Alone in his study the Advocate had time to review his position. His first feeling, when he listened to Gautran's confession, had been one of unutterable horror, and this feeling was upon him when he entered the villa.
From his outward demeanour no person could have guessed how terrible was his inward agitation. Self-repression was in him a second nature. The habit of concealing his thoughts had been of incalculable value in his profession, and had materially assisted in many of his great victories.
But now he was alone, and when he had locked the study-door, he threw off the mask.
He had been proud of this victory; it was the greatest he had ever achieved. He knew that it would increase his fame, and that it was an important step in the ladder it had been the delight of his life to climb. Cold as he appeared, and apparently indifferent to success, his ambition was vast, overpowering. His one great aim had been not only to achieve the highest distinction while he lived, but to leave behind him a name which should be placed at the head of all his class--a clear and unsullied name which men in after times would quote as a symbol of the triumph of intellect.
It was the sublimity of egoism, contemptible when allied with intellectual inferiority and weakness of character, but justifiable in his case because it was in association with a force of mental gifts little short of marvellous.
In the exercise of his public duties he had been careful never to take a false step. Before he committed himself to a task he invariably made a study of its minutest detail; conned it over and over, stripped it of its outward coverings, probed it to its very heart, added facets to it which lay not only within the region of probability, but possibility; and the result had been that his triumphs were spoken of with wonderment, as something almost higher than human, and within the capacity of no other man.
It had sometimes occurred that the public voice was against a prisoner whose defence he had undertaken, but it was never raised against himself, and perhaps the sweetest reward which was ever bestowed upon him was when, in an unpopular cause which he had conducted to victory, it was afterwards proved that the man he had championed--whose very name was an offence--was in honest truth a victim instead of a wronger. It had grown into a fashion to say, "He must have right on his side, or the Advocate would not defend him."
Here, then, was a triple alliance of justice, truth, and humanity--and he, their champion and the vindicator and upholder of right. In another sphere of life, and in times when the dragon of oppression was weighing heavily upon a people's liberties, such achievements as his would have caused the champion to be worshipped as a saint--certainly as a hero imbued with kingly qualities.
No man really deserves this altitude, though it be sometimes reached. Human nature is too imperfect, its undercurrents are not sufficiently translucent for truth's face to be reflected as in a crystal. But we judge the deed, not the doer, and the man is frequently crowned, the working of whose inner life, were it laid bare, would shock and disgust.
It was when he was at the height of his fame that the Advocate met Adelaide.
Hitherto he had seen but little of women, or, seeing them, had passed them lightly by, but there comes a time in the lives of most men, even of the greatest, when they are abruptly arrested by an influence which insensibly masters them.
Only once in his life had the Advocate wandered from the path he had formed for himself; but it was an idle wandering, partly prompted by a small and unworthy desire to prove himself of two men, the superior, and he had swiftly and effectually thrown the folly aside, never again to be indulged in or renewed. That was many years ago, and had been long forgotten, when Adelaide appeared to him, a star of loveliness, which proved, what few would have believed, that he had a heart.
The new revelation was to him at first a source of infinite gladness, and he yielded to the enchantment. But after a time he questioned himself as to the wisdom of this infatuation. It was then, however, too late. The spell was upon him, and it did not lay in his power to remove it. And when he found that this sweet pleasure did not--as it would have done with most men--interfere with his active duties, nay, that it seemed to infuse a keener relish into their fulfilment, he asked himself the question, "Why not?" In the simple prompting of the question lay the answer.
He possessed an immense power of concentration. With many subjects claiming close attention he could dismiss them all but the one to which it was necessary he should devote himself, and after much self-communing he satisfied himself that love would be no block to ambition.
And indeed so it proved. Adelaide, dazzled by the attentions of a man who stood so high, accepted his worship, and, warned by friends not to be exigent, made no demands upon his time which interfered with his duties.
He was a devoted but not a passionate lover. On all sides she was congratulated--it gratified her. By many she was envied--it delighted her; and she took pleasure in showing how easily she could lead this man, who to all other women was cold as ice.
In those days it was out of her own vanity and thirst for conquest that she evolved pleasure from the association of her name with his. After their marriage he strove to interest her in the cases upon which he was engaged, but, discovering that her taste did not lie in that direction, he did not persist in his endeavour. It did not lessen his love for her, nor her hold upon him. She was to him on this night as she had ever been, a sweet, affectionate, pure woman, who gave him as much love and honour as a man so much older than herself could reasonably expect.
