For a little while Gautran scarcely comprehended that he was at liberty to wander forth. He had so completely given himself up as lost that he was stupefied by the announcement that his liberty was restored to him. He gazed vacantly before him, and the announcement had to be twice repeated before he arrived at an understanding of its purport; then his attitude changed. A spasm of joy passed into his face, followed immediately by a spasm of fear; those who observed him would indeed have been amazed had they known what was passing through his mind.
"Free, am I?" he asked.
"You have been told so twice," a warder answered. "It astonishes you. Well, you are not the only one."
As the warders fell from his side he watched them warily, fearing they were setting a trap which might prove his destruction.
From where he stood he could not see the Advocate, who was preparing to depart. Distasteful as the verdict was to every person in court, with the exception of Gautran and his counsel, those members of the legal profession who had not taken an active part in the trial were filled with professional admiration at the skill the Advocate had displayed. An eminent member of the bar remarked to him:
"It is a veritable triumph, the greatest and most surprising I have ever witnessed. None but yourself could have accomplished it. Yet I cannot believe in the man's innocence."
This lawyer held too high and honourable a position for the Advocate to remain silent. "The man is innocent," he said.
"You know him to be so?"
"I know him to be so. I stake my reputation upon it."
"You almost convince me. It would be fatal to any reputation were Gautran, after what has passed, to be proved guilty. But that, of course, is impossible."
"Quite impossible," said the Advocate somewhat haughtily.
"Exactly so. There can be no room for doubt, after your statement that you know the man to be innocent."
With no wish to continue the conversation, the Advocate turned to leave the court when an officer presented himself.
"He wishes to speak to you, sir."
"He! Who?" asked the Advocate. He was impatient to be gone, his interest at the trial being at an end. The victory was gained; there was nothing more to be done.
"The prisoner, sir. He desired me to tell you."
"The prisoner!" said the Advocate. "You forget. The man is free."
He walked towards Gautran, and for the first time during the long days of the trial gazed directly in his client's face. The magnetism in the Advocate's eyes arrested Gautran's speech. His own dilated, and he appeared to forget what he had intended to say. They looked at each other in silence for a few moments, the expression on the face of the Advocate cold, keen, and searching, that on the face of Gautran as of a man entranced; and then the Advocate turned sternly away, without a word having been spoken between them. When Gautran looked again for his defender he was gone.
Gautran still lingered; the court was nearly empty.
"Be off," said the warder, who had been his chief attendant in his cell; "we have done with you for the present."
But Gautran made no effort to leave. The warder laid his hand upon the ruffian's shoulder, with the intention of expelling him from the court.
Gautran shook him off with the snarl of a wild beast.
"Touch me again," he cried, "and I'll strangle you! I can do it easily enough--two of you at a time!"
And, indeed, so ferocious was his manner that it seemed as if he were disposed to carry his threat into execution.
"Women are more in your way," said the warder tauntingly. "Look you, Gautran; if Madeline had been my daughter, your life would not be worth an hour's purchase, despite the verdict gained by your clever Advocate."
"You would not dare to say that to me if you and I were alone," retorted Gautran, scowling at the sullen faces of the officers about him.
"Away with you!" exclaimed the warder, "at once, or we will throw you into the streets!"
"I will go when I get my property."
"What property?"
"The knife you took from me when you dragged me to prison. I don't move without it."
They deemed it best to comply with this demand, the right being on his side, and his knife was restored to him. It was an old knife, with a keen blade and a stout handle, and it opened and closed with a sharp click. Gautran tried it three or four times with savage satisfaction and then, with another interchange of threatening glances, he slunk from the court.
The Advocate's carriage was at the door, ready to convey him to Christian Almer's villa. But after his long confinement in the close court, he felt the need of physical exercise, and he dismissed his coachman, saying he intended to walk home. As the carriage drove off, a person plucked him by the sleeve, and pressed a letter into his hand. It was dusk, and the Advocate, although he looked quickly around, could not discover the giver. His sight was short and strong, and standing beneath the light of a street-lamp he opened and read the letter.
