, "your imprudence will ruin us."
"Nonsense, Christian, nonsense," she said lightly; "ruined because I
happened to utter one little word! To be sure I ought, so as to prove
myself an apt pupil, to put a longer word before it, and call it
platonic love. How unreasonable you are! What harm is there in our
having a moment's chat? We are old friends, are we not? No, I will not
let you interrupt me; I know what you are going to say. You are going
to say, Think of the hour! I decline to think of the hour. I think of
nothing but you. And instead of looking delighted, as you should do,
as any other man would do, there you stand as serious as an owl. Now,
answer me, sir. Why did you not come to me the moment you received my
note?"
"I had but just read it when you tapped at my door."
"I forgive you. Where have you been? With the Advocate?"
"No; I have been walking in the grounds."
"You saw nothing, Christian?" she asked with a little shiver.
"Nothing to alarm or disturb me."
"There was a light in the Advocate's study, was there not?"
"Yes."
"He will remain up late, and then he will retire to his room. My life
is a very bright and beautiful life with him. He is so tender in his
ways--so fond of pleasure--pays me so much attention, and _such_
compliments--is so light--hearted and joyous--sings to me, dances with
me! Oh, you don't know him, you don't indeed. I remember asking him to
join in a cotillon; you should have seen the look he gave me!" She
laughed out loud, and clapped her hand on her mouth to stifle the
sound. "I wonder whether he was ever young, like you and me. What a
wonderful child he must have been--with scientific toys, and books
always under his arm--yes, a wonderful child, holding in disdain
little girls who wished him to join in their innocent games. What is
your real opinion of him, Christian?"
"It pains me to hear you speak of him in that way."
"It should please you; but men are never satisfied. I speak lightly,
do I not, but there are moments when I shudder at my fate. Confess, it
is not a happy one."
"It is not," he replied, after a pause, "but if I had not crossed your
path, life would be full of joy for you."
It was not this he intended to say, but there was such compelling
power in her lightest words that his very thoughts seemed to be under
her dominion.
"There would have been no joy in my life," she said, "without you. We
will not discuss it. What is, is. Sometimes when I think of things
they make my head ache. Then I say, I will think of them no longer. If
everybody did the same, would not this world be a great deal
pleasanter than it is? Oh, you must not forget what the Advocate
called me to-night in your presence--a philosopher in petticoats.
Don't you see that even he is on my side, though it is against
himself? Of course one can't help respecting him. He is a very learned
man. He should have married a very learned woman. What a pity it is
that I am not wise! But that is not my fault. I hate learning, I hate
science, I hate theories. What is the good of them? They say, this is
not right, that is not right. And all we poor creatures can do is to
look on in a state of bewilderment, and wonder what they mean. If
people would only let the world alone, they would find it a very
beautiful world. But they will _not_ let it alone; they _will_ meddle.
A flower, now--is it not sweet--is it not enough that it is sent to
give us pleasure? But these disagreeable people say, 'Of what is this
flower composed--is it as good as other flowers--has it qualities, and
what qualities?' What do I care? I put it in my hair, and I am happy
because it becomes me, because it is pretty, because Nature sent it to
me to enjoy. Why, I have actually made you smile!"
"Because there is a great deal of natural wisdom in what you are
saying----"
"Natural wisdom! There now, does it not prove I am right? Thank you,
Christian. It comes to you to say exactly the right thing exactly at
the right time. I shall begin to feel proud."
"And," continued Almer, "if you were only to talk to me like that in
the middle of the day instead of the middle of the night----"
She interrupted him again:
"You have undone it all with your 'ifs.' What does it matter if it is
in the middle of the day or the middle of the night? What is right, is
right, is it not, without thinking of the time? Don't get
disagreeable; but indeed I will not allow you to be anything but nice
to me. You have made me forget everything I was going to say."
"Except one thing," he said gravely, "which you came to say,
'Good-night.'"
"The minute is not gone yet," she said with a silvery laugh.
"Many minutes, many minutes," he said helplessly, "and every minute is
fraught with danger."
"I will protect you," she said with supreme assurance. "Do not fear. I
see quite plainly that if there is a dragon to kill I shall have to be
the St. George. Well, I am ready. Danger is sweet when you are with
me."
He was powerless against her; he resigned himself to his fate.
"Who brought your letter to my room?" he asked. "Dionetta."
"Have you confided in her?"