Something of what has been here expressed passed through his mind as he reflected upon the events of the day. How should he deal with Gautran's confession? That was the point he debated.
When he undertook the defence he had a firm belief in the man's innocence. He had drawn the picture of Gautran exactly as he had conceived it. Vile, degraded, brutal, without a redeeming feature--but not the murderer of Madeline the flower-girl.
He reviewed the case again carefully, to see whether he could have arrived at any other conclusion. He could not perceive a single defect in his theory. He was justified in his own eyes. He knew that the entire public sentiment was against him, and that he had convinced men against their will. He knew that there was imported into this matter a feeling of resentment at his successful efforts to set Gautran free. What, then, had induced him to come forward voluntarily in defence of this monster? He asked the question of himself aloud, and he answered it aloud: A reverence for justice.
He had not indulged in self-deception when he declared to Gautran's judges that the leading principle of his life had been a desire for justice in small matters as well as great, for the meanest equally with the loftiest of his fellow-creatures. That it did not clash with his ambition was his good fortune. It was not tainted because of this human coincidence. So far, then, he was justified in his own estimation.
Rut he must be justified also in the eyes of the world. And here intruded the torturing doubt whether this were possible. If he made it known to the world that Gautran was guilty, the answer would be:
"We know it, and knew it, as we believe you yourself did while you were working to set him free. Why did you prevent justice being done upon a murderer?"
"But I believed him innocent," he would say. "Only now do I know him to be guilty!"
"Upon what grounds?" would be asked.
"Upon Gautran's own confession, given to me, alone, on a lonely road, within an hour after the delivery of the verdict."
He saw the incredulous looks with which this would be received. He put himself in the place of the public, and he asked:
"Why, at such a time, in such a spot, did Gautran confess to you? What motive had he? You are not a priest, and the high road is not a confessional."
He could supply to this question no answer which common-sense would accept.
And say that Gautran were questioned, as he would assuredly be. He would deny the statement point-blank. Liberty is sweet to all men.
Then it would be one man's statement against another's; he would be on an equality with Gautran, reduced to his level; and in the judgment of numbers of people Gautran would have the advantage over him. Sides would be taken; he himself, in a certain sense, would be placed upon his trial, and public resentment, which now was smothered and would soon be quite hushed, would break out against him.
Was he strong enough to withstand this? Could he arrest the furious torrent and stand unwounded on the shore, pure and scatheless in the eyes of men?
He doubted. He was too profound a student of human nature not to know that his fair fame would be blotted, and that there would be a stain upon his reputation which would cling to him to the last day of his life.
Still he questioned himself. Should he dare it, and brave it, and bow his head? Who humbles himself lays himself open to the blow--and men are not merciful when the chance is offered to them. But he would stand clear in his own eyes; his conscience would approve. To none but himself would this be known. Inward approval would be his sole reward, his sole compensation. A hero's work, however.
For a moment or two he glowed at the contemplation. He soon cooled down, and with a smile, partly of self-pity, partly of self-contempt, proceeded to the calmer consideration of the matter.
The meaner qualities came into play. The world did not know; what reason was there that it should be enlightened--that he should enlighten it, to his own injury? The secret belonged to two men--to himself and Gautran. It was not likely that Gautran would blurt it out to others; he valued his liberty too highly. So that it was as safe as though it were buried in a deep grave. As for the wrong done, it was a silent wrong. To ruin one's self for a sentiment would be madness; no one really suffered.
The unfortunate girl was at rest. She was a stranger; no person knew her, or was interested in her except for her beauty; she left no family, no father, mother, or sisters, to mourn her cruel death.
There was certainly the woman spoken of as Pauline, but she had disappeared, and was probably in no way related to Madeline. What more likely than that the elder woman's association with the younger arose out of a desire to trade upon the girl's beauty, and appropriate the profits to her own use? A base view of the matter, but natural, human. And having reaped a certain profit out of their trade in flowers, larger than was suspected, the crafty woman of the world had deliberately deserted Madeline and left her to her fate.
Why, then, should he step forward as her avenger, to the destruction of the great name he had spent the best fruits of his mind and the best years of his life to build up? To think of such a thing was Quixotism run mad.