"Old Friend,
"It will doubtless surprise you to see my handwriting, it is so long since we met. The sight of it may displease you, but that is of small consequence to me. When a man is in a desperate strait, he is occasionally driven to desperate courses. When needs must, as you are aware, the devil drives. I have been but an hour in Geneva, and I have heard of your victory; I congratulate you upon it. I must see you--soon. I know the House of White Shadows in the pretty valley yonder. At a short distance from the gates--but far enough off, and so situated as to enable a man to hide with safety if he desires--is a hill upon which I will wait for your signal to come to you, which shall be the waving of a white handkerchief from your study window. At midnight and alone will be best. You see how ready I am to oblige you. I shall wait till sunrise for the signal. If you are too busy to-night, let it be tomorrow night, or the next, or any night this week.
"I am, as ever, your friend,
"John Vanbrugh."
The Advocate placed the letter in his pocket, and murmured as he walked through the streets of Geneva:
"John Vanbrugh! Has he risen from his grave? He would see me at midnight and alone! He must be mad, or drunk, to make such a request. He may keep his vigil, undisturbed. Of such a friendship there can be no renewal. The gulf that separates us is too wide to be bridged over by sentimental memories. John Vanbrugh, the vagabond! I can imagine him, and the depth to which he has sunk. Every man must bear the consequences of his actions. Let him bear his, and make the best, or the worst, of them."
The news of the acquittal of Gautran spread swiftly through the town, and the people gathered in front of thecafésand lingered in the streets, to gaze upon the celebrated Advocate who had worked the marvel.
"He has a face like the Sphynx," said one.
"With just as much feeling," said another.
"Do you believe Gautran was innocent?"
"Not I--though he made it appear so."
"Neither do I believe it, but I confess I am puzzled."
"If Gautran did not murder the girl, who did?" asked one, a waverer, who formed an exception to the general rule.
"That is for the law to find out."
"It was found out, and the murderer has been set loose. We shall have to take care of ourselves on dark nights."
"Would you condemn a man upon insufficient evidence?"
"I would condemn such as Gautran on any evidence. When you want to get rid of vermin it does not do to be over particular."
"The law must be respected."
"Life must be protected. That is the first law."
"Hush! Here he is. Best not let him overhear you."
There was but little diversity of opinion. Even in the inn of The Seven Liars, to which Fritz the Fool--who had attended the court every day of the trial, and who had the fleetest foot of any man for a dozen miles round--had already conveyed the news of Gautran's acquittal, the discussion was loud and animated; the women regarding the result as an outrage on their sex, the men more disposed to put Gautran out of the question, and to throw upon the Advocate the opprobrium of the verdict.
"Did I not tell you," said Fritz, "that he could turn black into white? A great man--a great man! If we had more like him, murdering would be a fine trade."
There were, doubtless, among those who thronged the streets to see the Advocate pass, some sinners whose consciences tormented them, and who secretly hoped, if exposure ever overtook them, that Heaven would send them such a defender. His reception, indeed, partook of the character of an ovation. These tributes to his powers made no impression upon him; he pursued his way steadily onward, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and soon the gaily-lighted shops andcafésof Geneva were far behind him.
His thoughts were upon John Vanbrugh, who had been one of his boy friends, and whom for many years he had believed to be dead. In his lonely walk to the House of White Shadows he recalled the image of Vanbrugh, and dwelt, with idle curiosity, upon the recollection of their youthful lives. He had determined not to see Vanbrugh, and was resolved not to renew a friendship which, during its existence, had been lacking in those sterling qualities necessary for endurance. That it was pleasant while it lasted was the best that could be said of it. When he and Vanbrugh grew to manhood there was a wide divergence in their paths.