"She knows nothing, and she is devoted to me. If the simple maid
thought of the letter at all--as to what was in it, I mean--she
thought, of course, that it was something I wanted you to do for me
to-morrow, and had forgotten to tell you. But even here I was prudent,
although you do not give me credit for prudence. I made her promise
not to tell a soul, not even her grandmother, that queer, good old
Mother Denise, that she had taken a letter from me to you. She did
more than promise--she swore she would not tell. I bribed her,
Christian--I gave her things, and to-night I gave her a pair of
earrings. You should have witnessed her delight! I would wager that
she is at this moment no more asleep than I am. She is looking at
herself in the glass, shaking her pretty little head to make the
diamonds glisten."
"Diamonds, Adelaide! A simple maid like Dionetta with diamond
earrings! What will the folks say?"
"Oh, they all know I am fond of her----"
They started to their feet with a simultaneous movement.
"Footsteps!" whispered Almer.
"The Advocate's," said Adelaide, and she glided to the door, and
turned the key as softly as if it were made of velvet.
"He will see a light in the room," said Christian. "He has come to
talk with me. What shall we do?"
She gazed at him with a bright smile. His face was white with
apprehension; hers, red with excitement and exaltation.
"I am St. George," she whispered; "but really there is no dragon to
kill; we have only to send him to sleep. Of course you must see him. I
will conceal myself in the inner room, and you will lock me in, and
put the key in your pocket, so that I shall be quite safe. Do not be
uneasy about me; I can amuse myself with books and pictures, and I
will turn over the leaves so quietly that even a butterfly would not
be disturbed. And when the dragon is gone I will run away immediately.
I am almost sorry I came, it has distressed you so."
She kissed the tips of her fingers to him, and entered the adjoining
room. Then, turning the key in the door Christian Almer admitted the
Advocate.
CHAPTER X
A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE WEB
Pause we here a moment, and contemplate the threads of the web which
Chance, Fate, or Retribution was weaving round this man.
With the exception of a few idle weeks in his youth, his life had been
a life of honour and renown. His ambition was a worthy one, and
success had not been attained without unwearying labour and devotion.
Close study and application, zeal, earnestness, unflagging industry,
these were the steps in the ladder he had climbed. Had it not been for
his keen intellect these qualities would not have been sufficient to
conduct him to the goal he had in view. Good luck is not to be
despised, but unless it is allied with brain power of a high order
only an ephemeral success can be achieved.
Never, to outward appearance, was a great reputation more stable or
better deserved. His wonderful talents, and the victories he had
gained in the face of formidable odds, had destroyed all the petty
jealousies with which he had to cope in the outset of his career, and
he stood now upon a lofty pinnacle, acknowledged by all as a master in
his craft. Wealth and distinction were his, and higher honours lay
within his grasp; and, in addition, he had won for his wife one of the
most beautiful of women. It seemed as if the world had nothing to add
to his happiness.
And yet destruction stared him in the face. The fabric he had raised,
on a foundation so secure that it appeared as if nothing could shake
it, was tottering, and might fall, destroying him and all he had
worked for in the ruins.
He stood at the door of the only man in the world to whom he had given
the full measure of his friendship. With all the strength of his
nature he believed in Christian Almer. In the gravest crisis of his
life he would have called this friend to his side, and would have
placed in his hands, without hesitation, his life, his reputation, and
his honour. To Almer, in their conversation, he had revealed what may
be termed his inner life, that life the workings of which were
concealed from all other men. And in this friend's chamber his wife
was concealed; and dishonour hung over him by the slenderest thread.
Not only dishonour, but unutterable grief, for he loved this woman
with a most complete undoubting love. Little time had he for
dalliance; but he believed in his wife implicitly. His trust in her
was a perfect trust.
Within the room at the door of which he was waiting, stood his one
friend, with white face and guilty conscience, about to admit him and
grasp his hand. Had the heart of this friend been laid bare to him, he
would have shrunk from it in horror and loathing, and from that moment
to the last moment of his life the sentiment of friendship would have
been to him the bitterest mockery and delusion with which man could be
cursed.
Not five yards from where he stood lay Pierre Lamont, listening and
watching for proofs of the perfidy which would bring disgrace upon
him--which would cause men and women to speak of him in terms of
derision for his blindness and scorn for his weakness--which would
make a byeword of him--of him, the great Advocate, who had played his
part in many celebrated cases in which woman's faithlessness and
disloyalty were the prominent features--and which would cause him to
regard the sentiment of love as the falsest delusion with which
mankind was ever afflicted.
In the study he had left but a few minutes since slept a man who, in a
certain sense, claimed comradeship with him, a man whom he had
championed and set free, a self-confessed murderer, a wretch so vile
that he had fled from him in horror at the act he had himself
accomplished.