One of the threads of these reflections--that which forced itself upon him as the toughest and the most prominent--was contempt of himself for permitting his thoughts to wander into currents so base. But that was his concern; it affected no other person, so long as he chose to hold his own counsel. The difficulty into which he was plunged was not of his seeking. Fate had dealt him a hard stroke; he received it on his shield instead of on his body. Who would say that that was not wise? What other man, having the option, would not have done as he was about to do?
"Cunning sophist, cunning sophist!" his conscience whispered to him; "think not that, wandering in these crooked paths of reasoning, you can find the talisman which will transform wrong into right, or remove the stain which will rest upon your soul."
He answered his conscience: "To none but myself is my soul visible. Who, then, can see the stain?"
His conscience replied: "God!"
"I will confess to Him." he said, "but not to man."
"There is but one right course," his conscience said; "juggle as you may, you know that there is but one right course."
"I know it," he said boldly, "but I am cast in human mould, and am not heroic enough for the sacrifice you would impose upon me."
"Listen," said his conscience, "a voice from the grave is calling to you."
He heard the voice: "Blood for Blood."
He stood transfixed. The images raised by that, silent voice were appalling. They culminated in the impalpable shape of a girl, with pallid face, gazing sadly at him, over whose form seemed to be traced in the air the lurid words, "Blood For Blood!"
Heaven's decree.
The vision lasted but for a brief space. In the light of his strong will such airy terrors could not long exist.
Blood for blood! It once held undisputed sway, but there are great and good men who look upon the fulfilment of the stern decree as a crime. Mercy, humanity, and all the higher laws of civilisation were on their side. But he could not quite stifle the voice.
He took another view. Say that he yielded to the whisperings of his conscience--say that, braving all the consequences of his action, he denounced Gautran. The man had already been tried for murder, and could not be tried again. Set this aside. Say that a way was discovered to bring Gautran again to the bar of earthly justice, of what value was the new evidence that could be brought against him? His own bare word--his recital of an interview of which he held no proof, and which Gautran's simple denial would be sufficient to destroy. Place this new evidence against the evidence he himself had established in proof of Gautran's innocence, and it became a feather-weight. A lawyer of mediocre attainments would blow away such evidence with a breath. It would injure only him who brought it forward.
He decided. The matter must rest where it was. In silence lay safety.
There was still another argument in favour of this conclusion. The time for making public the horrible knowledge of which he had become possessed was passed. After he had received Gautran's confession he should not have lost a moment in communicating with the authorities. Not only had he allowed the hours to slip by without taking action, but in the conversation initiated that evening by Pierre Lamont, in which he had joined, he had tacitly committed himself to the continuance of a belief in Gautran's innocence. He saw no way out of the fatal construction which all who knew him, as well as all who knew him not, would place upon this line of conduct. He had been caught in a trap of his own setting, but he could hide his wounds. Yes; the question was answered. He must preserve silence.
This long self-communing had exhausted him. He could not sleep; he could neither read nor study. His mind required relief and solace in companionship. His wife was doubtless asleep; he would not disturb her. He would go to his friend's chamber; Christian Almer would be awake, and they would pass an hour in sympathising converse. Almer had asked him, when they bade each other good-night, whether he intended immediately to retire to rest, and he had answered that he had much to do in his study, and should probably be up till late in the night.
"I will not disturb you," Almer had said, "but I, too, am in no mood for sleep. I have letters to write, and if you happen to need society, come to my room, and we will have one of our old chats."
As he quitted the study to seek his friend the soft silvery chimes of a clock on the mantel proclaimed the hour. He counted the strokes. It was midnight.
When John Vanbrugh found himself alone he cried:
"What! Tired of my company already? That is a fine compliment to pay to a gentleman of my breeding. Gautran! Gautran!"
He listened; no answer came.
"A capital disappearance," he continued; "in its way dramatic. The scene, the time, all agreeing. It does not please me. Do you hear me, Gautran," he shouted. "It does not please me. If I were not tied to this spot in the execution of a most important mission, I would after you, my friend, and teach you better manners. He drank my brandy, too, the ungrateful rogue. A waste of good liquor--a sheer waste! He gets no more without paying its equivalent."
Vanbrugh indulged in this soliloquy without allowing his wrath to interfere with his watch; not for a single moment did he shift his gaze from the windows of the Advocate's study.