One walked with firm unfaltering step the road which leads to honour and renown, sparing no labour, throwing aside seductive temptation when it presented itself to him, as it did in its most alluring forms, giving all his mental might to the cause to which he had devoted himself, studying by day and night so earnestly that his bright and strong intellect became stronger and clearer, and he could scarcely miss success. Only once in his younger days had he allowed himself, for a brief period, to be seduced from this path, and it was John Vanbrugh who had tempted him.
The other threw himself upon pleasure's tide, and, blind to earnest duty, drank the sunshine of life's springtime in draughts so intemperate that he became intoxicated with poisonous fire, and, falling into the arms of the knaves who thrive on human weakness and depravity, his moral sense, like theirs, grew warped, and he ripened into a knave himself.
Something of this, but not in its fulness, had reached the Advocate's ears, making but small impression upon him, and exciting no surprise, for by that time his judgment was matured, and human character was an open book to him; and when, some little while afterwards, he heard that John Vanbrugh was dead, he said, "He is better dead," and scarcely gave his once friend another thought.
He was a man who had no pity for the weak, and no forgiveness for the erring.
He walked slowly, with a calm enjoyment of the solitude and the quiet night, and presently entered a narrow lane, dotted with orchards.
It was now dark, and he could not see a dozen yards before him. He was fond of darkness; it contained mysterious possibilities, he had been heard to say. There was an ineffable charm in the stillness which encompassed him, and he enjoyed it to its full. There were cottages here and there, lying back from the road, but no light or movement in them; the inmates were asleep. Soft sighs proceeded from the drowsy trees, and slender boughs waved solemnly, while the only sounds from the farmyards were, at intervals, a muffled shaking of wings, and the barking of dogs whom his footsteps had aroused. As he passed a high wooden gate, through the bars of which he could dimly discern a line of tall trees standing like sentinels of the night, the perfume of limes was wafted towards him, and he softly breathed the words:
"My wife!"
He yielded up his senses to the thralldom of a delicious languor, in which the only image was that of the fair and beautiful woman who was waiting for him in their holiday home. Had any person seen the tender light in his eyes, and heard the tone in which the words were whispered, he could not have doubted that the woman they referred to was passionately adored.
Not for long was he permitted to muse upon the image of a being the thought of whom appeared to transform a passionless man into an ardent lover; a harsher interruption than sweet perfume floating on a breeze recalled him to his sterner self.
"Stop!"
"For what reason?"
"The best. Money!"
The summons proceeded from one in whom, as his voice betrayed, the worst passions were dominant.
There lived not in the world a man more fearless than the Advocate. At this threatening demand, which meant violence, perhaps murder, he exhibited as little trepidation as he would have done at an acquaintance asking him, in broad daylight, for a pinch of snuff. Indeed, he was so perfectly unembarrassed that his voice assumed a lightness foreign to its usual serious tones. "Money, my friend! How much?"
"All you've got."
"Terse, and to the point. If I refuse?"
"I am desperate. Look to yourself."
The Advocate smiled, and purposely deepened the airiness of his tones.
"This is a serious business, then?"
"You'll find it so, if you trifle with me."
"Are you hungry?"
"I am starving."
"You have a powerful voice for a starving man."
"Don't play with me, master. I mean to have what I ask for."
"How can you, if I do not possess it? How will you if, possessing it, I refuse to give it you?"
The reply was a crashing blow at an overhanging branch, which broke it to the ground. It was evident that the man carried a stout weapon, and that he meant to use it, with murderous effect, if driven to extremes. They spoke at arm's-length; neither was quite within the other's grasp.
"A strong argument," said the Advocate, without blenching, "and a savage one. You have a staff in your hand, and, probably, a knife in your pocket."
"Ah, I have, and a sharp blade to it."
"I thought as much. Would not that do your business more effectually?"
"Perhaps. But I've learnt a lesson to-day about knives, which teaches me not to use mine too freely."
The Advocate frowned.