And in the open air, upon a hill, a hundred yards from the House of
White Shadows, lay John Vanbrugh, a friend of his youth, a man
disgraced by his career, watching for the signal which would warrant
him in coming forward and divulging what was in his mind. If what John
Vanbrugh had disclosed in his mutterings during his lonely watch was
true, he held in his hands the key to a mystery, which, revealed,
would overwhelm the Advocate with shame and infamy.
Thus was he threatened on all sides by friend and foe alike.
CHAPTER XI
A CRISIS
"Have I disturbed you, Christian?" asked the Advocate, entering the
room. "I hesitated a moment or two, hearing no sound, but seeing your
lamp was lighted, I thought you were up, and might be expecting me."
"I had an idea you would come," said Almer, with a feeling of relief
at the Advocate's statement that he had heard no sound; and then he
said, so that he might be certain of his ground, "You have not been to
my room before to-night?"
"No; for the last two hours I have not left my study. Half an hour's
converse with you will do me good. I am terribly jaded."
"The reaction of the excitement of the long trial in which you have
been engaged."
"Probably; though I have endured fatigue as great without feeling as
jaded as I do now."
"You must take rest. Your doctors who prescribed repose for you would
be angry if they were aware of the strain you have put upon your
mind."
"They do know. The physician I place the greatest faith in writes to
me that I must have been mad to have undertaken Gautran's defence. It
might have been better if I had not entered into that trial."
"You have one consolation. Defended by a lawyer less eminent than
yourself, an unfortunate man might have been convicted of a crime he
did not commit."
"Yes," said the Advocate slowly, "that is true."
"You compel admiration, Edward. With frightful odds against you, with
the public voice against you, you voluntarily engage in a contest from
which nothing is to be gained, and come out triumphant. I do not envy
the feelings of the lawyers on the other side."
"At least, Christian, as you have said, they have the public voice
with them."
"And you, Edward, have justice on your side, and the consciousness of
right. The higher height is yours; you must regard these narrower
minds with a feeling of pity."
"I have no feeling whatever for them; they do not trouble me.
Christian, we will quit the subject of Gautran; you can well
understand that I have had enough of him. Let us speak of yourself. I
am an older man than you, and there is something of a fatherly
interest in the friendship I entertain for you. Since my marriage I
have sometimes thought if I had a son I should have been pleased if
his nature resembled yours, and if I had a daughter it would be in the
hands of such a man as yourself I should wish to place her happiness."
"You esteem me too highly," said Almer, in a tone of sadness.
"I esteem you as you deserve, friend. Within your nature are
possibilities you do not recognise. It is needful to be bold in this
world, Christian; not arrogant, or over-confident, or vain-glorious,
but modestly bold. Unless a man assert himself his powers will lie
dormant; and not to use the gifts with which we are endowed is a
distinct reproach upon us. I have heard able men say it is a crime to
neglect our powers, for great gifts are bestowed upon us for others'
good as well as for our own. Besides, it is healthy in every way to
lead a busy life, to set our minds upon the accomplishment of certain
tasks. If we fail--well, failure is very often more honourable than
success. We have at least striven to mount the hill which rises above
the pettiness and selfishness of our everyday life; we have at least
proved ourselves worthy of the spiritual influences which prompt the
execution of noble deeds. You did not reply to the letter I sent you
in the mountains; but Adelaide heard from you, and that is sufficient.
Sufficient, also, that you are here with us, and that we know we have
a true friend in the house. You were many weeks in the mountains."
"Yes."
"Were you engaged on any work? Did you paint or write?"
"I made a few sketches, which pleased me one day and displeased me the
next, so I tore them up and threw them away. There is enough
indifferent work in the world."
"Nothing short of perfection will satisfy you," said the Advocate with
a serious smile; "but some men must march in the ranks."
"I am not worthy even of that position," said Almer moodily.
The Advocate regarded him with thoughtful eyes.
"If your mind is not deeply reflective, if your power of observation
applies only to the surface of things, you are capable of imparting
what some call tenderness and I call soul, to every subject which
presents itself to you. I have detected this in your letters and
conversation. It is a valuable quality. I grant that you may be unfit
to cope with practical matters, but in your study you would be able to
produce works which would charm if they did not instruct. There is in
you a heart instinct which, as it forms part of your nature, would
display itself in everything you wrote."
"Useless, Edward, useless! My father was an author; it brought him no
happiness."
"How do you know? It may have afforded him consolation, and that is
happiness. But I was not speaking of happiness. The true artist does
not look to results. He has only one aim and one desire--to produce a
perfect work. His task being done--not that he produces a perfect
work, but the ennoblement lies in the aspiration and the earnest
application--that being done, he has accomplished something worthy,
whatever its degree of excellence. The day upon which a man first
devotes himself to such labour he awakes within his being a new and
delightful life, the life of creative thought. Fresh wonders
continually reveal themselves--quaint suggestions, exquisite fancies,
and he makes use of them according to the strength of his intellect.
He enriches the world."
"And if he is a poor man, starves."
"Maybe; but he wears the crown. You, however, are rich."
"Nothing to be grateful for. I had no incentive to effort, therefore I
stand to-day an idle, aimless man. You have spoken of books. When I
looked at crowded bookshelves, I should blush at the thought of adding
to them any rubbish of my own creation."
"I find no fault with you for that. Blush if you like--but work,
produce."
"And let the world call me vain and presumptuous."
"Give it the chance of judging; it may be the other way. Perhaps the
greatest difficulty we have to encounter in life is in the discovery
of that kind of work for which we are best fitted. Fortunate the man
who gravitates to it naturally, and who, having the capacity to become
a fine shoemaker, is not clapped upon a watchmaker's bench instead of
a cobbler's stool. Being fitted, he is certain to acquire some kind of
distinction. Believe me, Christian, it is not out of idleness, or for
the mere purpose of making conversation that I open up this subject.
It would afford me great pleasure if you were in a more settled frame
of mind. You cannot disguise from me that you are uneasy, perhaps
unhappy. I see it this very moment in your wandering glances, and in
the difficulty you experience in fixing your attention upon what I am
saying. You are not satisfied with yourself. You have probably arrived
at that stage when a man questions himself as to what is before
him--when he reviews the past, and discovers that he has allowed the
years to slip by without having made an effort to use them to a worthy
end. You ask yourself, 'Is it for this I am here? Are there not
certain duties which I ought to perform? If I allow the future to slip
away as the past has done, without having accomplished a man's work in
the world, I shall find myself one day an old man, of whom it may be
said, "He lived only for himself; he had no thought, no desire beyond
himself; the struggles of humanity, the advance of civilisation, the
progress and development of thought which have effected such
marvellous changes in the aspects of society, the exposing of
error--these things touched him not; he bore no part in them, but
stood idly by, a careless observer, whose only ambition it was to
utilise the hours to his own selfish pleasures."' A heavy charge,
Christian. What you want is occupation. Politics--your inclinations do
not lead that way; trade is abhorrent to you. You are not sufficiently
frivolous to develop into a butterfly leader of fashion. Law is
distasteful to you. Science demands qualities which you do not
possess. For a literary life you are specially adapted. I say to you,
turn your attention to it for a while. If it disappoint you, it is
easy to relinquish it. It will be but an attempt made in the right
direction. But understand, Christian, without earnestness, without
devotion, without application, it will be useless to make the
attempt."
"And that is precisely the reason why I hesitate to make it. I am
wanting in firmness of purpose. I doubt myself; I should have begun
earlier."
"But you will think over what I have said?"
"Yes, I will think of it, and I cordially thank you."
"And now tell me how you enjoyed yourself in the mountains."
"Passably well. It was a negative sort of life. There was no pleasure
in it, and no pain. One day was so exactly like another, that I should
scarcely have been surprised if I had awoke one morning and discovered
that in the dull uniformity of the hours my hair had grown white and I
into an old man. The principal subject of interest was the weather,
and that palled so soon that sunshine or storm became a matter of
indifference to me."
"Look at me a moment, Christian."
They sat gazing at each other in silence for a little while. There was
an unusual tenderness in the Advocate's eyes which pierced Christian
Almer to the heart. During the whole of this interview the thought
never left his mind:
"If he knew the part I am playing towards him--if he suspected that
simply by listening at this inner door he could hear his wife's soft
breathing--in what way would he call me to account for my treachery?"
He dreaded every moment that something would occur to betray him.
Adelaide was careless, reckless. If she made a movement to attract
attention, if she overturned a chair, if she let a book fall, what was
he to say in answer to the Advocate's questioning look?
But all was quiet within; he was tortured only by the whisperings of
his conscience.
"You are suffering, Christian," said the Advocate.
Almer knew intuitively that on this point, as on many others, it would
be useless to attempt to deceive the Advocate. To return an evasive
answer might arouse suspicion. He said simply:
"Yes, I am suffering."