"Now what induced him," he said after a pause, "to spirit himself away so mysteriously? From the violent fancy he expressed for my company I regarded him as a fixture; one would have supposed he intended to stick to me like a limpet to a rock. Suddenly, without rhyme or reason, and just as the conversation was getting interesting, he takes French leave, and makes himself scarce.
"I hope he has not left his ghost behind him--the ghost of pretty Madeline. Not likely, though. When a partnership such as that is entered into--uncommonly unpleasant and inconvenient it must be--it is not dissolved so easily.
"Perhaps he was spirited away--wanted, after the fashion of our dear Lothario, Don Giovanni. There was no blue fire about, however, and I smell no brimstone. No--he disappeared of his own prompting; it will repay thinking over. He saw his phantom--even my presence could not keep her from him. He murdered her--not a doubt of it--and the Advocate has proved his innocence.
"Were it not a double tragedy I should feel disposed to laugh.
"We were speaking of the Advocate when he darted off. But you cannot escape me, Gautran; we shall meet again. An acquaintanceship so happily commenced must not be allowed to drop--nor shall it, while it suits my purpose.
"At length, John Vanbrugh, you are learning to be wise. You allowed yourself to be fleeced, sucked dry, and being thrown upon the rocks, stripped of fortune and the means to woo it, you strove to live as knaves live, upon the folly of others like yourself. But you were a poor hand at the trade; you were never cut out for a knave, and you passed through a succession of reverses so hard as almost to break an honest man's heart. It is all over now. I see the sun; bright days are before you, John, the old days over again; but you will spend your money more prudently, my lad; no squandering; exact its value; be wise, bold, determined, and you shall not go down with sorrow to the grave. Edward, my friend, if I had the liquor I would drink to you. As it is----"
As it was, he wafted a mocking kiss towards the House of White Shadows, and patiently continued his watch.
Meanwhile Gautran had not been idle.
Upon quitting Vanbrugh, the direction he took was from the House of White Shadows, but when he was at a safe distance from Vanbrugh, out of sight and hearing, he paused, and deliberately set his face towards the villa.
He skirted the hill at its base, and walking with great caution, pausing frequently to assure himself that he was alone and was not being followed, arrived at the gates of the villa. He tried the gates--they were locked. Could he climb over them? He would have risked the danger--they were set with sharp spikes--had he not known that it would take some time, and feared that some person passing along the high road might detect him.
He made his way to the back of the villa, and carefully examined the walls. His eyes were accustomed to darkness, and he could see pretty clearly; it was a long time before he discovered a means of ingress, afforded by an old elm which grew within a few yards of the wall, and the far-spreading branches of which stretched over the grounds.
He climbed the tree, and crept like a cat along the stoutest branch he could find. It bent beneath his weight as he hung suspended from it. It was a fall of twenty feet, but he risked it. He unloosed his hands, and dropped to the earth. He was shaken, but not bruised. His purpose, thus far, was accomplished. He was within the grounds of the villa.
All was quiet. When he had recovered from the shock of the fall, he stepped warily towards the house. Now and then he was startled and alarmed at the shadows of the trees which moved athwart his path, but he mastered these terrors, and crept on and on till he heard the soft sound of a clock striking the hour.
He paused, as the Advocate had done, and counted the strokes. Midnight. When the sound had quite died away, he stepped forward, and saw the lights in the study windows.
Was anybody there? He guessed shrewdly enough that if the room was occupied it would be by no other person than the Advocate. Well, it was the Advocate he came to see; he had no design of robbery in his mind.
He stealthily approached a window, and blessed his good fortune to find that it was partly open. He peered into the study; it was empty. He climbed the sill, and dropped safely into the room.
What a grand apartment! What costly pictures and vases, what an array of books and papers! Beautiful objects met his eyes whichever way he turned. There was the Advocate's chair, there the table at which he wrote. The Advocate had left the room for a while--this was Gautran's correct surmise--and intended to return. The lamps fully turned up were proof of this. He looked at the papers on the table. Could he have read, he would have seen that many of them bore his own name. On a massive sideboard there were bottles filled with liquor, and glasses. He drank three or four glasses rapidly, and then, coiling himself up in a corner of the room, in a few moments was fast asleep.