"Other scoundrels would run less risk of the gaol if their proceeding's were as logical. Do you know me?"
"How should I?"
"It might be, then," continued the Advocate, secretly taking a box of matches from his pocket, "that, like yourself, I am both a thief and a would-be murderer."
As he uttered the last words he flung a lighted match straight at the man's face, and for a moment the glare revealed the ruffian's features. He staggered back, repeating the word "Murderer!" in a hoarse startled whisper. The Advocate strode swiftly to his side, and striking another match, held it up to his own face.
"Look at me, Gautran," he said.
The man looked up, and recognising the Advocate, recoiled, muttering:
"Aye, aye--I see who it is."
"And you would rob me, wretch!"
"Not now, master, not now. Your voice--it was the voice of another man. I crave your pardon, humbly."
"So--you recommence work early, Gautran. Have you not had enough of the gaol?"
"More than enough. Don't be hard on me, master; call me mad if you like."
"Mad or sane, Gautran, every man is properly made accountable for his acts. Take this to heart."
"It won't do me any good. What is a poor wretch to do with nothing but empty pockets?"
"You are a dull-witted knave, or you would be aware it is useless to lie to me. Gautran, I can read your soul. You wished to speak to me in the court. Here is your opportunity. Say what you had to say."
"Give me breathing time. You've the knack of driving the thoughts clean out of a man's head. Have you got a bit of something that a poor fellow can chew--the end of a cigar, or a nip of tobacco?"
"I have nothing about me but money, which you can't chew, and should not have if you could. Hearken, my friend. When you said you were starving, you lied to me."
"How do you know it?"
"Fool! Are there not fruit-trees here, laden with wholesome food, within any thief's grasp? Your pockets at this moment are filled with fruit."
"You have a gift," said Gautran with a cringing movement of his body. "It would be an act of charity to put me in the way of it."
"What would you purchase?" asked the advocate ironically. "Gold, for wine, and pleasure, and fine clothes?"
"Aye, master," replied Gautran with eager voice.
"Power, to crush those you hate, and make them smart and bleed?"
"Aye, master. That would be fine."
"Gautran, these things are precious, and have their price. What are you ready to pay for them?"
"Anything--anything but money!"
"Something of less worth--your soul?"
Gautran shuddered and crossed himself.
"No, no," he muttered; "not that--not that!"
"Strange," said the Advocate with a contemptuous smile, "the value we place upon an unknown quantity! We cannot bargain, friend. Say now what you desire to say, and as briefly as you can."
But it was some time before Gautran could sufficiently recover himself to speak with composure.
"I want to know," he said at length, with a clicking in his throat, "whether you've been paid for what you did for me?"
"At your trial?"
"Aye, master."
"I have not been paid for what I did for you."
"When they told me yonder," said Gautran after another pause, pointing in the direction of Geneva, where the prison lay, "that you were to appear for me, they asked me how I managed it, but I couldn't tell them, and I'm beating my head now to find out, without getting any nearer to it. There must be a reason."
"You strike a key-note, my friend."
"Someone has promised to pay you."
"No one has promised to pay me."
"You puzzle and confuse me, master. You're a stranger in Geneva, I'm told."
"It is true."
"I've lived about here half my life. I was born in Sierre. My father worked in the foundry, my mother in the fields. You are not a stranger in Sierre."
"I am a stranger there; I never visited the town."
"My father was born in Martigny. You knew my father."
"I did not know your father."
"My mother--her father once owned a vineyard. You knew her."
"I did not know her."
Once more was Gautran silent. What he desired now to say raised up images so terrifying that he had not the courage to give it utterance.
"You are in deep shadow, my friend," said the Advocate, "body and soul. Shall I tell you what is in your mind?"
"You can do that?"
"You wish to know if I was acquainted with the unhappy girl with whose murder you were charged."
"Is there another in the world like you?" asked Gautran, with fear in his voice. "Yes, that is what I want to know."
"I was not acquainted with her."
Gautran retreated a step or two, in positive terror. "Then what," he exclaimed, "in the fiend's name made you come forward?"
"At length," said the Advocate, "we arrive at an interesting point in our conversation. I thank you for the opportunity you afford me in questioning my inner self. What made me come forward to the assistance of such a scoundrel? Humanity? No. Sympathy? No. What, then, was my motive? Indeed, friend, you strike home. Shall I say I was prompted by a desire to assist the course of justice--or by a contemptible feeling of vanity to engage in a contest for the simple purpose of proving myself the victor? It was something of both, mayhap. Do you know, Gautran, a kind of self-despisal stirs within me at the present moment? You do not understand me? I will give you a close illustration. You are a thief."
"Yes, master."
"You steal sometimes from habit, to keep your hand in as it were, and you feel a certain satisfaction at having accomplished your theft in a workmanlike manner. We are all of us but gross and earthly patches. It is simply a question of degree, and it is because I am in an idle mood--indeed, I am grateful to you for this playful hour--that I make a confession to you which would not elevate me in the eyes of better men. You were anxious to know whether I have been paid for my services. I now acknowledge payment. I accept as my fee the recreation you have afforded me."
"I shall be obliged to you, master," said Gautran, "if you will leave your mysteries, and come back to my trial."
"I will oblige you. I read the particulars of the case for the first time on my arrival here, and it appeared to me almost impossible you could escape conviction. It was simply that. I examined you, and saw the legal point which, villain as you are, proclaimed your innocence. That laugh of yours, Gautran, has no mirth in it. I am beginning to be dangerously shaken. I will do, I said then, for this wretch what I believe no other man can do. I will perform a miracle."
"You have done it!" cried Gautran, falling on his knees in a paroxysm of fear, and kissing the Advocate's hand, which was instantly snatched away. "You are great--you are the greatest! You knew the truth!"
"The truth!" echoed the Advocate, and his face grew ashen white.
"Aye, the truth--and you were sent to save me. You can read the soul; nothing is hidden from you. But you have not finished your work. You can save me entirely--you can, you can! Oh, master, finish your work, and I will be your slave to the last hour of my life!"
"Save you! From what?" demanded the Advocate. He was compelled to exercise great control over himself, for a horror was stealing upon him.
The trembling wretch rose, and pointed to the opposite roadside.
"From shadows--from dreams--from the wild eyes of Madeline! Look there--look there!"
The Advocate turned in the direction of Gautran's outstretched trembling hand. A pale light was coining into the sky, and weird shadows were on the earth.
"What are you gazing on?"
"You ask me to torture me," moaned Gautran. "She dogs me like my shadow--I cannot shake her off! I have threatened her, but she does not heed me. She is waiting--there--there--to follow me when I am alone--to put her arms about me--to breathe upon my face, and turn my heart to ice! If I could hold her, I would tear her piecemeal! Youmusthave known her, you who can read what passes in a man's soul--you who knew the truth when you came to me in my cell! She will not obey me, but she will you. Command her, compel her to leave me, or she will drive me mad!"
With amazing strength the Advocate placed his hands on Gautran's shoulders, and twisted the man's face so close to his own that not an inch of space divided them. Their eyes met, Gautran's wavering and dilating with fear, the Advocate's fixed and stern, and with a fire in them terrible to behold.
"Recall," said the Advocate, in a clear voice that rang through the night like a bell, "what passed between you and Madeline on the last night of her life. Speak!"
"I sought her in the Quartier St. Gervais," said I Gautran, speaking like a man in a dream, "and found her at eight o'clock in the company of a man. I watched them, and kept out of their sight.
"He was speaking to her softly, and some things he said to her made her smile; and every time she showed her white teeth I swore that she should be mine and mine alone. They remained together for an hour, and then they parted, he going one way, Madeline another.
"I followed her along the banks of the river, and when no one was near us I spoke to her. She was not pleased with my company, and bade me leave her, but I replied that I had something particular to say to her, and did not intend to go till it was spoken.
"It was a dark night; there was no moon.
"I told her I had been watching her, and that I knew she had another lover. 'Do you mean to give me up?' I said, and she answered that she had never accepted me, and that after that night she would never see me again. I said it might happen, and that it might be the last night we should ever see each other. She asked me if I was going away, and I said no, it might be her that was going away on the longest journey she had ever taken. 'What journey?' she asked, and I answered, a journey with Death for the coachman, for I had sworn a dozen times that night that if she would not swear upon her cross to be true and faithful to me, I would kill her.
"I said it twice, and some persons passed and turned to look at us, but there was not light enough to see us clearly.
"Madeline would have cried to them for help, but I held my hand over her mouth, and whispered that if she uttered a word it would be her last, and that she need not be frightened, for I loved her too well to do her any harm.
"But when we were alone again, and no soul was near us, I told her again that as sure as there was a sky above us I would kill her, unless she swore to give up her other lover, and be true to me. She said she would promise, and she put her little hand in mine and pressed it, and said:
"'Gautran, I will be only yours; now let us go back.'
"But I told her it was not enough; that she must kneel, and swear upon the holy cross that she would have nothing to do with any man but me. I forced her upon her knees, and knelt by her side, and put the cross to her lips; and then she began to sob and tremble. She dared not put her soul in peril, she said; she did not love me--how could she swear to be true to me?
"I said it was that or death, and that it would be the blackest hour of my life to kill her, but that I meant to do it if she would not give in to me. I asked her for the last time whether she would take the oath, and she said she daren't. Then I told her to say a prayer, for she had not five minutes to live. She started to her feet and ran along the bank. I ran after her, and she stumbled and fell to the ground, and before she could escape me again I had her in my arms to fling her into the river.
"She did not scratch or bite me, but clung to me, and her tears fell all about my face. I said to her:
"'You love me, kissing me so; swear then; it is not too late!'
"But she cried:
"No, no! I kiss you so that you may not have the heart to kill me!'
"Soon she got weak, and her arms had no power in them, and I lifted her high in the air, and flung her far from me into the river.
"I waited a minute or two, and thought she was dead, but then I heard a bubbling and a scratching, and, looking down, saw that by a miracle she had got back to the river's brink, and that there was yet life in her. I pulled her out, and she clung to me in a weak way, and whispered, nearly choked the while, that the Virgin Mary would not let me kill her.
"Will you take the oath?' I asked, and she shook her head from side to side.
"'No! no! no!'
"I took my handkerchief, and tied it tight round her neck, and she smiled in my face. Then I lifted her up, and threw her into the river again.
"I saw her no more that night!"
The Advocate removed his eyes, with a shudder, from the eyes of the wretch who had made this horrible confession, and who now sank to the ground, quivering in every limb, crying:
"Save me, master, save me!"
"Monster!" exclaimed the Advocate. "Live and die accursed!"
But the terror-stricken man did not hear the words, and the Advocate, upon whose features, during Gautran's narration, a deep gloom had settled, strode swiftly from him through the peaceful narrow lane, fragrant with the perfume of limes, at the end of which the lights in the House of White Shadows were shining a welcome to him.
At noon the same day the old housekeeper, Mother Denise, and her pretty granddaughter Dionetta were busily employed setting in order and arranging the furniture in a suite of rooms intended for an expected visitor. There were but two floors in the House of White Shadows, and the rooms in which Mother Denise and Dionetta were busy were situated on the upper floor.
"I think they will do now," said Mother Denise, wiping imaginary dust away with her apron.
"All but the flowers." said Dionetta. "No, grandmother, that desk is wrong; it is my lady's own desk, and is to be placed exactly in this corner, by the window. There--it is right now. Be sure that everything is in its proper place, and that the rooms are sweet and bright--be sure--be sure! She has said that twenty times this week."
"Ah," said Mother Denise testily, "as if butterflies could teach bees how to work! My lady is turning your head, Dionetta, it is easy to see that; she has bewitched half the people in the village. Here is father, with the flowers. Haste, Martin, haste!"
"Easy to say, hard to do," grumbled Martin, entering slowly with a basket of cut flowers. "My bones get more obstinate every day. Here's my lady been teasing me out of my life to cut every flower worth looking at. She would have made the garden a wilderness, and spoilt every bed, if I had not argued with her."
"And what did she say," asked Mother Denise, "when you argued with her?"
"Say? Smiled, and showed all her white teeth at once. I never saw such teeth in my young days, nor such eyes, nor such hair, nor such hands--enough to drive a young man crazy."
"Or an old one either," interrupted Mother Denise. "She smiled as sweet as honey--you silly old man--and wheedled you, and wheedled you, till she got what she wanted."
"Pretty well, pretty well. You see, Dionetta, there are two ways of getting a thing done, a soft way and a hard way."
"There, there, there!" cried Mother Denise impatiently. "Do your work with a still tongue, and let us do ours. Get back to the garden, and repair the mischief my lady has caused you to do. What does a man want with a room full of roses?" she muttered, when Martin, quick to obey his domestic tyrant, had gone.
"It is a welcome home," said Dionetta. "If I were absent from my place a long, long while, it would make me feel glad when I returned, to see my rooms as bright as this. It is as though the very roses remembered you."
"You are young," said Mother Denise, "and your thoughts go the way of roses. I can't blame you, Dionetta."
"It was ten years since the master was here, you have told me, grandmother."
"Yes, Dionetta, yes, ten years ago this summer, and even then he did not sleep in the house. Christian Almer hates the place, and of all the rooms in the villa, this is the room he would be most anxious to avoid."
"But why, grandmother?" asked Dionetta, her eyes growing larger and rounder with wonder; "and does my lady know it?"
"My lady is a headstrong woman; she would not listen to me when I advised her to select other rooms for the young master, and she declares--in a light way to be sure, but these are not things to make light of--that she is very disappointed to find that the villa is not haunted. Haunted! I have never seen anything, nor has Martin, nor you, Dionetta."
"Oh, grandmother!" said the girl, in a timid voice, "I don't know whether I have or not. Sometimes I have fancied----"
"Of course you have fancied, and that is all; and you have woke up in the night, and been frightened by nothing. Mark me, Dionetta, if you do no wrong, and think no wrong, you will never see anything of the White Shadows of this house."
"I am certain," said Dionetta, more positively, "when I have been almost falling asleep, that I have heard them creeping, creeping past the door. I have listened to them over and over again, without daring to move in bed. Indeed I have."
"I am certain," retorted Mother Denise, "that you have heard nothing of the kind. You are a foolish, silly girl to speak of such things. You put me quite out of patience, child."
"But Fritz says----"
"Fritz is a fool, a cunning, lazy fool. If I were the owner of this property I would pack him off. There's no telling which master he serves--Christian Almer or Master Pierre Lamont. He likes his bread buttered on both sides, and accepts money from both gentlemen. That is not the conduct of a faithful servant. If I acted in such a manner I should consider myself disgraced."
"I am sure," murmured Dionetta, "that Fritz has done nothing to disgrace himself."
"Let those who are older than you," said Mother Denise, in a sharp tone, "be judges of that. Fritz is good for nothing but to chatter like a magpie and idle round the place from morning to night. When there's work to do, as there has been this week, carrying furniture and moving heavy things about, he must run away to the city, to the court-house where that murderer is being tried. Dionetta, I am not in love with the Advocate or his lady. The Advocate is trying to get a murderer off; it may be the work of a clever man, but it is not the work of a good man. If I had a son, I would sooner have him good than clever; and I would sooner you married a good man than a clever one, I hope you are not thinking of marrying a fool."
"Oh, grandmother, whoever thinks of marrying?"
"Not you, of course, child--would you have me believe that? When I was your age I thought of nothing else, and when you are my age you will see the folly of it. No, I am not in love with the Advocate. He is performing unholy work down there in Geneva. The priest says as much. If that murderer escapes from justice, the guilt of blood will weigh upon the Advocate's soul."
"Oh, grandmother! If my lady heard you she would never forgive you."
"If she hears it, it will not be from my tongue. Dionetta, it was a young girl who was murdered, about the same age as yourself. It might have been you--ah, you may well turn white--and this clever lawyer, this stranger it is, who comes among us to prevent justice being done upon a murderous wretch. He will be punished for it, mark my words."
Dionetta, who knew how useless it was to oppose her grandmother's opinions, endeavoured to change the subject by saying:
"Tell me, grandmother, why Mr. Almer should be more anxious to avoid this room than any other room in the house? I think it is the prettiest of all."
Mother Denise did not reply. She looked round her with the air of a woman recalling a picture of long ago.
"The story connected with this part of the house," she presently said, "gave to the villa the name of the House of White Shadows. You are old enough to hear it. Let me see, let me see. Christian Almer is now thirty-one years old--yes, thirty-one on his last birthday. How time passes! I remember well the day he was born----"
"Hush, grandmother," said Dionetta, holding up her hand. "My lady."
The Advocate's wife had entered the room quietly, and was regarding the arrangements with approval.
"It is excellently done," she said, "exactly as I wished. Dionetta, it was you who arranged the flowers?"
"Yes, my lady."
"You have exquisite taste, really exquisite. Mother Denise, I am really obliged to you."
"I have done nothing," said Mother Denise, "that it was not my duty to do."
"Such an unpleasant way of putting it; for there is a way of doing things----"
"Just what grandfather said," cried Dionetta, gleefully, "a hard way and a soft way." And then becoming suddenly aware of her rudeness in interrupting her mistress, she curtsied, and with a bright colour in her face, said, "I beg your pardon, my lady."
"There's no occasion, child," said Adelaide graciously. "Grandfather is quite right, and everything in this room has been done beautifully." She held a framed picture in her hand, a coloured cabinet photograph of herself, and she looked round the walls to find a place for it. "This will do," she said, and she took down the picture of a child which hung immediately above her desk, and put her own in its stead. "It is nice," she said to Mother Denise, smiling, "to see the faces of old friends about us. Mr. Almer and I are very old friends."
"The picture you have taken down," said Mother Denise, "is of Christian Almer when he was a child."
"Indeed! How old was he then?"
"Five years, my lady."
"He was a handsome boy. His hair and eyes are darker now. You were speaking of him, Mother Denise, as I entered. You were saying he was thirty-one last birthday, and that you remember the day he was born."
"Yes, my lady."
"And you were about to tell Dionetta why this villa was called the House of White Shadows. Give me the privilege of hearing the story."
"I would rather not relate it, my lady."
"Nonsense, nonsense! If Dionetta may hear it, there can be no objection to me. Mr. Almer would be quite angry if he knew you refused me so simple a thing. Listen to what he says in his last letter," and Adelaide took a letter from her pocket, and read: "'Mother Denise, the housekeeper, and the most faithful servant of the house, will do everything in her power to make you comfortable and happy. She will carry out your wishes to the letter--tell her, if necessary, that it is my desire, and that she is to refuse you nothing.' Now, you dear old soul, are you satisfied?"
"Well, my lady, if you insist----"
"Of course I insist, you dear creature. I am sure there is no one in the village who can tell a story half as well as you. Come and stand by me, Dionetta, for fear of ghosts."
She seated herself before the desk, upon which she laid the picture of the lad, and Mother Denise, who was really by no means loth to recall old reminiscences, and who, as she proceeded, derived great enjoyment herself from her narration, thus commenced: