"My child was born--a boy. My happiness would have been complete had

my wife shown me a little more affection; but again, after the birth

of our child, it dawned upon me that she cared very little for me, and

that the feelings she entertained for me in no wise resembled those

which a loving woman should feel towards a husband who was

indefatigable, as indeed I was, in his efforts to promote her

happiness. Even then it did not strike me that she was happier in M.

Gabriel's society than she was in mine. The truth, however, was now to

be made known to me. It reached me through the idle tittle-tattling of

one of my guests; of my own prompting I doubt whether I should ever

have discovered it. I overheard this lady making some injurious

observations respecting my wife; no man's name was mentioned, but I

heard enough to cause me to resolve to hear more, and to put an end at

once to the utterances of a malicious tongue.

"During my life, in matters of great moment, I have seldom acted upon

impulse, and the value of calm deliberation after sudden excitement of

feeling has frequently been made apparent to me.

"I sought this lady, and told her that I had overheard the remarks she

had made on the previous day; that I was profoundly impressed by them,

and intended to know what foundation there was for even a breath of

scandal. I had some difficulty in bringing her to the point, but I was

determined, and would be satisfied with no evasions.

"'I love my wife, madam,' I said, 'too well to be content with half

words and innuendoes, which in their effect are worse than open

accusations.'

"'Accusations!' exclaimed the lady. 'Good Heavens! I have brought

none.'

"'It is for that reason I complain,' I said; 'accusations can be met,

and are by no means so much to be feared as idle words which affect

the honour of those who are the subject of them.'

"'I merely repeated,' then said the lady, 'what others have been

saying for a long time past.'

"'And what have others been saying for a long time past, madam?' I

asked, with an outward calmness which deceived her into the belief

that I was not taking the matter seriously to heart.

"'I am sure it is very foolish of them,' said the lady, 'and that

there is nothing in it. But people are so mischievous, and place such

dreadful constructions upon things! It is, after all, only natural

that when, after a long separation, young lovers meet, they should

feel a little tender towards each other, even though one of them has

got married in the interval. We all go through such foolish

experiences, and when we grow as old as you and I are, we laugh at

them.'

"'Probably, madam,' I said, still with exceeding calmness; 'but before

we can laugh with any genuineness or enjoyment, it is necessary to

have some knowledge of the cause of our mirth. When young lovers meet,

you said, after a long separation, it is natural they should feel a

tenderness towards each other. But we are speaking of my wife.'

"'Yes,' she replied, 'of your wife, and I am sure you are too sensible

a man--so much older than that sweet creature!--to make any

unnecessary bother about it.'

"She knew well how to plant daggers in my heart.

"'My wife, then, is one of those young lovers? You really must answer

me, madam. These are, after all, but foolish experiences.'

"'I am glad you are taking it so sensibly,' she rejoined. 'Yes, your

wife is one of the young lovers.'

"'And the other, madam.'

"'Why, who else should it be but M. Gabriel?'

"I did not speak for a few moments. The shock was so severe that I

required time to recover some semblance of composure.

"'My mind is much relieved,' I said. 'There is not the slightest

foundation for scandal, and I trust that this interview will put an

effectual stop to it. My wife and M. Gabriel have not been long

acquainted. They met each other for the first time in this house.'

"'Ah,' cried the lady very vivaciously, 'you want to deceive me now;

but it is nonsense. Your wife and M. Gabriel have known each other for

many years. They were once affianced. Had you not stepped in, there is

no knowing what might have occurred. It is much better as it is--I am

sure you think so. What can be worse for a young and beautiful

creature than to marry a poor and struggling artist? M. Gabriel is

very talented, but he is very poor. By the time he is a middle-aged

man he may have made his way in the world, and then his little romance

will be forgotten--quite forgotten. I dare say you can look back to

the time when you were as young as he is, and can recall somebody you

were madly in love with, but of whom you never think, except by the

merest chance. These things are so common, you see. And now don't let

us talk any more about it.'

"I had no desire to exchange another word with the lady on the

subject; I allowed her to rest in the belief that I had been

acquainted with the whole affair, and did not wish it to get about.

She promised me never to speak of it again to her friends in any

injurious way, said it was a real pleasure to see what a sensible view

I took of the matter, and our interview was at an end.

"I had learnt all. At length, at length my eyes were opened, and the

perfidy which had been practised towards me was revealed. All was

explained. My wife's constant coldness, her insensibility to the

affectionate advances I had made towards her, her pleasure at meeting

her lover--the unworthy picture lay before my sight. There was no

longer any opportunity for self-deception. Had I not recognised and

acknowledged the full extent of the treason, I should have become base

in my own esteem. It was not that they had been lovers--that knowledge

in itself would have been hard to bear--but that they should have

concealed it from me, that they should have met in my presence as

strangers, that they should have tacitly agreed to trick me!--for

hours I could not think with calmness upon these aspects of the misery

which had been forced upon me. For she, my wife, was in the first

instance responsible for our marriage; she could have refused me. I

was in utter ignorance of a love which, during all these years, had

been burning in her heart, and making her life and mine a torture. Had

she been honest, had she been true, she would have said to me: 'I love

another; how, then, can I accept the love you offer me, and how can

you hope for a return? If circumstances compel me to marry you there

must be no concealment, no treason. You must take me as I am, and

never, never make my coldness the cause of reproach or unhappiness.'

Yes, this much she might have said to me when I offered her my name--a

name upon which there had hitherto been no stain and no dishonour. I

should not have married her; I should have acted as a father towards

her; I should have conducted her to the arms of her lover, and into

their lives and mine would not have crept this infamy, this blight,

this shame which even death cannot efface.

"Of such a nature were my thoughts during the day.

"Then came the resolve to be sure before I took action in the matter.

The evidence of my own senses should convince me that in my own house

my wife and her lover were playing a base part, were systematically

deceiving me and laughing at me.

"Of this man, this friend, whom I had taken to my heart, my horror and

disgust were complete. I, whose humane instincts had in my youth been

made the sport of my companions, who shrank from inflicting the

slightest injury upon the meanest creature that crawled upon the

earth, who would not even strip the leaves from a flower, found myself

now transformed. Had M. Gabriel been in my presence at any moment

during these hours of agonising thought, I should have torn him limb

from limb and rejoiced in my cruelty. So little do we know ourselves."

CHAPTER IV

M. GABRIEL IS DISMISSED

"I was up the whole of the night; I did not close my eyes, and when

morning broke I had schooled myself to the task before me--to assure

myself of the truth and the extent of the shame.

"I kept watch, and did not betray myself to them, and what I saw

filled me with amazement at my blindness and credulity. That my wife

was not guilty, that she was not faithless to me in the ordinary

acceptation of the term, was no palliation of her conduct.

"Steadfastly I kept before me one unalterable resolve. In the eyes of

the world the name I bore should not be dishonoured, if by any means

it could be prevented. We would keep our shame and our deep

unhappiness within our own walls. In the light of this resolve it was

impossible that I could challenge M. Gabriel; he must go unpunished by

me. My name should not be dragged through the mire, to become a

byeword for pity.

"By degrees, upon one excuse and another, I got rid of my visitors,

and there remained in the villa only I, my wife and child, and M.

Gabriel. Then, in M. Gabriel's studio, I broke in upon the lovers, and

found my wife in tears.

"For a moment or two I gazed upon them in silence, and they, who had

risen in confusion when I presented myself, confronted me also in

silence, waiting for the storm of anger which they expected to burst

from me, an outraged husband. They were mistaken; I was outwardly

calm.

"'Madam,' I inquired, addressing my wife, 'may I inquire the cause of

your tears?'

"She did not reply; M. Gabriel did. 'Let me explain,' he said, but I

would not allow him to proceed.

"'I do not need you,' I said, 'to interpose between man and wife. I

may presently have something to say to you. Till then, be silent.'

Again I addressed my wife, and asked her why she was weeping.

"'They are not the first tears I have shed,' she replied, 'since I

entered this unhappy house.'

"'I am aware of it, madam,' I replied; 'yet the house was not an

unhappy one before you entered it. Honour, and truth, and faithfulness

were its characteristics, and towards no man or woman who has received

hospitality within these walls has any kind of treachery been

practised by me, its master and your husband. Tears are a sign of

grief, and suffering from it, as I perceive you are, I ask you why

have you not sought consolation from the man whose name you bear, and

whose life since you and he first met has had but one aim--to render

you happy.'

"'You cannot comfort me,' she said.

"'Can he?' I asked, pointing to M. Gabriel.

"'You insult me,' she said with great dignity. 'I will leave you. We

can speak of this in private.'

"'You will not leave me,' I said, 'and we will not speak of this in

private, until after some kind of explanation is afforded me from your

own lips and the lips of your friend. In saying I insult you, there is

surely a mistaken idea in your mind as to what is due from you to me.

M. Gabriel, whom I once called a friend, is here, enjoying my

hospitality, of which I trust he has had no reason to complain. I find

you in tears by his side, and he, by his attitude, endeavouring to

console you. When I ask you, in his presence, why, being in grief, you

do not come to me for consolation, you reply that I cannot comfort

you. Yet you were accepting comfort from him, who is not your husband.

It suggests itself to me that if an insult has been passed it has been

passed upon me. I do not, however, receive it as such, for if an

insult has been offered to me, M. Gabriel is partly responsible for

it, and it is only between equals that such an indignity can be

offered.'

"'Equals!' cried M. Gabriel; he understood my words in the sense in

which I intended them. 'I am certainly your equal.'

"'It has to be proved,' I retorted. 'I use the term in so far as it

affects honour and upright conduct between man and man. You can bring

against me no accusation of having failed in those respects in my

behaviour towards you. It has to be seen whether I can in truth bring

such an accusation against you, and if I can substantiate it by

evidence which the commonest mind would not reject, you are not my

equal. I see that this plain and honest reasoning disturbs you; it

should not without sufficient cause. Something more. If in addition I

can prove that you have violated my hospitality, you are not only not

my equal, but you have descended to a depth of baseness to describe

which I can find no fitting terms.'

"He grew hot at this. 'I decline to be present any longer,' he said,

'at an interview conducted in such a manner.' And he attempted to

leave me, but I stood in his way, and would not permit him to pass.

"'From this moment,' I said, 'I discharge myself of all duties towards

you as your host. You are no longer my guest, and you will remain at

this interview during my pleasure.'

"He made another attempt to leave the room, and as he accompanied it

by violence, I seized his arms, and threw him to the ground. He rose,

and stood trembling before me.

"'I make no excuse, madam,' I said to my wife, 'for the turn this

scene has taken. It is unseemly for men to brawl in presence of a

lady, but there are occasions when of two evils the least must be

chosen. Should I find myself mistaken, I shall give to M. Gabriel the

amplest apology he could desire. Let me recall to your mind the day on

which M. Gabriel first entered my gates as my guest. I brought him to

you, and presented him to you as a friend whom I esteemed, and whom I

wished you also to esteem. You received him as a stranger, and I had

no reason to suspect that he and you had been intimate friends, and

that you were already well known to each other. You allowed me to

remain in ignorance of this fact. Was it honest?'

"'It was not honest,' she replied.

"'It made me happy,' I continued, 'to see, after the lapse of a few

days, that you found pleasure in his society, and I regarded him in

the light of a brother to you. I trusted him implicitly, and although,

madam, you and I have been most unhappy, I had no suspicion that there

was any guilt in this, as I believed, newly-formed friendship.'

"'There was no guilt in it,' she said very firmly.

"'I receive your assurance, and believe it in the sense in which you

offer it. But in my estimation the word I use is the proper word. In

the concealment from me of a fact with which you or he should have

hastened to make me acquainted; in the secret confidences necessarily

involved in the carrying out of such an intimacy as yours; there was

treachery from wife to husband, from friend to friend, and in that

treachery there was guilt. By an accident, within the past month, a

knowledge has come to me of a shameful scandal which, had I not nipped

it in the bud, would have brought open disgrace upon my name and

house--but the secret disgrace remains, and you have brought it into

my family.'

"'A shameful scandal!' she exclaimed, and her white face grew whiter.