"It is not bodily suffering, though your pulse is feverish." He had
taken Almer's wrist, and his fingers were on the pulse. "Your disease
is mental." He paused, but Almer did not speak. "It is no breach of
confidence," continued the Advocate, "to tell you that on the first
day of my entering Geneva, Jacob Hartrich and I had a conversation
about you. There was nothing said that need be kept private. We
conversed as two men might converse concerning an absent friend in
whom both took an affectionate interest. He had noticed a change in
you which I have noticed since I entered this room. When you visited
him he was impressed by an unusual strangeness in your manner. That
strangeness of manner, without your being aware of it, is upon you
now. He said that you were restless and ill at ease. You are at this
moment restless and ill at ease. The muscles of your face, your eyes,
your hands, are not under your control. They respond to the mental
disease which causes you to suffer. You will forgive me for saying
that you convey to me the impression that you would be more at ease at
the present time if I were not with you."
"I entreat you," said Almer eagerly, "not to think so."
"I accept your assurance, which, nevertheless, does not convince me
that I am wrong in my impression. The friendship which exists between
us is too close and binding--I may even go so far as to say, too
sacred--for me, a colder and more experienced man than yourself, to
allow it to be affected by any matter outside its boundary. Deprive it
of sympathy, and friendship is an unmeaning word. I sympathise with
you deeply, sincerely, without knowing how to relieve you. I ask you
frankly, however, one question which you may freely answer. Have you
fixed your affections upon a woman who does not reciprocate your
love?"
The Advocate was seated by the desk upon which Almer had, after
reading it, carelessly thrown the note written to him by Adelaide, and
as he put the question to his friend, he involuntarily laid his hand
upon this damning evidence of his wife's disloyalty.
CHAPTER XII
SELF-JUSTIFICATION
The slight action and the significant question presented a coincidence
so startling that Christian Almer was fascinated by it. That there was
premeditation or design in the coincidence, or that the Advocate had
cunningly led the conversation to this point for the purpose of
confounding him and bringing him face to face with his treachery, did
not suggest itself to his mind. He was, indeed, incapable of reasoning
coherently. All that he was momentarily conscious of was, that
discovery was imminent, that the sword hung over him, suspended by a
hair. Would it fall, and in its fall compel into a definite course the
conflicting passions by which he was tortured?
It would, perhaps, be better so. Already did he experience a feeling
of relief at this suggestion, and it appeared to him as if he were
bending his head for the welcome blow.
But all was still and quiet, and through the dim mist before his eyes
he saw the Advocate gazing kindly upon him.
Then there stole upon him a wild prompting, a mad impulse, to expedite
discovery by his own voluntary act--to say to the Advocate:
"I have betrayed you. Read that note beneath your hand; take this key,
and open yonder door; find there your wife. What do you propose to
do?"
The words did actually shape themselves in his mind, and he half
believed that he had uttered them. They did not, however, escape his
lips. He was instinctively restrained by the consideration that in his
punishment Adelaide would be involved. What right had he deliberately
to ruin and expose her? A cowardly act thus to sacrifice a woman who
in this crisis relied upon him for protection. In a humiliating,
shameful sense it is true, but none the less was she under his direct
protection at this moment. Self-tortured as he was he could still show
that he had some spark of manliness left in him. To recklessly dispose
of the fate of the woman whose only crime was that she loved him--this
he dared not do.
His mood changed. Arrived at this conclusion, his fear now was that he
had betrayed himself--that in some indefinite way he had given the
Advocate the key to his thoughts, or that he had, by look or
expression, conveyed to his friend a sense of the terrible importance
of the perfumed note which lay upon the desk.
"You do not answer me, Christian," said the Advocate.
But Almer could not speak. His eyes were fixed upon Adelaide's note,
and he found it impossible to divert his attention from the idle
movements of the Advocate's fingers. His unreasoning impulse to hasten
discovery was gone, and he was afflicted now by a feeling of
apprehension. It was his imperative duty to protect Adelaide; while
the Advocate's hand rested upon the envelope which contained her
secret she was not safe. At all risks, even at the hazard of his life,
must she be held blameless. Had the Advocate lifted the envelope from
the desk, Almer would have torn it from him.
"Why do you not speak?" asked the Advocate. "Surely there is nothing
offensive in such a question between friends like ourselves."
"I can offer you no explanation of what I am about to say," replied
Almer: "it may sound childish, trivial, pitiful, but my thoughts are
not under my own control while your hand is upon that letter."
With the slightest expression of surprise the Advocate handed Almer
the envelope, scarcely looking at it as it passed from his possession.
"Why did you not speak of it before?" he said. "But when a mind is
unbalanced, trifling matters are magnified into importance."
"I can only ask you to forgive me," said Almer, placing the envelope
in his pocket-book. "I have no doubt in the course of your career you
have met with many small incidents quite as inexplicable." Then an
excuse which would surely be accepted occurred to him. "It may be
sufficient for me to say that this is the first night of my return to
the house in which I was born and passed a not too happy boyhood, and
that in this room my mother died."
The Advocate pressed Almer's hand.
"There is no need for another word. You have been looking over some
old family papers, and they have aroused melancholy reminiscences. I
should have been more thoughtful; I was wrong in coming to you. It
will be best to say good-night."
But Almer, anxious to avoid the slightest cause for suspicion in the
right direction, said:
"Nay, stay with me a few minutes longer, or I shall reproach myself
for having behaved unreasonably. You were asking----"
"A delicate question. Whether you love without being loved in return?"
"No, Edward, that is not the case with me."
"You have no intention of marrying?"
"No."
"Then your heart is still free. You reassure me. You are not suffering
from what has been described as the most exquisite of all human
sufferings--unrequited love. Neither have you experienced a
disappointment in friendship?"
"No. I have scarcely a friend with the exception of yourself."
"And my wife. You must not forget her. She takes a cordial interest in
you."
"Yes, and your wife."
"It was Jacob Hartrich who suggested that you might have met with a
disappointment in love or friendship. I disputed it, in the belief
that had it been unhappily so you would have confided in me. I am glad
that I was right. Shall I continue?"
"Yes."
"The banker, who entertains the most kindly sentiments towards you,
based all his conjectures upon a certain remark which made a strong
impression upon him. You told him you were weary of the gaiety and the
light and bustle of cities, and that it was your intention to seek
some solitude where, by a happy chance, you might rid yourself of a
terror which possessed you. I can understand your weariness of the
false glare of fashionable city life; it can never for any long period
satisfy the intellect. But neither can it instil a terror into a man's
soul. That would spring from another and a deeper cause."
"The words were hastily spoken. Look upon them as an exaggeration."
"I certainly regard them in that light, but they were not an
invention, and there must have been a serious motive for them. It is
not in vain that I have studied your character, although I feel that I
did not master the study. I am subjecting you, Christian, to a kind of
mental analysis, in an endeavour to arrive at a conclusion which will
enable me to be of assistance to you. And I do not disguise from you
that, were it in my power, I would assist you even against your will.
Our friendship, and my age and more varied experience, would justify
me. I do not seek to force your confidence, but I ask you in the
spirit of true friendship to consider--not at present, but in a few
days, when your mind is in a calmer state--whether such counsel and
guidance as it may be in my power to offer will not be a real help to
you. Do not lightly reject my assistance in probing a painful wound. I
will use my knife gently. There was a time when I believed there was
nothing that could happen to either of us which we should be unwilling
to confide each to the other, freely and without restraint. I find I
am not too old to learn the lesson that the strongest beliefs, the
firmest convictions, may be seriously weakened by the occurrence of
circumstances for which the wisest foresight could not have provided.
Keep, then, your secret, if you are so resolved, and bear in mind that
on the day you come to me and say, 'Edward, help me, guide me,' you
will find me ready. I shall not fail you, Christian, in any crisis."
Almer rose and slowly paced the room, while the Advocate sat back in
his chair, and watched his friend with affectionate solicitude.
"Does this lesson," presently said Almer, "which you are not too old
to learn, spring entirely from the newer impressions you are receiving
of my character, or has something in your mind which you have not
disclosed helped to lead you to it?"
It was a chance shot, but it strangely hit the mark. The question
brought forcibly to the Advocate's mind the position in which he
himself was placed by Gautran's confession, and by his subsequent
resolve to conceal the knowledge of Gautran's crime.
"What a web is the world!" he thought. "How the lines which here are
widely apart, but a short space beyond cross and are linked in closest
companionship!" Both Christian and himself had something to conceal,
and it would be acting in bad faith to his friend were he to return an
evasive answer.
"It is not entirely from the newer impressions you speak of that I
learn the lesson. It springs partly from a matter which disturbs my
mind."
"Referring to me?"
"No, to myself. You are not concerned in it."
In his turn Almer now became the questioner.
"A new experience of your own, Edward?"
"Yes."
"Which must have occurred to you since we were last together?"
"It originated during your absence."
"Which came upon you unaware--for which your foresight could not have
provided?"
"At all events it did not."
"You speak seriously, Edward, and your face is clouded."
"It is a very serious matter."
"Can I help you? Is it likely that my advice would be of assistance?"
"I can speak of it to no one."
"You also have a secret then?"
"Yes, I also have a secret."