The bedroom allotted to Pierre Lamont by Mother Denise was situated on the first floor, and adjoined the apartments prepared for Christian Almer. As he was unable to walk a step it was necessary that the old lawyer should be carried upstairs. His body-servant, expressly engaged to wheel him about and attend to his wants, was ready to perform his duties, but into Pierre Lamont's head had entered the whim that he would be assisted to his room by no person but Fritz the Fool. The servant was sent in search of Fritz, who could not easily be found. It was quite half an hour before the fool made his appearance, and by that time all the guests, with the exception of Pierre Lamont, had left the House of White Shadows.
Out of sympathy with Pierre Lamont's sufferings Father Capel had remained to chat with him until Fritz arrived. But the priest was suddenly called away. Mother Denise, entering the room, informed him that a peasant who lived ten miles from the House of White Shadows urgently desired to see him. Father Capel was about to go out to the man, when Adelaide suggested that he should be brought in, and the peasant accordingly disclosed his errand in the presence of the Advocate and his wife, Pierre Lamont, and Christian Almer.
"I have been to your house," said the peasant, standing, cap in hand, in humble admiration of the grandeur by which he was surrounded, "and was directed here. There is a woman dying in my hut."
"What is her name, and where does she come from?"
"I know not. She has been with us for over three weeks, and it is a sore burden upon us. It happened in this way, reverend father. My hut, you know, is in the cleft of a rock, at the foot of the Burger Pass, a dangerous spot for those who are not familiar with the track. Some twenty-four days ago it was that my wife in the night roused me with the tale of a frightful scream, which, proceeding from one in agony near my hut, pierced her very marrow, and woke her from sleep. I sprang from my bed, and went into the open, and a few yards down I found a woman who had fallen from a height, and was lying in delirious pain upon the sharp stones. I raised her in my arms; she was bleeding terribly, and I feared she was hurt to death. I did the best I could, and carried her into my hut, where my wife nursed and tended her. But from that night to this we have been unable to get one sensible word from her, and she is now at death's door. She needs your priestly offices, reverend father, and therefore I have come for you."
"How interesting!" exclaimed Adelaide. "Who will pay you for your goodness to this poor creature?"
"God," said Father Capel, replying for the peasant. "It is the poor who help the poor, and in the Kingdom of Heaven our Gracious Lord rewards them."
"I am content," said the peasant.
"But in the contemplation of the Hereafter," said Pierre Lamont, "let us not forget the present. There are many whose loads are too heavy--for instance, asses. There are a few whose loads are too light--scoffers, like myself. You have had occasion to rebuke me, this night, Father Capel, and were I not a hardened sinner I should be groaning in tribulation. That to the last hour of my life I shall deserve your rebukes, proves me, I fear, beyond hope of redemption. Still I bear in mind the asses' burden. You have used my purse once, in penance; use it again, and pay this man for the loss inflicted upon him by his endeavours to earn the great spiritual reward--which, in all humility I say it, does not put bread into human stomachs."
Father Capel accepted Pierre Lamont's purse, and said: "I judge not by words, but by works; your offering shall be justly administered. Come, let us hasten to this unfortunate woman."
When he and the peasant had departed, Pierre Lamont said, with mock enthusiasm:
"A good man! a good man! Virtue such as his is a severe burden, but I doubt not he enjoys it. I prefer to earn my seat in heaven vicariously, to which end my gold will materially assist. It is as though paradise can be bought by weight or measure; the longer the purse the greater the chance of salvation. Ah, here is Fritz. Good-night, good-night. Bright dreams to all. Gently, Fritz, gently," continued the old lawyer, as he was being carried up the stairs, "my bones are brittle."
"Brittle enough I should say," rejoined Fritz; "chicken bones they might be from the weight of you."
"Are diamonds heavy, fool?"
"Ha, ha!" laughed Fritz, "if I had the selling of you, Master Lamont, I should like to make you the valuer. I should get a rare good price for you at that rate."
In the bedroom Pierre Lamont retained Fritz to prepare him for bed. The old lawyer, undressed, was a veritable skeleton; there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his shrivelled bones.
"What would you have done in the age of giants?" asked Fritz, making merry over Pierre Lamont's attenuated form.
"This would have served," replied Pierre Lamont, tapping his forehead with his forefinger. "I should have contrived so as to be a match for them. Bring that small table close to the bedside. Now place the lamp on it. Put your hand into the tail-pocket of my coat; you will find a silk handkerchief there."
He tied the handkerchief--the colour of which was yellow--about his head; and as the small, thin face peeped out of it, brown-skinned and hairless, it looked like the face of a mummy.