'Who has dared----'

"'The world has dared, madam, the world over whose tongue we have no

control. The nature of the intimacy existing between you and M.

Gabriel, far exceeding the limits of friendship, has provoked remark

and comment from many of your guests, and we who should have been

the first to know it, have been the last. From a lady stopping in my

house I learnt that you and M. Gabriel were lovers before you and I

met--that you were affianced. Madam, had you informed me of this fact

you would have spared yourself the deepest unhappiness under which any

human being can suffer. For then you and I would not have been bound

to each other by a tie which death alone can sever. I have, at all

events, the solace which right doing sometimes sheds upon a wounded

heart; that solace cannot unhappily be yours. You have erred

consciously, and innocent though you proclaim yourself, you have

brought shame upon yourself and me. I pity you, but cannot help you

further than by the action I intend to take of preventing the

occurrence of a deeper shame and a deeper disgrace falling upon me.

For M. Gabriel I have no feelings but those of utter abhorrence. I

request him to remove himself immediately from my presence and from

this house. This evening he will send for his paintings, which shall

be delivered to his order. They will be placed in this summer-house.

And in your presence madam, I give M. Gabriel the warning that if

at any time, or under any circumstances, he intrudes himself within

these walls, he will do so at his own peril. The protection which my

honour--not safe in your keeping, madam--needs I shall while I live be

able to supply.'

"This, in substance, is all that took place while my wife was with us.

When she was gone I gave instructions that M. Gabriel's paintings and

property should be brought to the summer-house immediately, and I

informed him of my intentions regarding them and the room he had used

as a study. He replied that I would have to give him a more

satisfactory explanation of my conduct. I took no notice of the

threat, and I carried out my resolve--which converted the study into a

tomb in which my honour was buried. And on the walls of the study I

caused to be inscribed the words 'The Grave of Honour.'

"On the evening of that day my wife sent for me, and in the presence

of Denise, our faithful servant, heard my resolve with reference to

our future life, and acquainted me with her own. The gates would never

again be opened to friends. Our life was to be utterly secluded, and

she had determined never to quit her rooms unless for exercise in the

grounds at such times as I was absent from them.

"'After to-night,' she said, 'I will never open my lips to you, nor,

willingly, will I ever again listen to your voice.'

"In this interview I learnt the snare, set by my wife's mother, into

which we both had fallen.

"I left my wife, and our new life commenced--a life with hearts shut

to love or forgiveness. But I had done my duty, and would bear with

strength and resignation the unmerited misfortunes with which I was

visited. Not my wife's, I repeat, the fault alone. I should have been

wiser, and should have known--apart from any consideration of M.

Gabriel--that my habits, my character, my tastes, my age, were

entirely unsuitable to the fair girl I had married. I come now to the

event which has rendered this record necessary."

CHAPTER V

THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT

"The impressions left upon me by the tragic occurrence I am about to

narrate have, strangely enough, given me a confused idea as to the

exact date upon which it took place, but I am correct in saying that

it was within a month of the agreement entered into between my wife

and myself that we should live separate lives under the same roof.

"I expected to receive a challenge from M. Gabriel, a challenge which

for the reason I have given--that I would not afford the world an

opportunity of discussing my private affairs--I firmly resolved not to

accept. To my surprise no such challenge reached me, and I indulged

the hope that M. Gabriel had removed himself forever from us. It was

not so.

"The night was wild and dark. The wind was sweeping round the house;

the rain was falling. I had resumed my old habits, and was awake in my

study, in which I am now writing. I did no intelligent work during

those sad days. If I forced myself to write, I invariably tore up the

sheets when I read them with a clearer mind. My studies afforded me

neither profit nor relief. The occupation which claimed me was that of

brooding over the circumstances attendant upon my wooing and my

marriage. For ever brooding. Walking to and fro, dwelling upon each

little detail of my intimacy with my girl-wife, and revolving in my

mind whether I could have prevented what had occurred--whether, if I

had done this or that, I could have averted the misery in which our

lives were wrapt. It was a profitless occupation, but I could not tear

myself from it. There was a morbid fascination in it which held me

fast. That it harrowed me, tortured me, made me smart and bleed,

mattered not. It clung to me, and I to it. Thus do we hug our misery

to our bosoms, and inflict upon ourselves the most intolerable

sufferings.

"I strove to escape from it, to fix my mind upon some abstruse

subject, upon some difficult study, but, like a demon to whom I had

sold my soul, it would not be denied. There intruded always this one

picture--the face of a baby-boy, mine, my dear son, lying asleep in

his mother's arms. Let me say here that I never harboured the thought

of depriving my wife of this precious consolation, that never by the

slightest effort have I endeavoured to estrange him from her. The love

he bore to me--and I thank Heaven that he grew to love me--sprang from

his own heart, which also must have been sorely perplexed and have

endured great pain in the estrangement that existed between his

parents. Well, this pretty baby-face always intruded itself--this soul

which I had brought into life lay ever before me, weighted with myriad

mysterious and strange suggestions. It might live to accomplish great

and noble deeds--it might live to inspire to worthy deeds--it might

become a saviour of men, a patriot, an emancipator. And but for me, it

would never have been. Even the supreme tribulation of his parents'

lives might be productive of some great actions which would bring a

blessing upon mankind. In that case it was good to suffer.

"After some time--not in those days, but later on--this thought became

a consolation to me, although it troubled and perplexed me to think

whether the birth of a soul which was destined to shine as a star

among men was altogether a matter of chance.

"A dark, stormy night. I created voices in the sweeping of the wind.

They spoke to me in groans, in whispers, in loud shrieks. Was it fancy

that inspired the wail, 'To-night, to-night shall be your undoing!'

"Midnight struck. I paced to and fro, listening to the voices

of the wind. Presently another sound--a sound not created by my

imagination--came to my ears. It was as though something heavy had

fallen in the grounds. Perhaps a tree had been blown down. Or did it

proceed from another cause, which warned me of danger?

"I hastened immediately into the grounds. The sense of danger

exhilarated me. I was in a mood which courted death as a boon.

Willingly would I have gone out to meet it, as a certain cure for the

anguish of my soul. Thus I believe it is sometimes with soldiers, and

they become heroes by force of desperation.

"I could see nothing. I was about to return, when a moving object

arrested my purpose. I sprang towards it--threw myself upon it. And in

my arms I clasped the body of a man, just recovering consciousness

from a physical hurt.

"I did not speak a word. I lifted the body in my arms--it had not yet

sufficient strength to repel me--and carried it into my study. The

moment the light of my lamps shone on the face of the man I recognised

him. It was M. Gabriel.

"I laughed with savage delight as I placed him on a couch. 'You

villain--you villain!' I muttered. 'Your last hour, or mine, has come.

This night, one or both of us shall die!'

"I drew my chair before the couch, so that his eyes, when he opened

them, should rest upon my face. He was recovering consciousness, but

very slowly. 'I could kill you here,' I said aloud, 'and no man would

be the wiser. But I will first have speech with you.' His eyelids

quivered, opened, and we were gazing at each other face to face. The

sight of me confounded him for a while, but presently he realised the

position of affairs and he strove to rise. I thrust him back fiercely.

"'Stay you there,' I said, 'until I learn your purpose. You have

entered my house as a thief, and you have given your life into my

hands. I told you, if you ever intruded yourself within these walls,

that you would do so at your peril. What brought you here? Are you a

would-be thief or murderer? You foul betrayer and coward! So--you

climb walls in the dark in pursuance of your villainous schemes!

Answer me--do you come here by appointment, and are you devil enough

to strive to make me believe that a pure and misguided girl would be

weak enough to throw herself into your arms? Fill up the measure of

your baseness, and declare as much.'

"'No,' he replied; 'I alone am culpable. No one knew of my coming--no

one suspected it. I could not rest.'

"I interrupted him. 'After to-night,' I said gloomily, 'you will rest

quietly. Men such as you must be removed from the earth. You steal

into my house, you thief and coward, with no regard for the fair fame

of the woman you profess to love--reckless what infamy you cast upon

her and of the life-long shame you would deliberately fling upon one

who has been doubly betrayed. You have not the courage to suffer in

silence, but you would proclaim to all the world that you are a martyr

to love, the very name of which becomes degraded when placed in

association with natures like yours. You belong to the class of

miserable sentimentalists who bring ruin upon the unhappy women whom

they entangle with their maudlin theories. Mischief enough have you

accomplished--this night will put an end to your power to work further

ill.'

"'What do you intend to do with me?' he asked.

"'I intend to kill you,' I replied; 'not in cold blood--not as a

murderer, but as an avenger. Stand up.'

"He obeyed me. His fall had stunned him for a time; he was not

otherwise injured.

"'I will take no advantage of you,' I said. 'Here is wine to give you

a false courage. Drink, and prepare yourself for what is to come. As

surely as you have delivered yourself into my hands, so surely shall

you die!"

CHAPTER VI

THE HIDDEN CRIME

"He drank the wine, not wisely or temperately as a cool-headed man

whose life was at stake would have done, but hastily, feverishly, and

with an air of desperation.

"'You are a good fencer,' I said, 'the best among all the friends who

visited me during the days of your treachery. You were proud of

showing your skill, as you were of exhibiting every admirable quality

with which you are gifted. Something of the mountebank in this.'

"'At least,' he said, rallying his courage, 'do not insult me.'

"'Why not? Have you not outraged what is most honourable and sacred?

Here are rapiers ready to our hands.'

"'A duel!' he cried. 'Here, and now?'

"'Yes,' I replied, 'a duel, here and now. There is no fear of

interruption. The sound of clashing steel will not fall upon other

ears than ours.'

"'It will not be a fair combat,' he said. 'You are no match for me

with the rapier. Let me depart. Do not compel me to become your

murderer.'

"'You will nevermore set foot outside these walls,' I said; 'here you

will find your grave.'

"It was my firm belief. I saw him already lying dead at my feet.

"'If I should kill you,' he said, 'how shall I escape?'

"'As best you may,' I replied. 'You are an adept at climbing walls. If

you kill me, what happens to you thereafter is scarcely likely to

interest me. But do not allow that thought to trouble you. What will

take place to-night is ordained!'

"I began to move the furniture from the centre of the room, so as to

afford a clear space for the duel. The tone in which he next spoke

convinced me that I had impressed him. Indeed, my words were uttered

with the certainty of conviction, and a fear stole upon him that he

had come to his death.

"'I will not fight with you,' he said; 'the duel you propose is

barbarous, and I decline to meet you unless witnesses are present.'

"'So that we may openly involve the fair name of a lady in our

quarrel,' I retorted quietly. 'No; that will not be. Before witnesses

it is I who would decline to meet you. Are you a coward?'

"'It matters little what you call me,' he said, 'as no other person is

near. You cannot force me to fight you.'

"'I think I can,' I said, and I struck him in the face, and proceeded

with my work.

"My back was towards him; a loaded gun was hanging on the wall;

unperceived by me he unslung it, and fired at me.

"I did not know whether I was hit or not. Maddened by the cowardly

act, I turned, and lifting him in the air, dashed him to the ground.

His head struck against one of the legs of my writing-table; he

groaned but once, and then lay perfectly still. It was the work of a

moment, and the end had come. He lay dead before me.

"I had no feeling of pity for him, and I was neither startled nor

deeply moved. His punishment was a just punishment, and my honour was

safe from the babble of idle and malicious tongues. All that devolved

upon me now was to keep the events of this night from the knowledge of

men.

"There was, however, one danger. A gun had been fired. The sound might

have aroused my wife or some of the servants, in which case an

explanation would have to be given. At any moment they might appear.

What lay on the floor must not be seen by other eyes than mine.

"I dragged a cloth from a table and threw it over the body, and with

as little noise as possible swiftly replaced the furniture in its

original position. Then I sat on my chair and waited. For a few

minutes I was in a state of great agitation, but after I had sat for

an hour without being disturbed I knew that my secret was safe.

"I removed the cloth from the face of the dead man and gazed at it.

Strange to say, the features wore an expression of peacefulness. Death

must have been instantaneous. Gradually, as I gazed upon the form of

the man I had killed, the selfish contemplation in which I had been

engaged during the last hour of suspense--a contemplation devoted

solely to a consideration of the consequences of discovery, so far

as I was concerned, and in which the fate of the dead man formed no

part--became merged in the contemplation of the act itself apart from

its earthly consequences.