Christian Almer appeared to gather strength--a warranty, as it were,
for his own wrong-doing--from the singular direction the conversation
had taken. It was as though part of a burden was lifted from him. He
was not the only one who was suffering--he was not the only one who
was standing on a dangerous brink--he was not the only one who had
drifted into dangerous waters. Even this strong-brained man, this
Advocate who had seemingly held aloof from pleasure, whose days and
nights had been given up to study, whose powerful intellect could
pierce dark mysteries and bring them into clear light, who was the
last man in the world who could be suspected of yielding to a
prompting of which his judgment and conscience could not approve--even
he had a secret which he was guarding with jealous care. Was it likely
then, that he, the younger and the more impressionable of the two,
could escape snares into which the Advocate had fallen? The fatalist's
creed recurred to him. All these matters of life were preordained.
What folly--what worse than folly, what presumption, for one weak man
to attempt to stem the irresistible current! It was delivering himself
up to destruction. Better to yield and float upon the smooth tide and
accept what good or ill fate has in store for him. What use to infuse
into the sunlight, and the balmy air, and into all the sweets of life,
the poison of self-torture? The confession he had extracted from the
Advocate was in a certain sense a justification of himself. He would
pursue the subject still further. As he had been questioned, so he
would question. It was but just.
"To judge from your manner, Edward, your secret is no light one."
"It is of most serious import."
"I almost fear to ask a question which occurs to me."
"Ask freely. I have been candid with you, in my desire to ascertain
how I could help you in your trouble. Be equally candid with me."
"But it may be misconstrued. I am ashamed that it should have
suggested itself--for which, of course, the worser part of me is
responsible. No--it shall remain unspoken."
"I should prefer that you asked it--nay, I desire you to do so. There
is no fear of misconstruction. Do you think I wish to stand in your
eyes as a perfect man? That would be arrogant, indeed. Or that I do
not know that you and I and all men are possessed of contradictions
which, viewed in certain aspects, may degrade the most noble? The
purest of us--men and women alike--have undignified thoughts, unworthy
imaginings, to which we would be loth to give utterance. But
sometimes, as in this instance, it becomes a duty. I have had occasion
quite lately to question myself closely, and I have fallen in my own
estimation. There is more baseness in me than I imagined. Hesitate no
longer. Ask your question, and as many more as may arise from it;
these things are frequently hydra-headed. I shall know how far to
answer without disclosing what I desire shall remain buried."
Almer put his question boldly.
"Is the fate of a woman involved in your secret?"
An almost imperceptible start revealed to Almer's eyes that another
chance arrow had hit the mark. Truly, a woman's fate formed the kernel
of the Advocate's secret--a virtuous, innocent woman who had been most
foully murdered. He answered in set words, without any attempt at
evasion.
"Yes, a woman's fate is involved in it."
"Your wife's?" Had his life depended upon it, Almer could not have
kept back the words.
"No, not my wife's."
"In that case," said Almer slowly, "a man's honour is concerned."
"You guess aright--a man's honour is concerned."
"Yours?"
"Mine."
For a few moments neither of them spoke, and then the Advocate said:
"To men suspicious of each other--as most men naturally are, and
generally with reason--such a turn in our conversation, and indeed the
entire conversation in which we have indulged, might be twisted to
fatal disadvantage. In the way of conjecture I mean--as to what is the
essence of the secret which I do not reveal to my dearest friend, and
the essence of that which my dearest friend does not reveal to me. It
is fortunate, Christian, that you and I stand higher than most. We
have rarely hesitated to speak heart to heart and soul to soul; and
if, by some strange course of events, there has arisen in each of our
inner lives a mystery which we have decided not to reveal, it will not
weaken the feeling of affection we entertain for each other. Is that
so, Christian?"
"Yes, it is so, Edward."
"Men of action, of deep thought, of strong passion, of sensitive
natures, are less their own masters than peasants who take no part in
the turmoil of the world. An uneventful life presents fewer
temptations, and there is therefore more freedom in it. We live in an
atmosphere of wine, and often miss our way. Well, we must be indulgent
to each other, and be sometimes ready to say, 'The position of
difficulty into which you have been thrust, the error you have
committed, the sin--yes, even the sin--of which you have been guilty,
may have fallen to my lot had I been placed in similar circumstances.
It is not I who will be the first to condemn you.'"
"Even," said Almer, "if that error or that sin may be a grievous wrong
inflicted against yourself. Even then you would be ready to excuse and
forgive?"
"Yes, even in that case. I should be taking a narrow view of an
argument if I applied to all the world what I hesitated to apply to
myself."
"So that the committal of a great wrong may be justified by
circumstances?"
"Yes, I will go as far as that. The fault of the child or the fault of
the man, is but a question of degree. Some err deliberately, some are
hurried into error by passions which master them."
"By natural passions?"
"All such passions are natural, although it is the fashion to condemn
them when they clash with the conditions of social life. The workings
of the moral and sympathetic affections are beyond our own control."
"Of those who have erred with deliberate intention and those who have
been hurried blindly into error, which should you be most ready to
forgive?"
"The latter," replied the Advocate, conscious that in his answer he
was condemning himself; "they are comparatively innocent, having less
power over, and being less able to retrace their steps."
"You pause," said Almer, a sudden thrill agitating his veins. "Why?"
"I thought I heard a sound--like a suppressed laugh! Did you not hear
it?"
"No. I heard nothing."
Almer's teeth met in scorn of himself as he uttered this falsehood.
The sound of the laugh was low but distinct, and it proceeded from the
room in which Adelaide was concealed.
The Advocate stepped to the door by which he had entered, and looked
up and down the passage, to which two lamps gave light. It was quiet
and deserted.
"My fancy," he said, standing within the half-open door. "My
physicians know more of the state of my nerves than I do myself. It is
interesting, however, to observe one's own mental delusions. But I was
wrong in mixing myself up with that trial."
Still that trial. Always that trial. It seemed to him as if he could
never forget it, as if it would forever abide with him. It coloured
his thoughts, it gave form to his arguments. Would it end by changing
his very nature?
"You are over-wrought, Edward," said Almer. "If you were to seek what
I have sought, solitude, it might be more beneficial to you than it
has been to me."
"There is solitude enough for me in this retired village," said the
Advocate, "and had I not undertaken the defence of Gautran, my health
by this time might have been completely established. We are here
sufficiently removed from the fierce passions of the world--they
cannot touch us in this primitive birthplace of yours. Do you
recognise how truly I spoke when I said that men like ourselves are
the slaves, and peasants the free men? Besides, Christian, there is a
medicine in friendship such as yours which I defy the doctors to
rival. Even though there has been a veil over our confidences
to-night, I feel that this last hour has been of benefit to me. You
know that I am much given to thinking to myself. As a rule, at those
times, one walks in a narrow groove; if he argues, the contradiction
he receives is of that mild character that it can be easily proved
wrong. No wonder, when the thinker creates it for the purpose of
proving himself right. It is seldom healthy, this solitary
communionship--it leads rarely to just conclusions. But in
conversation new byeroads reveal themselves, in which we wander
pleasantly--new vistas appear--new suggestions arise, to give variety
to the argument and to show that it has more than one selfish side. He
who leads entirely a life of thought lives a dead life. Good-night,
Christian. I have kept you from your rest. Good-night. Sleep well."
CHAPTER XIII
SHADOWS
Christian Almer stood at the door, gazing at the retreating figure of
the Advocate. It passed through the clear light of the lamps, became
blurred, was merged in the darkness. The corridor was long, and before
the Advocate reached the end he was a shadow among shadows.
In Almer's excited mood the slightest impressions became the medium
for distorted reflection. The dim form of the Advocate was pregnant
with meaning, and when it was finally lost to sight, Almer's eyes
followed an invisible figure moving, not through space, but through
events in which he and his friend and Adelaide were the principal
actors. A wild whirl of images crowded to his mind, presenting
in the midst of their confusion defined and distinct pictures, the
leading features of which were the consequences arising from the
double betrayal of love and friendship. Violent struggles, deadly
embraces--in houses, in forests, on the brinks of precipices, in the
torrents of furious rivers. The proportions of these images were vast,
titanic. The forests were interminable, the trees rose to an immense
height, the rivers resembled raging seas, the presentments of animated
life were of unnatural magnitude. Even when he and Adelaide were
flying through a trackless wood, and were overtaken by the Advocate,
this impression of gigantic growth prevailed, as though there were
room in the world for naught but themselves and the passions by which
they were swayed.
He was recalled to himself by a soft tapping at the door of the inner
room. He instantly unlocked it, and released Adelaide, who raised her
eyes, beaming with animation, to his.
He was overcome with astonishment. He thought to see her pale,
frightened, trembling. Never had he beheld her more radiant.
"He is gone," she said in a gay tone.
"Hush!" whispered Almer, "he may return."
"He will not," she said. "You will see him no more to-night."
"Thank Heaven the danger is averted! I feel as if I had been guilty of
some horrible crime."
"Whereas you have simply indulged poor innocent me in a harmless
fancy. Christian, I heard every word."
"I thought you would have fallen asleep. How could you have been so
imprudent, so reckless, as to laugh?"