Fritz gazed at him, and laughed immoderately, and Pierre Lamont nodded and nodded at the fool, with a smile of much humour on his lips.
"Enjoy yourself, fool, enjoy yourself," he said kindly; "but don't pass your life in laughter; it is destructive of brain power. What do you think of the spirit, Fritz, the appearance of which so alarmed one of the young ladies in our merry party to-night?"
"What do you think of it?" asked Fritz in return, with a quivering of his right eyelid, which suspiciously resembled a wink.
"Ah, ah, knave!" cried Pierre Lamont, chuckling. "I half suspected you."
"You will not tell on me, Master Lamont?"
"Not I, fool. How did you contrive it?"
"With a white sheet and a lantern. I thought it a pity that my lady should be disappointed. Should she leave the place without some warranty that spirits are here, the house would lose its character. Then there is the young master, your Christian Almer. He spoke to me very much as if I were a beast of the field instead of a--fool. So I thought I would give him food for thought."
"A dangerous trick, Fritz. Your secret is safe with me, but I would not try it too often. Are there any books in the room? Look about, Fritz, look about."
"For books!" exclaimed Fritz. "People go to bed to sleep."
"I go to bed to think," retorted Pierre Lamont, "and read. People are idiots--they don't know how to use the nights."
"Men are not owls," said Fritz. "There are no books in the room."
"How shall I pass the night?" grumbled Pierre Lamont. "Open that drawer; there may be something to read in it."
Fritz opened the drawer; it was filled with books. Pierre Lamont uttered a cry of delight.
"Bring half-a-dozen of them--quick. Now I am happy."
He opened the books which Fritz handed to him, and placed them by his side on the bed. They were in various languages. Lavater, Zimmermann, a Latin book on Demonology, poems of Lope da Vega, Klingemann's tragedies, Italian poems by Zappi, Filicaja, Cassiani, and others.
"You understand all these books, Master Lamont?"
"Of course, fool."
"What language is this?"
"Latin."
"And this?"
"Spanish."
"And this?"
"Italian. No common mind collected these books, Fritz."
"The master that's dead--father of him who sleeps in the next room."
"Ha, ha!" interposed Pierre Lamont, turning over the pages as he spoke. "He sleeps there, does he?
"Yes. His father was a great scholar, I've heard."
"A various scholar, Fritz, if these books are an epitome of his mind. Love, philosophy, gloomy wanderings in dark paths--here we have them all. The lights and shadows of life. Which way runs your taste, fool?"
"I love the light, of course. What use in being a fool if you don't know how to take advantage of your opportunities?"
"Well said. Let us indulge a little. These poets are sly rascals. They take unconscionable liberties, and play with women's beauty as other men dare not do."
Fritz's eyes twinkled.
"It does not escape even you, Master Lamont."
"What does not escape me, fool?"
"Woman's beauty, Master Lamont."
"Have I not eyes in my head and blood in my veins?" asked Pierre Lamont. "It warms me like wine to know that I and the loveliest woman for a hundred miles round are caged within the same roof."
Fritz indulged in another fit of laughter, and then exclaimed:
"She has caught you too, eh? Now, who would have thought it? Two of the cleverest lawyers in the world fixed with one arrow! Beauty is a divine gift, Master Lamont. To possess it is almost as good as being born a fool."
"I shall lie awake and read love-verses. Listen to Zappi, fool."
And in a voice really tender, Pierre Lamont read from the book:
"A hundred pretty little loves, in fun, Were romping; laughing, rioting one day."
"A hundred pretty little loves, in fun, Were romping; laughing, rioting one day."
"A hundred!" cried Fritz, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "A hundred--pretty--little loves! If Father Capel were to hear you, his face would grow as long as my arm.
"Wrong, Fritz, wrong. His face would beam, and he would listen for the continuation of the poem."
And Pierre Lamont resumed:
"'Let's fly a little now,' said one, 'I pray.''Whither?' 'To beauty's face.' 'Agreed--'tis done.'"Faster than bees to flowers they wing their wayTo lovely maids--to mine, the sweetest one;And to her hair and panting lips they run--Now here, now there, now everywhere they stray."My love so full of loves--delightful sight!Two with their torches in her eyes, and twoUpon her eyelids with their bows alight."