"I had taken a human life. I, whose nature had been proverbially

humane, was, in a direct sense of the word, a murderer. That the deed

was done in a moment of passion was no excuse; a man is responsible

for his acts. The blood I had shed shone in my eyes.

"What hopes, what yearnings, what ambitions, were here destroyed by

me! For, setting aside the unhappy sentiment which had conducted

events to this end, M. Gabriel was a man of genius, of whose career

high expectations had been formed. I had not only destroyed a human

being, I had destroyed art. Would it have been better had I allowed

myself to be killed? Were death preferable to a life weighed down by a

crime such as mine?

"For a short time these reflections had sway over me, but presently I

steadily argued them down. I would not allow them to unman me. This

coward and traitor had met a just doom.

"What remained for me now to do was to complete the concealment. The

body must be hidden. After to-night--unless chance or the hand of

Providence led to its discovery--the lifeless clay at my feet must

never more be seen.

"There was a part of my grounds seldom, if ever, intruded upon by the

servants--that portion in which, for the gratification of my wife, I

had at the time of our marriage commenced improvements which had never

been completed. There it was that my wife's mother had met with the

accident which resulted in her death. I thought of a pit deep enough

for the concealment of the bodies of fifty men. Into this pit I would

throw the body of M. Gabriel, and would cover it with earth and

stones. The task accomplished, there would be little fear of

discovery.

"First satisfying myself that all was quiet and still in the villa,

and that I was not being watched, I raised the body of M. Gabriel in

my arms. As I did so, a horror and loathing of myself took possession

of me; I shuddered in disgust; the work I was performing seemed to be

the work of a butcher.

"However, what I resolved to do was done. In the dead of night, with

darkness surrounding me, with the rain beating upon me, and the

accusing wind shrieking in my ears, I consigned to its last

resting-place the body of the man I had killed.

"Years have passed since that night. My name has not been dragged into

the light for scandal-mongers to make sport of. Open shame and

derision have been avoided--but at what a price! From the day

following that upon which I forbade M. Gabriel my house, not a single

word was exchanged between my wife and myself. She sent for me before

she died, but she knew she would be dead before I arrived. A fearful

gloom settled upon our lives, and will cover me to my last hour. This

domestic estrangement, this mystery of silence between those whom he

grew to love and honour, weighed heavily upon my son Christian. His

child's soul must have suffered much, and at times I have fancied I

see in him the germs of a combination of sweetness and weakness which

may lead to suffering. But suffer as he may, if honour be his guide I

am content. I shall not live to see him as a man; my days are

numbered.

"In the time to come--in the light of a purer existence--I may learn

whether the deed I have done is or is not a crime.

"But one thing is clear to me. Had it not been for my folly, shame

would not have threatened me, misery would not have attended me, and I

should not have taken a human life. The misery and the shame did not

affect me alone; they waited upon a young life and blighted its

promise. It is I who am culpable, I who am responsible for what has

occurred. It is impossible, without courting unhappiness, to divert

the currents of being from their natural channels: youth needs youth,

is attracted to youth, seeks youth, as flowers seek the sun. Roses do

not grow in ice.

"Mine, then, the sin--a sin too late to expiate.

"I would have my son marry when he is young, as in the course of

nature he will love when he is young. It is the happier fate, because

it is in accordance with natural laws.

"If he into whose hands these pages may fall can discern a lesson

applicable to himself in the events I have recorded, let him profit by

them. If the circumstances of his life in any way resemble mine, I

warn him to bear with wisdom and patience the penalty he has brought

upon himself, and not to add, in the person of another being to whom

he is bound and who is bound to him, to an unhappiness--most probably

a secret unhappiness--of his own creating.

"And I ask him to consider well whether any good purpose will be

served by dragging into the open day the particulars of a crime, the

publishing of which cannot injure the dead or benefit the living. It

cannot afford him any consolation to think, if my son be alive, that

needless suffering will be brought to the door of the innocent. Let

him, then, be merciful and pitiful."

CHAPTER VII

FALSE WIFE, FALSE FRIEND

Thus abruptly the record closed. To the last written page there were

several added, as though the writer had more to say, and intended to

say it. But the pages were blank. The intention, if intention there

were, had never been carried out.

The reading of the record occupied the Advocate over an hour, and when

he had finished, he sat gazing upon the manuscript. For a quarter of

an hour he did not move. Then he rose--not quickly, as one would rise

who was stirred by a sudden impulse, but slowly, with the air of a man

who found a difficulty in arranging his thoughts. With uneven steps he

paced the study, to and fro, to and fro, pausing occasionally to

handle in an aimless way a rare vase, which he turned about in his

hands, and gazed at with vacant eyes. Occasionally, also, he paused

before the manuscript and searched in its pages for words which his

memory had not correctly retained. He did this with a consciousness

which forced itself upon him, and which he vainly strove to ignore,

that what he sought was applicable to himself.

It was not compassion, it was not tenderness, it was not horror, that

moved him thus strangely, for he was a man who had been but rarely, if

ever, moved as he was at the present time. It was the curious and

disquieting associations between the dead man who had written and the

living man who had read the record. And yet, although he could, if he

had chosen, have reasoned this out, and have placed it mentally before

him in parallel lines, his only distinct thought was to avoid the

comparison. That he was unsuccessful in this did not tend to compose

him.

Upon a bracket lay a bronze, the model of a woman's hand, from the

life. A beautiful hand, slender but shapely. It reminded him of his

wife.

He took it from the bracket and examined it, and after a little while

thus passed, the words came involuntarily from his lips: "Perfect--but

cold."

The spoken words annoyed him; they were the evidence of a lack of

self-control. He replaced the bronze hastily, and when he passed it

again would not look at it.

Suddenly he left the study, and went towards his wife's rooms. He had

not proceeded more than half a dozen yards before his purpose,

whatever it might have been, was relinquished as swiftly as it had

been formed. He retraced his steps, and lingered irresolutely at the

door of the study. With an impatient movement of his head--it was the

action of a man who wrestled with thought as he would have done with a

palpable being--he once more proceeded in the direction of his wife's

apartments.

At the commencement of the passage which led to the study was a lobby,

opening from the principal entrance. A noble staircase in the centre

of the lobby led to the rooms occupied by Christian Almer and Pierre

Lamont. On the same floor as the study, beyond the staircase, were his

wife's boudoir and private rooms.

This part of the house was but dimly lighted; one rose-lamp only was

alight. On the landing above, where the staircase terminated, three

lamps in a cluster were burning, and shed a soft and clear light

around.

When he reached the lobby and was about to pass the staircase, the

Advocate's progress was arrested by the sound of voices which fell

upon his ears. These voices proceeded from the top of the staircase.

He looked up, and saw, standing close together, his wife and Christian

Almer. Instinctively he retreated into the deeper shadows, and stood

there in silence with his eyes fixed upon the figures above him.

His wife's hand was resting on Almer's shoulder, and her fingers

occasionally touched his hair. She was speaking almost in a whisper,

and her face was bright and animated. Almer was replying to her in

monosyllables, and even in the midst of the torture of this discovery,

the Advocate observed that the face of his friend wore a troubled

expression.

The Advocate remembered that his wife had wished him good-night before

ten o'clock, and that when he made the observation that she was

retiring early, she replied that she was so overpowered with fatigue

that she could not keep her eyes open one minute longer. And here,

nearly two hours after this statement, he found her conversing

clandestinely with his friend in undisguised gaiety of spirits!

Never had he seen her look so happy. There was a tender expression in

her eyes as she gazed upon Christian Almer which she had never

bestowed upon him from the first days of their courtship.

A grave, dignified courtship, in which each was studiously kind and

courteous to the other; a courtship without romance, in which there

was no spring. A bitter smile rested upon his lips as this remembrance

impressed itself significantly upon him.

He watched and waited, motionless as a statue. Midnight struck, and

still the couple on the staircase lingered. Presently, however, and

manifestly on Almer's urging, Adelaide consented to leave him.

Smilingly she offered him her hand, and held his for a longer time

than friendship warranted. They parted; he ascending to his room, she

descending to hers. When she was at the foot of the staircase she

looked up and threw a kiss to Almer, and her face, with the light of

the rose-lamp upon it, was inexpressibly beautiful. The next minute

the Advocate was alone.

He listened for the shutting of their chamber-doors. So softly was

this done both by his friend and his wife that it was difficult to

catch the faint sound. He smiled again--a bitter smile of

confirmation. It was in his legal mind a fatal item of evidence

against them.

Slowly he returned to his study, and the first act of which he was

conscious was that of standing on a certain spot and saying audibly as

he looked down:

"It was here M. Gabriel fell!"

He knelt upon the carpet, and thought that on the boards beneath, even

at this distance of time, stains of blood might be discerned, the

blood of a treacherous friend. It was impossible for him to control

the working of his mind; impossible to dwell upon the train of thought

it was necessary he should follow out before he could decide upon a

line of action. One o'clock, two o'clock struck, and he was still in

this condition. All he could think of was the fate of M. Gabriel, and

over and over again he muttered:

"It was here he fell--it was here he fell!"

There was a harmony in the storm which raged without. The peals of

thunder, the lightning flashing through the windows, were in

consonance with his mood. He knew that he was standing on the brink of

a fatal precipice.

"Which would be best," he asked mentally of himself, "that lightning

should destroy three beings in this unhappy house, or that the routine

of a nine-days' wonder should be allowed to take its course? All that

is wanting to complete the wreck would be some evidence to damn me in

connection with Gautran and the unhappy girl he foully murdered."

As if in answer to his thought, he heard a distinct tapping on one of

his study windows. He hailed it with eagerness; anything in the shape

of action was welcome to him. He stepped to the window, and drawing up

the blind saw darkly the form of a man without.

"Whom do you seek?" he asked.

"You," was the answer.

"Your mission must be an urgent one," said the Advocate, throwing up

the window. "Is it murder or robbery?"

"Neither. Something of far greater importance."

"Concerning me?"

"Most vitally concerning you."

"Indeed. Then I should welcome you."

With strange recklessness he held out his hand to assist his visitor

into the room. The man accepted the assistance, and climbing over the

window-sill sprang into the study. He was bloody, and splashed from

head to foot with mud.

"Have you a name?" inquired the Advocate.

"Naturally."

"Favour me with it."

"John Vanbrugh."

_BOOK VII.--RETRIBUTION_

CHAPTER I

JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE

"A stormy night to seek you out," said John Vanbrugh, "and to renew an

old friendship----"

"Stop there," interrupted the Advocate. "I admit no idea of a renewal

of friendship between us."

"You reject my friendship?" asked Vanbrugh, wiping the blood and dirt

from his face.

"Distinctly."

"So be it. Our interview shall be conducted without a thought of

friendship, though some reference to the old days cannot be avoided. I

make no apology for presenting myself in this condition. Man can no

more rule the storm than he can the circumstances of his life. I have

run some distance through the rain, and I have been attacked and

almost killed. You perceive that I am exhausted, yet you do not offer

me wine. You have it, I know, in that snug cupboard there. May I help

myself? Thank you. Ah, there's a smack of youth in this liquor. It is

life to one who has passed through such dangers as have encompassed

me. You received my letter asking for an interview? I gave it myself

into your hands on the last evening of the trial."

"I received it."

"Yet you were unwilling to accord me an interview."

"I had no desire to meet you again."

"It was ungrateful of you, for it is upon your own business--yours and

no other man's--that I wished to speak with you. It was cold work out

on the hill yonder, watching the lights in your study window, watching

for the simple waving of a handkerchief, which would mean infinitely

more to you than to me, as you will presently confess. Dreary cold

work, not likely to put a man like myself in an amiable mood. I am not

on good terms with the world, as you may plainly perceive. I have had

rough times since the days you deemed it no disgrace to shake hands

with me. I have sunk very low by easy descents; you have risen to a

giddy height. I wonder whether you have ever feared the fall. Men as

great as you have met with such a misfortune. Things do not last for

ever, Edward--pardon me. it was a slip of the tongue."

"Do you come to beg?"

"No--for a reason. If I came on such an errand, I might spare myself

the trouble."

"Likely enough," said the Advocate, who was too well acquainted with

human nature not to be convinced, from Vanbrugh's manner, that his was

no idle visit.

"You were never renowned for your charities. And on the other hand I

am poor, but I am not a beggar. I am frank enough to tell you I would

prefer to steal. It is more independent, and not half so disgraceful.

It may happen that the world would take an interest in a thief, but

never in a beggar."

"Is it to favour me with your philosophies that you pay me this

visit?"

"I should be the veriest dolt. No, I will air my opinions when I am

rich."

"You intend, poor as you confess yourself, to become rich?"

"With your help, old friend."

"Not with my help. You will receive none from me."

"You are mistaken. Forgive me for the contradiction, but I speak on

sure ground. Ah, how I have heard you spoken of! With what admiration

and esteem! Almost with awe by some. Your talents, of themselves,

could not have won this universal eulogy; it is your spotless

character that has set the seal upon your fame. There is not a stain

upon it; you have no weaknesses, no blemishes; you are absolutely

pure. Other men have something to conceal--some family difficulty,

some domestic disgrace, some slip in the path of virtue, which, were

it known, would turn the current against them. But against you there

is not a breath; scandal has never soiled you. In this lies the

strength of your position--in this lies its danger. Let shame, with

cause, point its finger at you--old friend, the result is unpleasant

to contemplate. For when a man such as you falls, he does not fall

gradually. He topples over suddenly, and to-day he is as low in the

gutter as yesterday he was high in the clouds."

"You have said enough. I do not care to listen to you further. The

tone you assume is offensive to me--such as I would brook from no man.

You can go the way you came."

And with a scornful gesture the Advocate pointed to the window.

"When I inform you which way I came," said Vanbrugh, with easy

insolence, "you will not be so ready to tell me to leave you before

you learn the errand which brought me."

"Which way, then, did you come?" asked the Advocate, in a tone of

contempt.

"The way Gautran came--somewhat earlier than this, it is true, but not

earlier than midnight."

The Advocate grasped the back of a chair; it was a slight action, but

sufficient to show that he was taken off his guard.

"You know that?" he said.

"Aye, I know that, and also that you feasted him, and gave him money."

"Are you accomplices, you two knaves?"

"If so, I have at present the best of the bargain. But your surmise is

not made with shrewdness. I never set eyes on Gautran until after he

was pronounced innocent of the murder of Madeline. On that night

I--shall we say providentially?--made his acquaintance."

"You have met him since then?"

"Yes--this very night; our interview was one never to be forgotten.

Come, I have been frank with you; I have used no disguises. I say to

you honestly, the world has gone hard with me; I have known want and

privation, and I am in a state of destitution. That is a condition of

affairs sufficient not only to depress a man's spirits, but to make

him disgusted with the world and mankind. I have, however, still some

capacity for enjoyment left in me, and I would give the world another

trial, not as a penniless rogue, but as a gentleman."

"Hard to accomplish," observed the Advocate, with a cynical smile.

"Not with a full purse. No music like the jingling of gold, and the

world will dance to the tune. Well, I present myself to you, and ask

you, who are rich and can spare what will be the making of me, to hand

me from your full store as much as will convert a poor devil into a

respectable member of society."

"I appreciate your confidence. I leave you to supply the answer."

"You will give me nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Mind--I do not ask it of your charity; I ask it of your prudence. It

will be worth your while."

"That has to be proved."

"Good. We have made a commencement. Your reputation is worth much--in

sober truth as much as it has brought you. But I am not greedy. It

lies at my mercy, and I shall be content with a share."

"That is generous of you," said the Advocate, who by this time had

regained his composure; "but I warn you--my patience is beginning to

be exhausted."

"Only beginning? That is well. I advise you to keep a tight rein over

it, and to ask yourself whether it is likely--considering the

difference of our positions--that I should be here talking in this

bold tone unless I held a power over you? I put it to you as a lawyer

of eminence."

"There is reason in what you say."

"Let me see. What have I to sell? The security of your reputation? The

power to prevent your name being uttered with horror? Your fame--your

honour? Yes, I have quite that to dispose of, and as a man of

business, which I never was until now, I recognise the importance of

being precise. First--I have to sell my knowledge that, after

midnight, you received Gautran in your study, that you treated him as

a friend, and filled his pockets with gold. How much is that worth?"

"Nothing. My word against his, against yours, against a hundred such

as you and he."

"You would deny it?"

"Assuredly--to protect myself." As he made this answer, it seemed to

the Advocate as if the principle of honour by which his actions had

been guided until within the last few days were slipping from him, and

as if the vilest wretch that breathed had a right to call him his

equal.

"We will pass that by," said Vanbrugh, helping himself to wine.

"Really, your wine is exquisite. In some respects you are a man to be

envied. It is worth much to a man not only to possess the best of

everything the world can give, but to know that he has the means and

the power to purchase it. With that consciousness within him, he walks

with his head in the air. You used to be fond of discussing these

niceties; I had no taste for them. I left the deeper subtleties of

life to those of thinner blood than mine. Pleasure was more in my

way--and will be again."

"You are wandering from the point," said the Advocate.

"There is a meaning in everything I say; I will clip my wings. Your

word against a hundred men such as I and Gautran? I am afraid you are

right. We are vagabonds--you are a gentleman. So, then, my knowledge

of the fact that you treated Gautran as a friend after you had

procured his acquittal is worth nothing. Admitted. But put that

knowledge and that fact in connection with another and a sterner

knowledge and fact--that you knew Gautran to be guilty of the murder.

How then? Does it begin to assume a value? Your silence gives me hopes

that my visit will not be fruitless. Between men who once were equals

and friends, and who, after a lapse of years, come together as we have

come together now, candour is a useful attribute. Let us exercise it.

I am not here on your account, nor do I hold you in such regard that I

would trouble myself to move a finger to save your reputation. The

master I am working for is Self; the end I am working for is an easy

life, a life of pleasure. This accomplished by your aid, I have

nothing more to do with you or your affairs. The business is an

unpleasant one, and I shall be glad to forget it. Refuse what I ask,

and you will sink lower than I have ever sunk. There are actions which

the world will forgive in the ignorant, but not in men of ripe

intellect."

He paused and gazed negligently at the Advocate, who during the latter

part of Vanbrugh's speech, was considering the dangers of his

position. The secret of Gautran's guilt belonged not alone to himself

and Gautran; this man Vanbrugh had been admitted into it, and he was

an enemy more to be dreaded than Gautran. He saw his peril, and that

he unconsciously acknowledged it to be imminent was proved by the

thought which intruded itself--against his will, as it seemed--whether

it would be wise to buy Vanbrugh off, to purchase his silence.

"It is easy," he said, "to invent tales. You and a dozen men, in

conjunction with the monster Gautran----"

"As you say," interrupted Vanbrugh, gently nodding his head, "the

monster Gautran. But why should you call him so unless you knew him to

be guilty? Were you assured of his innocence, you would speak of him

pityingly, as one undeservedly oppressed and persecuted. 'The monster

Gautran!' Thank you. It is an admission."

"----May invent," continued the Advocate, not heeding the

interruption, but impressed by its logic, "may invent any horrible

tale you please of any man you please. The difficulty will be to get

the world to believe it."

"Exactly. But in this case there is no difficulty, although the

murderer be dead."

"Gautran! Dead!" exclaimed the Advocate, surprised out of himself.

Gautran was dead! Encompassed as he was by danger and treachery, the

news was a relief to him.

"Yes, dead," replied Vanbrugh, purposely assuming a careless tone.

"Did I not tell you before? Singular that it should have escaped me.

But I have so much to say, and in my brightest hours I was always

losing the sequence of things."

"And you," said the Advocate, "meeting this man by chance----"

"Pardon me. I asked you whether I should consider our meeting

providential."

"It matters not. You, meeting this man, come to me after his death,

for the purpose of extracting money from me. You will fail."

"I shall succeed."

"You killed Gautran, and want money to escape."

"No. He was killed by a higher agency, and I want no money to escape.

You will hear to-morrow how he met his death, for all the towns and

villages will be ringing with it. I continue. Say that Gautran at the

point of death made a dying confession, on oath, not only of his

guilt, but of your knowledge of it when you defended him;--say that

this confession exists in writing, duly signed. Would that paper, in

conjunction with what I have already offered for sale, be worth your

purchase? Take time to consider. You are dealing with a man in

desperate circumstances, one who, if you drive him to it, will pull

you down, high as you are. You will help me, old friend."

"It may be. Have you possession of the paper you speak of?"

"I have. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes."

Vanbrugh moved, so that a table was between him and the Advocate, and

taking Gautran's confession from his pocket read in a clear voice:

"I, Gautran the woodman, lately tried for the murder of Madeline the

flower-girl, being now at the point of death, and conscious that I

have only a few minutes to live, and being also in the full possession

of my reason, hereby make oath and swear:

"That being thrown into prison, awaiting my trial, I believed there

was no escape from the doom I justly merited, for the reason that I

was guilty of the murder.

"That some days before my trial was to take place, the Advocate who

defended me voluntarily undertook to prove to my judges that I was

innocent of the crime I committed.

"That with this full knowledge, he conducted my case with such ability

that I was set free and pronounced innocent.

"That on the night of my acquittal, after midnight had struck, and

when every person but himself in the House of White Shadows was

asleep, I secretly visited him in his study, and remained with him for

some time.

"That he gave me food and money, and bade me go my way.

"That I am ignorant of the motives which induced him, to whom I was a

perfect stranger, to deliberately defeat the ends of justice.

"That the proof that he knew me to be guilty lies in the fact that I

made a full confession to him.

"To which I solemnly swear, being about to appear before a just God to

answer for my crime. I pray for forgiveness and mercy.

"Signed, Gautran."

Without comment, John Vanbrugh folded the paper, and replaced it

carefully in his pocket.

"The confession may be forged," said the Advocate.

"Gautran's signature," said Vanbrugh, "will refute such a charge. He

could write only his name, and documents can certainly be found

bearing his signature, which can be compared with this."

"With that document in your possession," said the Advocate, speaking

very slowly, "are you not afraid to be here with me--alone--knowing,

if it state the truth, how much I have at stake?"

"Excellent!" exclaimed Vanbrugh. "What likenesses there are in human

nature, and how thin the line that divides the base from the noble!

Afraid? No--for if you lay a hand upon me, for whom you are no more

than a match, I will rouse the house and denounce you. Restrain

yourself and hear me out. I have that to say which will prove to you

the necessity, if you have the slightest regard for your honour, of

dealing handsomely with me. It relates to the girl whose murderer you

set free--to Madeline the flower-girl and to yourself."

CHAPTER II

A TERRIBLE REVELATION

Without requesting permission, John Vanbrugh filled his glass with

wine, which he drank leisurely with his eyes fixed on the Advocate's

pale face the while. When he spoke, it did not escape the Advocate

that he seemed to fling aside the flippancy of manner which had

hitherto characterised him, and that his voice was unusually earnest.

"I do not ask you to excuse me," he said, "for recalling the memory of

a time when you did not despise my companionship. It is necessary for

my purpose. We were, indeed, more than companions--we were friends.

What it was that made you consort with me is just now a mystery to me.

The contrast in our characters may have tempted you. I, a careless,

light-hearted fellow who loved to enjoy the hours; you, a serious,

cold-hearted student, dreaming perhaps of the position you have

attained. It may be that you deliberately made a study of me to see

what use you could make of my weakness. However it was, I lived in the

present, you in the future. The case is now reversed, and it is I who

live in the future.

"I have said you were cold-hearted, and I do not suppose you will

trouble yourself to deny it. Such as you are formed to rise, while we

impulsive, reckless devils are pretty sure to tumble in the mud. But I

never had such a fall as you are threatened with, and scapegrace,

vagabond as I am, I am thankful not to have on my conscience what you

have on yours.

"Now for certain facts.

"I contemplated--no, I mistake, I never contemplated--I settled to go

on a tour for a few weeks, and scramble through bits of France,

Switzerland, and Italy. You will remember my mentioning it to you.

Yes, I see in your face that you are following me, and I shall feel

obliged by your correcting me if in my statement of facts I should

happen to trip. The story I am telling needs no effort of the

imagination to embellish it. It is in its bare aspect sufficiently

ghastly and cruel.

"When I was about to start on my tour, you, of your own accord,

offered to accompany me. You had been studying too hard, and a wise

doctor recommended you to rest a while, if you did not care to have

brain-fever, and also recommended you to seek new scenes in the

company of a cheerful friend whose light spirits would be a good

medicine for an overworked brain. You took the doctor's advice, and

you did me the honour to choose me for a companion. So we started on

our little tour of pleasure.

"To shorten what I have to say I will not dwell upon the details of

our jaunt, but I fix myself, with you, at Zermatt, where we stayed for

three weeks. The attraction--what was it? The green valleys--the

grandeur of the scenery? No. A woman. More correctly speaking, two

women. Young, lovely, inexperienced, innocent. Daughters of a peasant,

whose cottage door was always open to us, and who was by no means

unwilling to receive small presents of money from liberal gentlemen

like ourselves. Again I slip details--the story becomes trite. We

captivated the hearts of the simple peasant maidens, and amused

ourselves with them. In me that was natural; it was my way. But in you

this circumstance was something to be astonished at. For just as long

as you remained at Zermatt you were a transformed being. I don't

think, until that time, I had ever heard you laugh heartily. Well,

suddenly you disappeared; getting up one morning, I found that my

friend had deserted me.

"It was shabby behaviour, at the best. However, it did not seriously

trouble me; every man is his own master, and I think we were beginning

to tire a little of each other. It was awkward, though, to be asked by

one of our pretty peasant friends where my handsome friend had gone,

and when he would return, and not be able to give a sensible answer.

"This girl, who had been in your presence always bright and joyous and

happy, grew sad and quiet and anxious-looking in your absence, and

appeared to have a secret on her mind that was making her wretched. I

stayed on at Zermatt for another month, and then I bade good-bye to my

sweetheart, promising to come again in a year. I kept my promise, but

when I asked for her in Zermatt I heard that she was dead, and that

her sister and father had left the village, and had gone no one knew

whither.

"It will be as well for me here to remind you that during our stay in

Zermatt we gave no home address, and that no one knew where we came

from or where we lived. So prudent were we that we acted as if we were

ashamed of our names.

"Three years afterwards in another part of Switzerland I met the woman

to whom you had made love; she had lost her father, but was not

without a companion. She had a little daughter--your child!"

"A lie!" said the Advocate, with difficulty controlling himself; "a

monstrous fabrication!"

"A solemn truth," replied Vanbrugh, "verified by the mother's oath,

and the certificate of birth. To dispute it will be a waste of breath

and time. Hear me to the end. The mother had but one anxiety--to

forget you and your treachery, and to be able to live so that her

shame should be concealed. To accomplish this it was necessary that

she should live among strangers, and it was for this reason she had

left her native village. She asked me about you, and I--well, I played

your game. I told her you had gone to a distant part of the world, and

that I knew nothing of you. We were still friends, you and I, although

our friendship was cooling. When I next saw you I had it in my mind to

relate the circumstance to you; but you will remember that just at

that time you took it into your head to put an end to our intimacy. We

had a few words, I think, and you were pleased to tell me that you

disapproved of my habits of life, and that you intended we should

henceforth be strangers. I was not in an amiable mood when I left you,

and I resolved, on the first opportunity, to seek the woman you had

brought to shame, and advise her to take such steps against you as

would bring disgrace to your door. It would be paying you in your own

coin, I thought. However, good fortune stood your friend at that time.

My own difficulties or pleasures, or both combined, claimed my

attention, and occupied me for many months, and when next I went to

the village in which I had last seen your peasant sweetheart and your

child, they were not to be found. I made inquiries, but could learn

nothing of them, so I gave it up as a bad job, and forgot all about

the matter. Since then very many years have passed, and I sank and

sank, and you rose and rose. We did not meet again; but I confess,

when I used to read accounts of your triumphs and your rising fame,

that I would not have neglected an opportunity to have done you an ill

turn had it been in my power. I was at the lowest ebb, everything was

against me, and I was wondering how I should manage to extricate

myself from the desperate position into which bad luck had driven me,

when, not many weeks since, I met in the streets of Geneva two women.

They were hawking nosegays, and the moment I set eyes upon the elder

of these women I recognised in her your old sweetheart from Zermatt.

You appear to be faint. Shall I pause a while before I continue?"

"No," said the Advocate, and he drank with feverish eagerness two

glasses of wine; "go on to the end."

"It was your sweetheart from Zermatt, and no other. And the younger of

these women, one of the loveliest creatures I ever beheld, was known

as Madeline the flower-girl."

The Advocate, with a sudden movement, turned his chair, so that his

face was hidden from Vanbrugh.

"They were poor--and I was poor. If what I suspected, when I gazed at

Madeline, was correct, I saw not only an opportunity for revenge upon

you, but a certainty of being able to obtain money from you. The

secret to such a man as you, married to a young and beautiful woman,

was worth a fair sum, which I resolved should be divided between

Pauline--that was the name adopted by the mother of your child--and

myself. You cannot accuse me of a want of frankness. I discovered

where they lived--I had secret speech with Pauline. My suspicion was

no longer a suspicion--it was a fact. Madeline the flower-girl was

your daughter."

He paused, but the Advocate made no movement, and did not speak.

"How," continued Vanbrugh, "to turn that fact to advantage? How, and

in what way, to make it worth a sum sufficiently large to satisfy me?

That was what now occupied my thoughts. Madeline and her mother were

even poorer than I supposed, and from Pauline's lips did I hear how

anxious she was to remove her daughter from the temptations by which

she was surrounded. In dealing with you, I knew it was necessary to be

well prepared. You are a powerful antagonist to cope with, and one

must have sure cards in his hand to have even a chance of winning any

game he is playing with such a man as yourself. Pauline and I spoke

frequently together, and gradually I unfolded to her the plan I had

resolved upon. Without disclosing your name I told her sufficiently to

convince her that, by my aid, she might obtain a sum of money from the

man who had wronged her which would enable her to place herself and

her daughter in a safer position--a position in which a girl as

beautiful as Madeline would almost certainly meet with a lover of good

social position whom she would marry and with whom she would lead a

happy life. Thus would she escape the snare into which she herself

fell when she met you. This was the mother's dream. Satisfied that I

could guide her to this end, Pauline signed an agreement, which is in

my possession, by which she bound herself to pay me half the money she

obtained from you in compensation for your wrong. Only one thing was

to remain untouched by her and me--a sum which I resolved to obtain

from you as a marriage portion for your daughter. Probably, under

other circumstances, you would not have given me credit for so much

consideration, but viewed in the light of the position in which you

are placed, you may believe me. If you doubt it, I can show you the

clause in black and white. This being settled between Pauline and me,

I told her who you were--how rich you were, how famous you had grown,

and how that you had lately married a young and beautiful woman. The

affairs of a man as eminent as yourself are public property, and the

newspapers delight in recording every particular, be it ever so

trivial, connected with the lives of men of your rank. It was then

necessary to ascertain what proof we held that you were the father of

Madeline. Our visit to Zermatt could be proved--her oath and mine, in

connection with dates, would suffice. Then there would, in all

likelihood, be living in Zermatt men and women whose testimony would

be valuable. The great point was the birth of the child and the date,

and to my discomfiture I learnt that Pauline had lost the certificate

of her daughter's birth. But the record existed elsewhere, and it was

to obtain a copy of this record, and to collect other evidence, that

Pauline left her daughter. Her mission was a secret one, necessarily,

and thus no person, not even Madeline, had any knowledge of its

purport. What, now, remains to be told? Nothing that you do not

know--except that when Pauline left her daughter for a few weeks, it

was arranged that she and I should meet in Geneva on a certain date,

to commence our plan of operations, and that I, having business

elsewhere, was a couple of hundred miles away when Gautran murdered

your hapless child. I arrived in Geneva on the last day of Gautran's

trial; and on that evening, as you came out of the court-house, I

placed in your hands the letter asking you to give me an interview. I

will say nothing of my feelings when I heard that you had successfully

defended, and had set free, the murderer of your child. What I had to

look after was myself and my own interest. And now you, who at the

beginning of this interview rejected a renewal of the old friendship

which existed between us, may probably inwardly acknowledge that had

you accepted the hand I offered you, it is not I who would have been

the gainer."

Again he paused, and again, neither by word or movement, did the

Advocate break the silence.

"It will be as well," presently said Vanbrugh, "to recapitulate

what I have to sell. First, the fact that you, a man of spotless

character--so believed--deliberately betrayed a simple innocent girl,

and then deserted her. Inconceivable, the world would say, in such a

man, unless the proofs were incontestable. The proofs are

incontestable. Next, the birth of your child, and your brutal--pardon

me, there is no other word to express it, and it is one which would be

freely used--negligence to ascertain whether your conduct had brought

open shame and ruin upon the girl you betrayed. Next, the knowledge of

the life of poverty and suffering led by the mother and the child,

while you were in the possession of great wealth. Next, the murder of

your child by a man whose name is uttered with execration. Next, your

voluntary espousal of his cause, and your successful defence of a

monster whom all men knew to be guilty of the foul crime. Next, your

knowledge, at the time you defended him, that he was guilty of the

murder of your own child. Next, in corroboration of this knowledge,

the dying declaration of Gautran, solemnly sworn to and signed by him.

A strong hand. No stronger has ever been held by any man's enemy, and

until you come to my terms, I am your enemy. If you refuse to purchase

of me what I have to sell--the documents in my possession, and my

sacred silence to the last day of my life upon the matters which

affect you--and for such a sum as will make my future an easy one, I

give you my word I will use my power against you, and will drag you

down from the height upon which you stand. I cannot speak in more

distinct terms. You can rescue me from poverty, I can rescue you from

ignominy."

The Advocate turned his face to Vanbrugh, who saw that, in the few

minutes during which it had been hidden from his sight, it had assumed

a hue of deadly whiteness. All the sternness had departed from it, and

the cold, piercing eyes wavered as they looked first at Vanbrugh, then

at the objects in the study. It was as though the Advocate were

gazing, for the first time, upon the familiar things by which he was

surrounded. Strange to say, this change in him seemed to make him more

human--seemed to declare, "Stern and cold-hearted as I have appeared

to the world, I am susceptible to tenderness." The mask had fallen

from his face, and he stood now revealed--a man with human passions

and human weaknesses, to whom a fatal sin in his younger days had

brought a retribution as awful as it was ever the lot of a human being

to suffer. There was something pitiable in this new presentment of a

strong, earnest, self-confident nature, and even Vanbrugh was touched

by it.

During the last half-hour the full force of the storm had burst over

the House of White Shadows. The rain poured down with terrific power,

and the thunder shook the building to its foundations. The Advocate

listened with a singular and curious intentness to the terrible

sounds, and when Vanbrugh remarked, "A fearful night," he smiled in

reply. But it was the smile of a man whose heart was tortured to the

extreme limits of human endurance.

Once again he filled a glass with wine, and raised it to his mouth,

but as the liquor touched his lips, he shuddered, and holding the

glass upright in his hand, he turned it slowly over and poured it on

the ground; then, with much gentleness, he replaced the glass upon the

table.

"What has become of the woman you speak of as Pauline?" he asked. His

very voice was changed. It was such as would proceed from one who had

been prostrated by long and almost mortal sickness.

"I do not know," replied Vanbrugh. "I have neither seen nor heard from

her since the day before she left her daughter."

"Say that I was disposed," said the Advocate, speaking very slowly,

and pausing occasionally, as though he was apprehensive that he would

lose control of speech, "to purchase your silence, do you think I

should be safe in the event of her appearing on the scene? Would not

her despair urge her to seek revenge upon the man who betrayed and

deserted her, and who set her daughter's murderer free?"

"It might be so--but at all events she would be ignorant of your

knowledge of Gautran's guilt. This danger at least would be averted.

The secret is ours at present, and ours only."

"True. You believe that I knew Gautran to be guilty when I defended

him?"

"I am forced to believe it. Explain, otherwise, why you permitted him

to visit you secretly in the dead of night, and why you filled his

pockets with gold."

"It cannot be explained. Yet what motive could I have had in setting

him free?"

"It is not for me to say. What I know, I know. I pretend to nothing

further."

"Do you suppose I care for money?" As the Advocate asked the question,

he opened a drawer in the escritoire, and produced a roll of notes.

"Take them; they are yours. But I do not purchase your silence with

them. I give the money to you as a gift."

"And I thank you for it. But I must have more."

"Wait--wait. This story of yours has yet to be concluded."

"Is it my fancy," said Vanbrugh, "or is it a real sound I hear? The

ringing of a bell--and now, a beating at the gates without, and a

man's voice calling loudly?"

Without hesitation, the Advocate went from his study into the grounds.

The fury of the storm made it difficult for him to keep his feet, but

he succeeded in reaching the gate and opening it. A hand grasped his,

and a man clung to him for support. The Advocate could not see the

face of his visitor, nor, although he heard a voice speaking to him,

did the words of the answer fall upon his ears. Staggering blindly

through the grounds, they arrived at the door of the villa, and

stumbled into the passage. There, by the aid of the rose lamp which

hung in the hall, he distinguished the features of his visitor. It was

Father Capel.

"Have you come to see me?" asked the Advocate, "or are you seeking

shelter from the storm?"

"I have come to see you," replied Father Capel. "I hardly hoped to

find you up, but perceived lights in your study windows, and they gave

me confidence to make the attempt to speak with you. I have been

beating at the gates for fully half an hour."

He spoke in his usual gentle tones, and gazed at the Advocate's white

face with a look of kindly and pitying penetration.

"You are wet to the skin," said the Advocate. "I must find a change of

clothing for you."

"No, my son," said the priest; "I need none. It is not the storm

without I dread--it is the storm within." As though desirous this

remark should sink into the Advocate's heart, he paused a few moments

before he spoke again. "I fear this storm of Nature will do much harm.

Trees are being uprooted and buildings thrown down. There is danger of

a flood which may devastate the village, and bring misery to the poor.

But there is a gracious God above us"--he looked up reverently--"and

if a man's conscience is clear, all is well."

"There is a significance in the words you utter," said the Advocate,

conducting the priest to his study, "which impresses me. Your mission

is an important one."

"Most important; it concerns the soul, not the body."

"A friend of mine," said the Advocate, pointing to Vanbrugh, who was

standing when they entered, "who has visited me to-night for the first

time for many years, on a mission as grave as yours. It was he who

heard your voice at the gates."

Father Capel inclined his head to Vanbrugh, who returned the courtesy.

"I wish to confer with you privately," said the priest. "It will be

best that we should be alone."

"Nay," said the Advocate, "you may speak freely in his presence. I

have but one secret from him and all men. I beg you to proceed."

CHAPTER III

PAULINE

"I have no choice but to obey you," said Father Capel, "for time

presses, and a life is hanging in the balance. I should have been here

before had it not been that my duty called me most awfully and

suddenly to a man who has been smitten to death by the hand of God.

The man you defended--Gautran, charged with the murder of an innocent

girl--is dead. Of him I may not speak at present. Death-bed

confessions are sacred, and apart from that, not even in the presence

of your dearest friend can I say one further word concerning the

sinner whose soul is now before its Creator. I came to you from a

dying woman, who is known by the name of Pauline."

Both Vanbrugh and the Advocate started at the mention of the name.

"Fate is merciful," said the Advocate in a low tone; "its blows are

sharp and swift."

"Before I left her I promised to bring you to her tomorrow,"

continued the priest, "but Providence, which directed me to Gautran in

his dying moments, impels me to break that promise. She may die before

to-morrow, and she has that to say which vitally concerns you, and

which you must hear, if she has strength enough to speak. I ask you to

come with me to her without a moment's delay, through this storm,

which has been sent as a visitation for human crime."

"I am ready to accompany you," said the Advocate.

"And I," said Vanbrugh.

"No," said the priest, "only he and I. Who you are I do not seek to

know, but you cannot accompany us."

"Remain here," said the Advocate to Vanbrugh; "when I return I will

hide nothing from you. Now, Father Capel."

It was not possible for them to engage in conversation. The roaring of

the wind prevented a word from being heard. For mutual safety they

clasped hands and proceeded on their way. They encountered many

dangers, but escaped them. Torrents of water poured down from the

ranges--great branches snapped from the trees and fell across their

path--the valleys were in places knee-deep in water--and occasionally

they fancied they heard cries of human distress in the distance. If

the priest had not been perfectly familiar with the locality, they

would not have arrived at their destination, but he guided his

companion through the storm, and they stood at length before the

cottage in which Pauline lay.

Father Capel lifted the latch, and pulled the Advocate after him into

the room.

There were but two apartments in the cottage. Pauline lay in the room

at the back. In a corner of the room in which they found themselves a

man lay asleep; his wife was sitting in a chair, watching and waiting.

She rose wearily as the priest and the Advocate entered.

"I am glad you have come, father," she said, "she has been very

restless, and once she gave a shriek, like a death-shriek, which

curdled my blood. She woke and frightened my child."

She pointed to a baby-girl, scarcely eighteen months old, who was

lying by her father with her eyes wide open. The child, startled by

the entrance of strangers, ran to her mother, who took her on her lap,

saying petulantly, "There, there--be quiet. The gentlemen won't hurt

you."

"Is Pauline awake now?" asked Father Capel.

The woman went to the inner room and returned. "She is sleeping," she

said, "and is very quiet."

Father Capel beckoned to the Advocate, who followed him to the bedside

of the dying woman. She lay so still that the priest lowered his head

to hers to ascertain whether she was breathing.

"Life appears to be ebbing away," he whispered to the Advocate; "she

may die in her sleep."

Quiet as she was, there was no peace in her face; an expression of

exquisite suffering rested on it. The sign of suffering, denoting how

sorely her heart had been wrung, caused the Advocate's lips to quiver.

"It is I who have brought her to this," he thought. "But for me she

would not be lying in a dying state before me."

He was tortured not only by remorse, but by a terror of himself.

Notwithstanding that so many years had passed since he last gazed upon

her, she was not so much changed that he did not recognise in her the

blooming peasant girl of Zermatt. Since then he had won honour and

renown and the admiration and esteem of men; the best that life could

offer was his, or had been his until the fatal day upon which he

resolved to undertake the defence of Gautran. And now--how stood the

account? He was the accomplice of the murderer of his own child--the

mother of his child was dying in suffering--his wife was false to

him--his one friend had betrayed him. The monument of greatness he had

raised had crumbled away, and in a very little while the world would

know him for what he was. His bitterest enemy could not have held him

in deeper despisal than he held himself.

"You recognise her?" said the priest.

"Yes."

"And her child, Madeline, was yours?"

"I am fain to believe it," said the Advocate; "but the proof is not

too clear."

"The proof is there," said the priest, pointing to Pauline; "she has

sworn it. Do you think--knowing that death's door is open for her to

enter--knowing that her child, the only being she loved on earth, is

waiting for her in the eternal land--that she would, by swearing

falsely, and with no end in view that could possibly benefit herself,

imperil the salvation of her soul? It is opposed to human reason."

"It is. I am forced to believe what I would give my life to know was

false."

"Unhappy man! Unhappy man!" said the priest, sinking--on his knees. "I

will pray for you, and for the woman whose life you blighted."

The Advocate did not join the priest in prayer. His stern sense of

justice restrained him. The punishment he had brought upon himself he

would bear as best he might, and he would not inflict upon himself the

shameful humiliation of striving to believe that, by prayers and

tears, he could suddenly atone for a crime as terrible as that of

which he was guilty.

"Father Capel," he said, when the priest rose from his knees, "from

what you have said, I gather that the man Gautran made confession to

you before he died. I do not seek to know what that confession was,

but with absolute certainty I can divine its nature. The man you saw

in my study brought to me Gautran's dying declaration, signed by

Gautran himself, which charges me with a crime so horrible that, were

I guilty of it, laden as I am with the consequences of a sin which I

do not repudiate, I should deserve the worst punishment. Are you aware

of the existence of this document?"

"I hear of its existence now for the first time," replied the priest.

"When I left the bedside of this unhappy woman, and while I was

wending my way home through the storm, I heard cries and screams for

help on a hill near the House of White Shadows, as though two men were

engaged in a deadly struggle. I proceeded in the direction of the

conflict, and discovered only Gautran, who had been crushed to the

earth by the falling of a tree which had been split by the storm. He

admitted that he and another man were fighting, and that the design

was murder. I made search, both then and afterwards, for the other

man, but did not succeed in finding him. I left Gautran for the

purpose of obtaining assistance to extricate him, for the tree had

fallen across his body, and he could not move. When I returned he was

dead, and some gold which he had asked me to take from his pocket was

gone; an indication that, during my absence, human hands had been busy

about him. If Gautran's dying declaration be authentic, it must have

been obtained while I was away to seek for assistance."

"I can piece the circumstances," said the Advocate. "The man you saw

in my study was the man who was engaged in the struggle with Gautran.

It was he who obtained the confession, and he who stole the gold. In

that confession I am charged with undertaking the defence of Gautran

with the knowledge that he was guilty. It is not true. When I defended

him I believed him to be innocent; and if he made a similar

declaration to you, he has gone to his account with a black lie upon

his soul. That will not clear me, I know, and I do not mention it to

you for the purpose of exciting your pity for me. It is simply because

it is just that you should hear my denial of the charge; and it is

also just that you should hear something more. Up to the hour of

Gautran's acquittal I believed him, degraded and vile as he was, to be

innocent of the murder; but that night, as I was walking to the House

of White Shadows, I met Gautran, who, in the darkness, supposing me to

be a stranger, would have robbed me, and probably taken my life. I

made myself known to him, and he, overcome with terror at the

imaginary shadow of his victim which his remorse and ignorance had

conjured up, voluntarily confessed to me that he was guilty. My

error--call it by what strange name you will--dated from that moment.

Knowing that the public voice was against me, I had not the honesty to

take the right course. But if I," he added, with a gloomy recollection

of his wife and friend, "had not by my own act rendered valueless the

fruits of a life of earnest endeavour, it would have been done for me

by those in whom I placed a sacred trust."

For several hours Father Capel and the Advocate remained by the

bedside of Pauline, who lay unconscious, as if indeed, as the priest

had said, life was ebbing away in her sleep. The storm continued and

increased in intensity, and had it not been that the little hut which

sheltered them was protected by the position in which it stood, it

would have been swept away by the wind. From time to time the peasant

gave them particulars of the devastation created by the floods, which

were rushing in torrents from every hill, but their duty chained them

to the bedside of Pauline. An hour before noon she opened her eyes,

and they rested upon the face of the Advocate.

"You have come," she sighed.

He knelt by the bed, and addressed her, but it was with difficulty he

caught the words she spoke. Death was very near.

"Was Madeline my daughter?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Pauline, "as I am about to appear before my God!"

The effort exhausted her, and she lay still for many minutes. Then her

hand feebly sought her pillow, and the Advocate, perceiving that she

wished to obtain something from under it, searched and found a small

packet. He knew immediately, when she motioned that she desired him to

retain it, that it contained the certificate of his daughter's birth.

The priest prayed audibly for the departing soul. Pauline's lips

moved; the Advocate placed his ear close. She breathed the words:

"We shall meet again soon! Pray for forgiveness!"

Then death claimed her, and her earthly sorrows were ended.

CHAPTER IV

ONWARD--TO DEATH

Late in the afternoon the Advocate was stumbling, almost blindly,

through the tempest towards the House of White Shadows. Father Capel

had striven in vain to dissuade him from making the attempt to reach

the villa.

"There is safety only in the sheltered heights," said the priest. "By

this time the valleys are submerged, and the dwellings therein are

being swept away. Ah me--ah me! how many of my poor are ruined; how

many dead! Not in my experience have I seen a storm as terrible as

this. It is sent as a warning and a punishment. Only the strongest

houses in the villages that lie in the valleys will be able to

withstand its fury. Be persuaded, and remain here until its force is

spent."

He spoke to one who was deaf to reason. It seemed to the Advocate as

though the end of his life had come, as though his hold upon the world

might at any moment be sapped; but while he yet lived there was before

him a task which it was incumbent upon him to perform. It was

imperative that he should have speech with his wife and Christian

Almer.

"I have work to do," he said to the priest, "and it must be done

to-day."

An unaccustomed note in his voice caused Father Capel to regard him

with even a more serious attention than he had hitherto bestowed upon

him.

"There are men," said the priest, "who, when sudden misfortune

overtakes them, adopt a desperate expedient to put an end to all

worldly trouble, and thus add sin to sin."

"Have no fear for me," said the Advocate. "I am not contemplating

suicide. What fate has in store for me I will meet without repining.

You caution me against the storm, yet I perceive you yourself are

preparing to face it."

"I go to my duty," said the priest.

"And I to mine," rejoined the Advocate.

Thus they parted, each going his separate way.

The Advocate had not calculated the difficulties he was to encounter;

his progress was slow, and he had to make wide detours on the road,

and frequently to retrace his steps for a considerable distance, in

order to escape being swept to death by the floods. From the ranges

all around the village in which the House of White Shadows was

situated the water was pouring in torrents, which swirled furiously

through the lower heights, carrying almost certain destruction to

those who had not already availed themselves of the chances of escape.

Terrific as was the tempest, he took no heed of it. It was not the

storm of Nature, but the storm within his soul which absorbed him. He

met villagers on the road flying for safety. With terror-struck

movements they hurried past, men, women, and children, uttering cries

of alarm at the visitation. Now and then one and another called upon

him to turn back.

"If you proceed," they said, "you will be engulfed in the rapids. Turn

back if you wish to live."

He did not answer them, but doggedly pursued his way.

"My punishment has come," he thought. "I have no wish to live, nor do

I desire to outlast this day."

Once only, of his own prompting, did he pause. A woman, with little

children clinging to her, passed him, sobbing bitterly. His eyes

happening to light upon her face, he saw in it some likeness to the

peasant girl whom in years gone by he had betrayed. The likeness might

or might not have been there, but it existed certainly in his fancy.

He stopped and questioned her, and learned that she had been utterly

ruined by the storm, her cottage destroyed, her small savings lost,

and all her hopes blasted. He emptied his pockets of money, and gave

her what valuables he had about him.

"Sell them," he said; "they will help to purchase you a new home."

She called down blessings on his head.

"If she knew me for what I am," he muttered as he left her, "she would

curse me."

On and on he struggled and seemed to make no progress. The afternoon

was waning, and the clouds were growing blacker and thicker, when he

saw a man staggering towards him. He was about to put a question to

him respecting the locality of the House of White Shadows--his course

had been so devious that he scarcely knew in what direction it

lay--when a closer approach to the man showed him to be no other than

John Vanbrugh.

"Ah!" cried Vanbrugh, seizing the Advocate's arm, and thus arresting

his steps, "I feared we had lost you. A fine time I have had of it

down in your villa yonder! Had it not been for the storm, I should

have been bundled before a magistrate on a charge of interloping; but

everybody had enough to do to look after himself. It was a case of the

devil take the hindmost. A scurvy trick, though, of yours, to desert a

comrade; still, for my sake, I am glad to see you in the land of the

living."

"Have you come straight from the villa?" asked the Advocate.

"Straight!" cried Vanbrugh with a derisive laugh. "I defy the soberest

saint to walk straight for fifty yards in such a hurricane. Three

bottles of wine would not make me so unsteady as this cursed

wind--enough to stop one's breath for good or ill. What! you are not

going on?"

"I am. What should hinder me?"

"Some small love of life--a trivial but human sentiment. There is no

one in your house. It is by this time deserted by all but the rats."

"My wife----"

"Was the last to leave, with a friend of yours, Christian Almer by

name. He and I had some words together. Let me tell you. I happened to

drop a remark concerning you which he considered disparaging, and had

I been guilty of all the cardinal sins he could not have been more

angered. A true friend--but probably he does not know what I know.

Well for you that I did not enlighten him. You will meet them a little

lower down on the road, but I advise you not to go too far. The

valleys are rivers, carrying everything, headlong, in their course."

"There was an old lawyer in the house. Do you know what has become of

him?"

"I saw him perched on the back of a fool, and by their side a girl

with the sweetest face, and an old woman I should take to be her

grandmother."

"Farewell," said the Advocate, wrenching himself free. "Should we meet

again I will pay you for your friendly services."

"Well said," replied Vanbrugh. "I am content. No man ever knew you to

be false to your word. A woman perhaps--but that lies in the past. Ah,

what a storm! It is as though the end of the world had come."

"To those whose minutes are numbered," said the Advocate between his

set teeth, "the end of the world has come. Farewell once more."

"Farewell then," cried Vanbrugh, proceeding onward. "For my sake be

careful of yourself. If this be not the Second Deluge I will seek you

to-morrow."

"For me," muttered the Advocate, as he left Vanbrugh, "there may be no

to-morrow."

Bearing in mind the words of Vanbrugh that he would meet his wife and

Christian Almer lower down on the road, he looked out for them. He saw

no trace of them, and presently he began to blunder in his course; he

searched in vain for a familiar landmark, and he knew not in which

direction the House of White Shadows was situated. Evening was fast

approaching when he heard himself hailed by loud shouts. The sounds

proceeded from a strongly-built stone hut, protected on three sides

from wind and rain, and so placed that the water from the ranges

rolled past without injuring it. Standing within the doorway was Fritz

the Fool.

Thinking his wife might have sought shelter there, the Advocate made

his way to it, and found therein assembled, in addition to Fritz, old

Pierre Lamont, Mother Denise and her husband Martin, and their pretty

granddaughter Dionetta.

"Welcome, comrade, welcome," cried Pierre Lamont. "It is pleasant to

see a familiar face. We were compelled to fly from the villa, and

Fritz here conveyed us here to this hospitable hut, where we shall be

compelled to stay till the storm ceases. Where is 'your fair lady?"

"It is a question I would ask of you," said the Advocate. "She is not

here, then?"

"No. She left the villa before we did, in the company of your

friend"--the slight involuntary accent he placed upon the word caused

the Advocate to start as though he had received a blow--"Christian

Almer. They have doubtless found another shelter as secure as this. We

wished them to stop for us, but they preferred not to wait. Fritz had

a hard job of it carrying me to this hut, which he claims as his own,

and which is stored with provisions sufficient for a month's siege. I

have robbed the old house of its servants--Dionetta here, for whom"

(he dropped his voice) "the fool has a fancy, and her grandmother,

whom I shall pension off, and Fritz himself--an invaluable fool.

Fritz, open a bottle of wine; do the honours of your mansion. The

Advocate is exhausted."

The Advocate did not refuse the wine; he felt its need to sustain his

strength for the work he had yet to perform. He glanced round the

walls.

"Is there an inner room?" he asked.

"Yes; there is the door."

"May I crave privacy for a few minutes?"

Pierre Lamont waved his hand, and the Advocate walked to the inner

room, and closed the door upon himself.

"What has come over this man?" mused Pierre Lamont. "There is in his

face, since yesterday, such a change as it is rare in life's

experience to see. It is not produced by fatigue. Has he made

discovery of his wife's faithlessness and his friend's treachery. And

should I not behave honestly to him, and make him as wise as I am on

events within my knowledge? What use? What use? But at least he shall

know that the secret of Gautran's guilt is not his alone."

In the meantime the Advocate was taking advantage of the solitude for

which he had been yearning since he left the bedside of Pauline. It

was not until this moment that he could find an opportunity to examine

the packet she had given him.

It contained what he imagined--the certificate of the birth of his

child. He read it and mentally took note of the date and also of

certain words written on the back, in confirmation of the story

related to him by John Vanbrugh. No room was there for doubt. Madeline

was his child, and by his means her murderer had escaped from justice.

"A just Heaven smote him down," he thought; "so should retribution

fall upon me. I am partner in his crime. Upon my soul lies guilt

heavier than his."

Within the certificate of birth was a smaller packet, which he had

laid aside. He took it up now, and removed the paper covering. It was

the portrait of his daughter, Madeline the flower-girl. The picture

was that of a young girl just budding into womanhood--a girl whose

laughing mouth and sparkling eyes conveyed to his heart so keen a

torture that he gave utterance to a groan, and covered his eyes with

his hand to shut out the reproach. But in the darkness he saw a vision

which sent violent shudders through him--such a vision as had pursued

Gautran in the lonely woods, as he had seen in the waving of branch

and leaf, as had hovered over him in his prison cell, as he stood by

his side in the courthouse during the trial from which he emerged a

free man. Bitterly was this man, who had reached a height so lofty

that it seemed as if calumny could not touch him, bitterly was he

expiating the error of his youth.

He folded the portrait of his child within the certificate of birth,

and replaced them in his pocket. Then, with an effort, he succeeded in

summoning some kind of composure to his features, and the next minute

he rejoined Pierre Lamont.

"You will remain with me," said the old lawyer; "it will be best."

"Nay," responded the Advocate, "a plain duty lies before me. I must

seek my wife."

"She herself is doubtless in a place of shelter," said Pierre Lamont,

"and while this tempest is raging, devastating the land in every

direction, you can scarcely hope to find her."

"I shall find her," said the Advocate in a tone of conviction. "Stern

fate, which has dogged my steps since I arrived in Geneva, and brought

me to a pass which, were you acquainted with the details, would appear

incredible to you, will conduct me to her side. Were I otherwise

convinced I must not shrink from my duty."

"Outside these walls," urged Pierre Lamont, "death stares you in the

face."

"There are worse things than death," said the Advocate, with an air of

gloomy and invincible resolution.

"Useless to argue with such a man as yourself," said Pierre Lamont. He

turned to Fritz. "Go, you and your friends, into the inner room for a

while. I wish to speak in private with my friend."

"One moment," said the Advocate to the fool as he was preparing to

obey Pierre Lamont. "You were the last to leave the House of White

Shadows."

"We were the last humans," replied Fritz.

"In what condition was it at the time?"

"In a most perilous condition. The waters were rising around the

walls. It had, I should say, not twelve hours to live."

"To live!" echoed Pierre Lamont, striving to impart lightness to his

voice, and signally failing. "How do you apply that, Fritz?"

"Trees live!" replied Fritz, "and their life goes with the houses they

help to build. If the walls of the old house we have run from could

talk, mysteries would be brought to light."

"You have been my wife's maid," said the Advocate to Dionetta, as she

was about to pass him. Dionetta curtsied. "Has she discharged you?"

Dionetta cast a nervous glance at Pierre Lamont, and another at Mother

Denise. The old grandmother answered for her.

"I thought it as well," said Mother Denise, "in all respect and

humility, that so simple a child as Dionetta should be kept to her

simple life. My lady was good enough to give Dionetta a pair of

diamond earrings and a diamond finger-ring, which we have left behind

us." Fritz made a grimace. "These things are not fit for poor

peasants, and the pleasure they convey is a dangerous pleasure."

"You are not favourably disposed towards my wife," said the Advocate.

Mother Denise was silent. "But you are right in what you say. Diamonds

are not fit gifts for simple maids. I wish you well, you and your

grandchild. It might have been----" The thought of his own child, of

the same age as Dionetta, and as beautiful, crossed his mind. He

brushed his hand across his eyes, and when he looked round the room

again, he and Pierre Lamont were alone.

"A fool of fools," said Pierre Lamont, looking after Fritz. "If he and

the pretty Dionetta wed--it will be a suitable match for beauty to

mate with folly--he will be father to a family of fools who may, in

their way, be wiser in their generation than you and I. Your decision

is irrevocable?"

"It is irrevocable."

"If you do not find your wife you will endeavour to return to us?"

"I shall find her."

"And then?" asked Pierre Lamont with a singular puckering of his

brows.

"And then?" echoed the Advocate absently, and added: "Who can tell

what may happen from one hour to another?"

"How much does he know?" thought Pierre Lamont; "or are his suspicions

but just aroused? There is a weight upon his soul which taxes all his

strength. It is grand to see a strong man suffer as he is suffering.

Is there a mystery in his trouble with which I am not acquainted? His

wife--I know about her. Gautran--I know about him. But the stranger

he left in his study in the middle of the night--a broken-down

gentleman--vagabond, with a spice of wickedness in him--who is he, and

what was his mission? Of one thing I must satisfy myself before I am

assured that he is worthy of my compassion." Then he spoke aloud. "You

said just now there are worse things than death."

"Aye."

"Disgrace?"

"In a certain form that may be borne, and life yet be worth the

having."

"Good. Dishonour?"

"It matters little," said the Advocate; "but were the time not

precious, I should be curious to learn why you desire to get at the

heart of my secrets."

"The argument would be too long," said Pierre Lamont with earnestness,

"but I can justify myself. There are worse things than death. Pardon

me--an older man than yourself, and one who is well disposed towards

you--for asking you bluntly whether such things have come to you?"

"They have. You can read the signs in my face."

"But if you have a secret, the revealing of which would be hurtful to

you, cannot the mischief be averted? As far as I can expect you have

been frank with me. Frankness for frankness. Say that the secret

refers to Gautran and to your defence of him?"

"I have been living in a fool's paradise," said the Advocate with a

scornful smile. "To whom is this known?"

"To Fritz the Fool, and to me, through him. He saw Gautran in your

study after the trial----"

"Have I been watched?"

"The discovery was accidental. He was moved by some love-verses I read

to him, and becoming sentimental, he dallied outside Dionetta's

window, after the manner of foolish lovers. Then the lights of your

study window attracted him, and he peeped through. When Gautran left

the villa, Fritz followed him, and heard him in his terrified

soliloquies proclaim his guilt. Were this to go out to the world, it

would, according to its fashion, construe it in a manner which might

be fatal to you. But Gautran is dead, and I can be silent, and can put

a lock on Fritz's tongue--for in my soul I believe you were not aware

the wretch was guilty when you defended him."

"I thank you. I believed him to be innocent."

"Why, then, my mind is easy. Friend, shake hands." He held the

Advocate's hand in his thin fingers, and with something of

wistfulness, said: "I would give a year of my life if I could prevail

upon you to remain with us."

"You cannot prevail upon me. So much being said between us, more is

necessary. The avowal of my ignorance of Gautran's guilt at the time I

defended him--I learnt it after the trial, mind you--will not avail

me. A written confession,--sworn upon his dying oath, exists, which

accuses me of that which the world will be ready to believe. Strange

to say, this is my lightest trouble. There are others of graver moment

which more vitally concern me--unknown to you, unless, indeed, you

possess a wizard's art of divination."

"Comrade," said Pierre Lamont, slowly and with emphasis, "there

breathes not in the world a woman worth the breaking of a man's

heart."

"Stop!" cried the Advocate in a voice of agony.

In silence he and Pierre Lamont gazed upon each other, and in the old

lawyer's face the Advocate saw that his wife's faithlessness and his

friend's treachery were known.

"Enough," he said; "there is for me no deeper shame, no deeper

dishonour."

And he turned abruptly from Pierre Lamont, and left the hut staggering

like a drunken man.

"Fritz, Fritz!" cried Pierre Lamont. "Come quickly!" Fritz instantly

made his appearance from the inner room. "Look you, Fritz," said the

old lawyer, in hurried, excited tones, "the Advocate has gone upon his

mad errand--has gone alone. After him at once, and if you can save him

from the consequences of his desperate resolve--if you can advise,

assist him, do so for my sake. Quick, Fritz, quick!"

"Master Lamont," said Fritz, "are you asking me to do a man's work?'

"Yes, Fritz--you can do no more."

"Well and good. As far as a man dare go, I will go; but if a madman

persists in rushing upon certain death, it will not help him for a

fool to follow his example. I am fond of life, Master Lamont, doubly

fond of it just now, for reasons." He jerked his thumb over his

shoulder to the room which contained Dionetta. "But I will do what can

be done. You may depend upon me."

He was gone at least two hours, and when he returned he was exhausted

and panting for breath.

"I was never born to be drowned," he said, and he threw himself into a

chair, and sat there, gasping.

"Well, Fritz, well?" cried Pierre Lamont.

"Wait till I get my breath. I followed this great Advocate as you

desired, and for some time, so deep was he in his dreams, he did not

know I was with him. But once, when he was waist high in water--not

that he cared, it was as though he was inviting death--and I, who was

acquainted with the road through which he was wading, pulled him

suddenly back and so saved his life, he turned upon me savagely, and

demanded who I was. He recognised me the moment he spoke the words--I

will say this of him, that in the presence of another man he never

loses his self-possession, and that, in my belief he would be a match

for Death, if it presented itself to him in a visible, palpable shape.

'Ah,' said he, 'you are Fritz the Fool; why do you dog me?' 'I do not

dog you,' I replied; 'Master Lamont bade me guide and assist you, if

you needed guidance and assistance. He is the only man for whom I

would risk my life.' 'Honesty is a rare virtue,' he said; 'keep with

me, then, for just as long as you think yourself to be safe. You saw

my wife and Mr. Almer leave the House of White Shadows. Is it likely

they took this road?' 'They could take no other, and live,' I said,

'but there is no trace of them. They must have turned back to the

villa.' 'Could they reach it, do you think?' he asked. 'A brave man

can do wonders,' I replied; 'some hours ago they may have reached it;

but they could not stop in the lower rooms, which even at that time

must have been below water-mark. I will not answer for the upper part

of the house at this moment, and before morning it will be swept

away.' 'Guide me as far on the road as you care to accompany me,' said

he, 'and when you leave me point me out the way I should go.' I did

so, and we encountered dangers, and but for me he would not have been

alive when I left him. We came to the bridge which spans the ravine of

pines, two miles this side of the House of White Shadows. A great part

of it had been torn away, and down below a torrent was rushing fierce

enough to beat the life out of any living being, human or animal.

'There is no other way but this,' I said, 'to the House of White

Shadows. I shall not cross the bridge.' He said no word, but struggled

on to the bridge, which--all that was left of it--consisted of three

slender trunks half hanging over the ravine. It was nothing short of a

miracle that he got across; no sooner was he upon the other side than

the remaining portion of the bridge fell into the ravine. He waved his

hand to me, and I soon lost sight of him in the darkness. I stumbled

here as well as I could. Master Lamont, I never want another journey

such as that; had not the saints watched over me I should not be here

to tell the tale. This is the blackest night in my remembrance."

"Do you think he can escape, Fritz?" asked Pierre Lamont.

"His life is not worth a straw," replied Fritz. "Look you here, Master

Lamont. If I were to see him tomorrow, or any other day, alive, I

should know that he is in league with the Evil One. No human power can

save him."

"Peace be with him," said Pierre Lamont. "A great man is lost to us--a

noble mind has gone."

"Master Lamont," said Fritz sententiously, "there is such a thing as

being too clever. Better to be a simpleton than to be over-wise or

over-confident. I intend to remain a fool to the end of my days. I

have no pity for such a man. Who climbs must risk the fall. Not rocky

peaks, but level ground, with bits of soft moss, for Fritz the Fool."

He slept well and soundly, but Pierre Lamont tossed about the whole of

the night, thinking with sadness and regret upon the downfall of the

Advocate.

CHAPTER V

THE DOOM OF THE HOUSE OF WHITE SHADOWS

An unerring instinct guided him; a superhuman power possessed him; and

at midnight--though he could keep no count of time--he found himself

within the gates of the House of White Shadows. Upon his lips,

contracted and spasmodic with pain and suffering, appeared a pitiable

smile as he gazed at a window on the upper floor, and saw a light. It

was reflected from the window of Christian Almer's room.

"There they are," he muttered; "I shall not die unavenged."

The water was breast high. He battled through it, and reached the open

door of the villa. Slowly he ascended the stairs until he arrived at

the landing above. He listened at Christian Almer's door, but heard no

sound. Enraged at the thought that they might, after all, have escaped

him, he dashed into the room, and called out the names of his wife and

friend. Silence answered him. He staggered towards the lamp, which

stood on a table covered with a shade which threw the light downward.

Before the lamp was a sheet of paper, with writing upon it, and

bending over it the Advocate saw that it was addressed to him, and was

intended for his perusal.

A steadier survey of the room brought its revelations. At the extreme

end of the apartment lay a woman, still and motionless. He crept

towards her, knelt by her, and lowered his face to hers. It was his

wife, cold and dead!

A rosy tint was in her cheeks; a smile was on her lips; her death had

brought no suffering with it.

"Fair and false," he said. "Beauty is a sinful possession."

Her clothes were wet, and he knew that she had been drowned.

Then, turning, he saw what had before escaped his notice--the body of

Christian Almer, lying near the table. He put his ear to Almer's heart

and felt a slight beating.

"He can wait," muttered the Advocate. "I will first read what he has

written."

He was about to sit at the table when he heard a surging sound

without. He stepped into the passage, and saw the waters swaying

beneath him.

"It is well," he thought. "In a little while all will be over for

those who have sinned."

This reflection softened him somewhat toward those who lay within the

room, and by whom he believed himself to have been wronged. Was he not

himself the greatest sinner in that fatal house? He returned to the

table and read what Christian Almer had written.

"Edward:

"I pray that these words may reach your eyes. Above all things on

earth have I valued your friendship, and my heart is wrung with

anguish by the reproach that I have not been worthy of it. Last night,

when your wife and I parted, I knew that you had discovered the weak

and treacherous part I have played towards you, for as I turned

towards my room--at that very moment, looking downward, I saw you

below. I did not dare to come to you--I did not dare to show my face

to the man I had wronged. It was my intention to fly this morning from

your presence and hers, and never to see you more; and also to write

to you the words to which, by the memory of all that I hold sacred, I

now solemnly swear--that the wrong I have done you is compassed by

sentiment. I do not seek to excuse myself; I know that treachery in

thought is as base between you and me, as treachery in act. Yet in all

humbleness I implore you to endeavour to find some palliation, though

but the slightest, of my conduct in the reflection that sometimes in

the strongest men--even in such a man as yourself, whose mind and life

are most pure and noble--error cannot be avoided. We are hurried into

wrong by subtle forces which wither one's earnest endeavours to step

in the right path. Thus it has been with me. If you will recall

certain words which were spoken in our conversation at midnight in the

room in which this is written, you will understand what was meant when

I said that I flew to the mountains to rid myself, by a happy chance,

of a terror which possessed me. You who have never erred, you who have

never sinned, may not be able to find it in your heart to forgive me.

If it be so, I bow my head to your judgment--which is just, as in all

your actions you are known to be. But if you cannot forgive me, I

entreat you to pity me.

"You were not in the house to-day when we endeavoured to escape to a

place of shelter in which we should be protected from this terrible

inundation. We did not succeed--we were beaten back; and being

engulfed in a sudden rush of waters, I could not save your wife. The

utmost I could do was to bear her lifeless body back to this fatal

house. It was I who should have died, not she; but my last moments are

approaching. Think kindly of her if you can.

"Christian Almer."

Had he not been absorbed, not only in the last words written by

Christian Almer, but by the reflections which they engendered, the

Advocate would have known that the floods were increasing in volume,

and that, in the short time he had been in the house, the waters had

risen several feet. But he was living an inner life--a life in which

the spiritual part of himself was dominant.

He stepped to the body of his wife and said:

"Poor child! Mine the error."

Then he knelt by the side of Christian Almer, and raised him in his

arms. Aroused to consciousness by the action, Almer opened his eyes.

They rested upon the Advocate's face vacantly, but presently they

dilated in terror.

"Be not afraid," said the Advocate, "I have read what you have

written. I know all."

"I am very weak," murmured Christian Almer. "Do not torture me; say

that you pity me."

"I pity and forgive you, Christian," replied the Advocate in a very

gentle voice.

"Thank God! Thank God!" said Almer, and closed his eyes, from which

the warm tears gushed.

"God be merciful to sinners!" murmured the Advocate.

When daylight broke, the House of White Shadows, and all that it

contained, had been swept from the face of the earth. A bare waste was

all that remained to mark the record of human love and human ambition.