"'Let's fly a little now,' said one, 'I pray.''Whither?' 'To beauty's face.' 'Agreed--'tis done.'
"Faster than bees to flowers they wing their way
To lovely maids--to mine, the sweetest one;And to her hair and panting lips they run--
Now here, now there, now everywhere they stray.
"My love so full of loves--delightful sight!
Two with their torches in her eyes, and two
Upon her eyelids with their bows alight."
"You read rarely, Master Lamont," said Fritz. "It is true, is it not, that, when you were in practice, you were called the lawyer with the silver tongue?"
"It has been said of me, Fritz."
The picture of this withered, dried-up old lawyer, sitting up in bed, with a yellow handkerchief for a night-cap tied round his head, reading languishing verses in a tender voice, and striving to bring into his weazened features an expression in harmony with them, was truly a comical one.
"Why, Master Lamont," said Fritz in admiration, "you were cut out for a gallant. Had you recited those lines in the drawing-room, you would have had all the ladies at your feet--supposing," he added, with a broad grin, "they had all been blind."
"Ah me!" said Pierre Lamont, throwing aside the book with a mocking sigh. "Too old--too old!"
"And shrunken," said Fritz.
"It is not to be denied, Fritz. And shrunken."
"And ugly."
"You stick daggers into me. Yes--and ugly. Ah!" and with simulated wrath he shook his fist in the air, "if I were but like my brother the Advocate! Eh, Fritz--eh?"
Fritz shook his head slowly.
"If I were not a fool, I should say I would much rather be as you are, old, and withered, and ugly, and a cripple, than be standing in the place of your brother the Advocate. And so would you, Master Lamont, for all your love-songs."
"I can teach you nothing, fool. Push the lamp a little nearer to me. Give me my waistcoat. Here is a gold piece for you. I owe you as much, I think. We will keep our own counsel, Fritz. Good-night."
"Good--night, Master Lamont. I am sorry that trial is over. It was rare fun!"
"Dionetta?"
"Yes, my lady."
The maid and her mistress were in Adelaide's dressing-room, and Dionetta was brushing her lady's hair, which hung down in rich, heavy waves.
She smiled at herself in the glass before which she was sitting, and her mood became more joyous as she noted the whiteness of her teeth and the beautiful expression of her mouth when she smiled. There was an irresistible fascination in her smile; it flashed into all her features, like a laughing sunrise.
She was never tired of admiring her beauty; it was to her a most precious possession of which nothing but time could rob her. "To-day is mine," she frequently said to herself, and she wished with all her heart that there were no to-morrow.
Yes, to-day was hers, and she was beautiful, and, gazing at the reflection of her fair self, she thought that she did not look more than eighteen.
"Do you think I do, child?" she asked of Dionetta.
"Think you do what, my lady?" inquired Dionetta.
Adelaide laughed, a musical, child-like laugh which any man, hearing, would have judged to be an expression of pure innocent delight. She derived pleasure even from this pleasant sound.
"I was thinking to myself, and I believed I was speaking aloud. Do you think I look twenty-five?"
"No, indeed, my lady, not by many years. You look younger than I do."
"And you are not eighteen, Dionetta."
"Not yet, my lady."
Adelaide's eyes sparkled. It was indeed true that she looked younger than her maid, who was in herself a beauty and young-looking.
"Dionetta," she said, presently, after a pause, "I have had a curious dream."
"I saw you close your eyes for a moment, my lady."
"I dreamt I was the most beautiful woman in all this wide world."
"You are, my lady."
The words were uttered in perfect honesty and simplicity. Her mistress was truly the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.
"Nonsense, child, nonsense--there are others as fair, although I should not fear to stand beside them. It was only a dream, and this but the commencement of it. I was the most beautiful woman in the world. I had the handsomest features, the loveliest figure, and a shape that sculptors would have called perfection. I had the most exquisite dresses that ever were worn, and everything in that way a woman's heart could desire."
"A happy dream, my lady!"
"Wait. I had a palace to live in, in a land where it was summer the whole year through. Such gardens, Dionetta, and such flowers as one only sees in dreams. I had rings enough to cover my fingers a dozen times over; diamonds in profusion for my hair, and neck, and arms,--trunks full of them, and of old lace, and of the most wonderful jewels the mind can conceive. Would you believe it, child, in spite of all this, I was the most miserable woman in the universe?"
"It is hard to believe, my lady."
"Not when I tell you the reason. Dionetta, I was absolutely alone. There was not a single person near me, old or young--not one to look at me, to envy me, to admire me, to love me. What was the use of beauty, diamonds, flowers, dresses? The brightest eyes, the loveliest complexion, the whitest skin--all were thrown away. It would have been just as well if I had been dressed in rags, and were old and wrinkled as Pierre Lamont. Now, what I learn from my dream is this--that beauty is not worth having unless it is admired and loved, and unless other people can see it as well as yourself."
"Everybody sees that you are beautiful, my lady; it is spoken of everywhere."
"Is it, Dionetta, really, now, is it?"
"Yes, my lady. And you are admired and loved."
"I think I am, child; I know I am. So that my dream goes for nothing. A foolish fancy, was it not, Dionetta?--but women are never satisfied. I should never be tired--never, never, of hearing the man I love say, 'I love you, I love you! You are the most beautiful, the dearest, the sweetest!'"
She leant forward and looked closely at herself in the glass, and then sank back in her chair and smiled, and half-closed her eyes.
"Dionetta," she said presently, "what makes you so pale?"
"It is the Shadow, my lady, that was seen to-night," replied Dionetta in a whisper; "I cannot get it out of my mind."
"But you did not see it?"
"No, my lady; but it was there."
"You believe in ghosts?"
"Yes, my lady."
"You would not have the courage to go where one was to be seen?"
"Not for all the gold in the world, my lady."
"But the other servants are more courageous?"
"They may be, but they would not dare to go; they said so to-night, all of them."
"They have been speaking of it, then?"
"Oh, yes; of scarcely anything else. Grandmother said to-night that if you had not come to the villa, the belief in the shadows would have died away altogether."
"That is too ridiculous," interrupted Adelaide. "What can I have to do with them?"
"If you had not come," said Dionetta, "grandmother said our young master would not be here. It is because he is in the house, sleeping here for the first night for so many, many years, that the spirit of his mother appeared to him."
"But your grandmother has told me she did not believe in the shadows."
"My lady, I think she is changing her opinion--else she would never have said what she did. It is long since I have seen her so disturbed."
Adelaide rose from her chair, the fairest picture of womanhood eyes ever gazed upon. A picture an artist would have contemplated with delight. She stood still for a few moments, her hand resting on her writing-desk.
"Your grandmother does not like me, Dionetta."
"She has not said so, my lady," said Dionetta after an awkward pause.
"Not directly, child," said Adelaide, "and I have no reason to complain of want of respect in her. But one always knows whether one is really liked or not."
"She is growing old," murmured Dionetta apologetically, "and has seen very little of ladies."
"Neither have you, child. Yet you do not dislike me."
"My lady, if I dare to say it, I love you."
"There is no daring in it, child. I love to be loved--and I would sooner be loved by the young than the old. Come here, pretty one. Your ears are like little pink shells, and deserve something better than those common rings in them. Put these in their place."
She took from a jewel-case a pair of earrings, turquoise and small diamonds, and with her own hands made the exchange.
"Oh, my lady," sighed Dionetta with a rose-light in her face. "They are too grand for me! What shall I say when people see them?"
The girl's heart was beating quick with ecstasy. She looked at herself in the glass, and uttered a cry of joy.
"Say that I gave them to you because I love you. I never had a maid who pleased me half as much. Does this prove it?" and she put her lips to Dionetta's face. The girl's eyes filled with tears, and she kissed Adelaide's hand in a passion of gratitude.
"I love you, Dionetta, because you love me, and because I can trust you."
"You can, my lady. I will serve you with all my heart and soul. But I have done nothing for you that any other girl could not have done."
"Would you like to do something for me that I would trust no other to do?"
"Yes, my lady," eagerly answered Dionetta. "I should be proud."
"And you will tell no one?'
"Not a soul, my lady, if you command me."
"I do command you. It is easy to do--merely to deliver a note, and to say: 'This is from my mistress.'"
"Oh, my lady, that is no task at all. It is so simple."
"Simple as it is, I do not wish even your grandmother to hear of it."
"She shall not--nor any person. I swear it."
In the extravagance of her gratitude and joy, she kissed a little cross that hung from her neck.
"You have made me your friend for life," said Adelaide, "the best friend you ever had, or ever will have."
She sat down to her desk, and on a sheet of note-paper wrote these words: