"Dear Christian:
"I cannot sleep until I wish you good-night, with no horrid people around us. Let me see you for one minute only.
"Adelaide."
Placing the sheet of note-paper in an envelope, she gave it to Dionetta, saying:
"Take this to Mr. Almer's room, and give it to him. It is nothing of any importance, but he will be pleased to receive it."
Dionetta, marvelling why her lady should place any value upon so slight a service, went upstairs with the note, and returned with the information that Christian Almer was not in his room.
"But his door is open, my lady," she said, "and the lamps are burning."
"Go then, again," said Adelaide, "and place the note on his desk. There is no harm, child; he cannot see you, as he is not there, and if he were, he would not be angry."
Dionetta obeyed without fear, and when she told her mistress that the note was placed where Christian Almer was sure to see it, Adelaide kissed her again, and wished her "Good-night."
Upon no person had the supposed appearance of a phantom in the grounds of the House of White Shadows produced so profound an impression as upon Christian Almer. This was but natural. Even supposing him not to have been a man of susceptibility, the young lady's terror, as she gazed at the shadow, could not have failed to make an impression upon him.
It was the first night of his return, after an absence of many years, to the house in which he had been born and had passed his unhappy childhood's life: and the origin of the belief in these white shadows which were said to haunt his estate was so closely woven into his personal history as almost to form a part of himself. He had never submitted his mind to a rigid test of belief or disbelief in these signs; one of the principal aims of his life had been, not only to avoid the villa, but to shut out all thought of the tragic events which had led to the death of his parents.
He loved them both with an equal love. When he thought of his mother he saw a woman patient in suffering, of a temper exquisitely sweet, whose every word and act towards her child was fraught with tenderness. When he thought of his father he saw a man high-principled and just, inflexible in matters of right and conscience, patient also in suffering, and bearing in silence, as his mother did, a grief which had poisoned his life and hers.
Neither of his parents had ever spoken a word against the other; the mystery which kept this tender, loving woman, and this just, high-principled man, apart, was never disclosed to their child. On this subject they entrenched themselves behind a barrier of silence which the child's love and winning ways could not penetrate. Only when his mother's eyes were closed and her lips sealed by death was he privileged to witness how deeply his father had loved her.
Much of what had been disclosed to the Advocate's wife by Mother Denise was absolutely unknown to him. Doubtless he could have learned every particular of the circumstances which had led to the separation of his parents, had his wish lain in that direction; but a delicate instinct whispered to him not to lift the veil, and he would permit no person to approach the subject in his presence.
The bright appearance of his sitting-room cheered him when he entered it, after bidding the Advocate good-night. But this pleasurable sense was not unalloyed. His heart and his conscience were disturbed, and as he took up a handful of roses which had been thrown loose into a bowl and inhaled their fragrance, a guilty thrill shot through his veins.
With the roses in his hand he stood before the picture of Adelaide, which she had hung above his desk. How bright and beautiful was the face, how lovely the smile with which she greeted him! It was almost as if she were speaking to him, telling him that she loved him, and asking him to assure her once more that her love was returned.
For a moment the fancy came upon him that Adelaide and he were like two stars wandering through a dark and dangerous path, and that before them lay death, and worse than death--dishonour and irretrievable ruin; and that she, the brighter star, holding him tightly by the hand, was whispering:
"I will guide you safely; only love me!"
There was one means of escape--death! A coward's refuge, which might not even afford him a release from dishonour, for Adelaide in her despair might let their secret escape her.
Why, then, should he torture himself unnecessarily? It was not in his power to avert the inevitable. He had not deliberately chosen his course. Fate had driven him into it. Was it not best, after all, to do as he had said to the Advocate that night, to submit without a struggle? Men were not masters, but slaves.
When the image of the Advocate, of his friend, presented itself to him, he thrust it sadly from him. But it came again and again, like the ghost of Banquo; conscience refused to be tricked.
Crumbling the roses in his hand, and strewing the floor with the leaves, he turned, and saw, gazing wistfully at him, the eyes of his mother.
The artist who had painted her picture had not chosen to depict her in her most joyous mood. Inhisheart also, as she sat before him, love's fever was burning, and he knew, while his brush was fixing her beauty on the canvas, that his love was returned, though treachery had parted them. He had striven, not unsuccessfully, to portray in her features the expression of one who loved and to whom love was denied. The look in her eyes was wistful rather than hopeless, and conveyed, to those who knew her history, the idea of one who hoped to find in another world the happiness she had lost in this.
Sad and tender reminiscences of the years he had lived with his mother in these very rooms stole into Christian Almer's mind, and he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon the question, "Why had she been unhappy?" She was young, beautiful, amiable, rich; her husband was a man honoured and esteemed, with a character above reproach. What secret would be revealed if the heart of this mystery were laid bare to his sight? If it were in his power to ascertain the truth, might not the revelation cause him additional sorrow? Better, then, to let the matter rest. No good purpose could be served by raking up the ashes of a melancholy past. His parents were dead----
And here occurred a sudden revulsion. His mother was dead--and, but a few short minutes since, her spirit was supposed to have appeared in the grounds of the villa. Almost upon the thought, he hurriedly left the room, and made his way into the gardens.
"My neighbour, and master of this house," said Pierre Lamont, who was lying wide awake in the adjoining room, "does not seem inclined to rest. Something disturbs him."
Pierre Lamont was alone; Fritz the Fool had left him for the night, and the old lawyer, himself in no mood for sleep, was reading and listening to the movements around him. There was little to hear, only an occasional muffled sound which the listener interpreted as best he could; but Christian Almer, when he left his room, had to pass Pierre Lamont's door in his progress to the grounds, and it was the clearer sound of his footsteps which led Pierre Lamont to his correct conclusion.
"He is going out of the house," continued Pierre Lamont. "For what? To look for his mother's ghost, perhaps. Fool Fritz, in raising this particular ghost, did not foresee what it might lead to. Ghosts! And fools still live who believe in them! Well, well, but for the world's delusions there would be little work for busy minds to accomplish. As a fantastic piece of imagery I might conjure up an army of men sweeping the world with brooms made of brains--of knavery, folly, trickery, and delusion. What is that? A footstep! Human? No. Too light for any but the feet of a cat!"
But here Pierre Lamont was at fault. It was Dionetta who passed his door in the passage, conveying to Christian Almer's room the note written by the Advocate's wife. Before the arrival of her new mistress, Dionetta had always worn thick boots, and the sound of her footstep was plain to hear; but Adelaide's nerves could not endure the creaking and clattering, and she had supplied her maid with shoes. Besides, Dionetta had naturally a light step.
Christian Almer met with nothing in the grounds to disturb him. No airy shadow appeared to warn him of the danger which threatened him. Were it possible for the spirits of the dead to make themselves seen and heard, assuredly the spirit of his mother would have appeared and implored him to fly from the house without delay. Happy for him would it have been were he one of the credulous fools Pierre Lamont held in despisal--happy for him could he have formed, out of the shadows which moved around him, a spirit in which he would have believed, and could he have heard, in the sighing of the breeze, a voice which would have impressed him with a true sense of the peril in which he stood.
But he heard and saw nothing for which he could not naturally account, and within a few minutes of midnight he re-entered his room.
"My neighbour has returned," said Pierre Lamont, "after his nocturnal ramble in search of the spirit of his dead mother. Hark! That sound again! As of some living thing stepping cautiously on the boards. If I were not a cripple I would satisfy myself whether this villa is tormented by restless cats as well as haunted by unholy spirits. When will science supply mankind with the means of seeing, as well as hearing, what is transpiring on the other side of stone and wooden walls?
"Ah, that door of his is creaking. It opens--shuts. I hear a murmur of voices, but cannot catch a word. Almer's voice of course--and the Advocate's. No--the other voice and the soft footsteps are in partnership. Not the Advocate's, nor any man's. Men don't tread like cats. It was a woman who passed my door, and who has been admitted into that room. Being a woman, what woman? If Fool Fritz were here, we would ferret it out between us before we were five minutes older.
"Still talking--talking--like the soft murmur of peaceful waves. Ah! a laugh! By all that's natural, a woman's laugh! It is a woman! And I should know that silvery sound. There is a special music in a laugh which cannot be mistaken. It is distinctive--characteristic.
"Ah, my lady, my lady! Fair face, false heart--but woman, woman all over!"
And Pierre Lamont rubbed his hands, and also laughed--but his laugh was like his speech, silent, voiceless.
Upon Christian Almer's desk lay the note written by Adelaide. He saw it the moment he entered the room, and knew, therefore, that some person had called during his absence. At first he thought it must have been the Advocate, who, not finding him in his room, had left the note for him; but as he opened the envelope a faint perfume floated from it.
"It is from Adelaide," he murmured. "How often and how vainly have I warned her!"
He read the note:
"Dear Christian:
"I cannot sleep until I wish you good-night, with no horrid people around us. Let me see you for one minute only.
"Adelaide."
To comply with her request at such an hour would be simple folly; infatuated as he was he would not deliberately commit himself to such an act.
"Surely she cannot have been here," he thought. "But if another hand placed this note upon my desk, another person must share the secret which it is imperative should never be revealed. I must be firm with her. There must be an end to this imprudence. Fortunately there is no place in Edward's nature for suspicion."
He blushed with shame at the unworthy thought. Five years ago, could he have seen--he who up to that time never had stooped to meanness and deceit--the position in which he now stood, he would have rejected the mere suspicion of its possibility with indignation. But by what fatally easy steps had he reached it!
In the midst of these reflections his heart almost stopped beating at the sound of a light footstep without. He listened, and heard a soft tapping on the door, not with the knuckles, but with the finger-tips; he opened the door, and Adelaide stood smiling before him.
With her finger at her lips she stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her.
"It would not do for me to be seen," she whispered. "Do not be alarmed; I shall not be here longer than one little minute. I have only come to wish you good-night. Give me a chair, or I shall sink to the ground. I am really very, very frightened. Quick; bring me a chair. Do you not see how weak I am?"
He drew a chair towards Her, and she sank languidly into it.
"As you would not come to me," she said, "I was compelled to come to you."
"Compelled!" he said.
They spoke in low tones, fearful lest their voices should travel beyond the room.
"Yes, compelled. I was urged by a spirit."
His face grew white. "A spirit!"
"How you echo me, Christian. Yes, by a spirit, to which you yourself shall give a name. Shall we call it a spirit of restlessness, or jealousy, or love?" She gazed at him with an arch smile.
"Adelaide," he said, "your imprudence will ruin us."
"Nonsense, Christian, nonsense," she said lightly; "ruined because I happened to utter one little word! To be sure I ought, so as to prove myself an apt pupil, to put a longer word before it, and call it platonic love. How unreasonable you are! What harm is there in our having a moment's chat? We are old friends, are we not? No, I will not let you interrupt me; I know what you are going to say. You are going to say, Think of the hour! I decline to think of the hour. I think of nothing but you. And instead of looking delighted, as you should do, as any other man would do, there you stand as serious as an owl. Now, answer me, sir. Why did you not come to me the moment you received my note?"
"I had but just read it when you tapped at my door."
"I forgive you. Where have you been? With the Advocate?"
"No; I have been walking in the grounds."
"You saw nothing, Christian?" she asked with a little shiver.
"Nothing to alarm or disturb me."
"There was a light in the Advocate's study, was there not?"
"Yes."
"He will remain up late, and then he will retire to his room. My life is a very bright and beautiful life with him. He is so tender in his ways--so fond of pleasure--pays me so much attention, andsuchcompliments--is so light--hearted and joyous--sings to me, dances with me! Oh, you don't know him, you don't indeed. I remember asking him to join in a cotillon; you should have seen the look he gave me!" She laughed out loud, and clapped her hand on her mouth to stifle the sound. "I wonder whether he was ever young, like you and me. What a wonderful child he must have been--with scientific toys, and books always under his arm--yes, a wonderful child, holding in disdain little girls who wished him to join in their innocent games. What is your real opinion of him, Christian?"
"It pains me to hear you speak of him in that way."
"It should please you; but men are never satisfied. I speak lightly, do I not, but there are moments when I shudder at my fate. Confess, it is not a happy one."
"It is not," he replied, after a pause, "but if I had not crossed your path, life would be full of joy for you."
It was not this he intended to say, but there was such compelling power in her lightest words that his very thoughts seemed to be under her dominion.
"There would have been no joy in my life," she said, "without you. We will not discuss it. What is, is. Sometimes when I think of things they make my head ache. Then I say, I will think of them no longer. If everybody did the same, would not this world be a great deal pleasanter than it is? Oh, you must not forget what the Advocate called me to-night in your presence--a philosopher in petticoats. Don't you see that even he is on my side, though it is against himself? Of course one can't help respecting him. He is a very learned man. He should have married a very learned woman. What a pity it is that I am not wise! But that is not my fault. I hate learning, I hate science, I hate theories. What is the good of them? They say, this is not right, that is not right. And all we poor creatures can do is to look on in a state of bewilderment, and wonder what they mean. If people would only let the world alone, they would find it a very beautiful world. But they willnotlet it alone; theywillmeddle. A flower, now--is it not sweet--is it not enough that it is sent to give us pleasure? But these disagreeable people say, 'Of what is this flower composed--is it as good as other flowers--has it qualities, and what qualities?' What do I care? I put it in my hair, and I am happy because it becomes me, because it is pretty, because Nature sent it to me to enjoy. Why, I have actually made you smile!"
"Because there is a great deal of natural wisdom in what you are saying----"
"Natural wisdom! There now, does it not prove I am right? Thank you, Christian. It comes to you to say exactly the right thing exactly at the right time. I shall begin to feel proud."
"And," continued Almer, "if you were only to talk to me like that in the middle of the day instead of the middle of the night----"
She interrupted him again:
"You have undone it all with your 'ifs.' What does it matter if it is in the middle of the day or the middle of the night? What is right, is right, is it not, without thinking of the time? Don't get disagreeable; but indeed I will not allow you to be anything but nice to me. You have made me forget everything I was going to say."
"Except one thing," he said gravely, "which you came to say, 'Good-night.'"
"The minute is not gone yet," she said with a silvery laugh.
"Many minutes, many minutes," he said helplessly, "and every minute is fraught with danger."
"I will protect you," she said with supreme assurance. "Do not fear. I see quite plainly that if there is a dragon to kill I shall have to be the St. George. Well, I am ready. Danger is sweet when you are with me."
He was powerless against her; he resigned himself to his fate.
"Who brought your letter to my room?" he asked. "Dionetta."
"Have you confided in her?"
"She knows nothing, and she is devoted to me. If the simple maid thought of the letter at all--as to what was in it, I mean--she thought, of course, that it was something I wanted you to do for me to-morrow, and had forgotten to tell you. But even here I was prudent, although you do not give me credit for prudence. I made her promise not to tell a soul, not even her grandmother, that queer, good old Mother Denise, that she had taken a letter from me to you. She did more than promise--she swore she would not tell. I bribed her, Christian--I gave her things, and to-night I gave her a pair of earrings. You should have witnessed her delight! I would wager that she is at this moment no more asleep than I am. She is looking at herself in the glass, shaking her pretty little head to make the diamonds glisten."
"Diamonds, Adelaide! A simple maid like Dionetta with diamond earrings! What will the folks say?"
"Oh, they all know I am fond of her----"
They started to their feet with a simultaneous movement.
"Footsteps!" whispered Almer.
"The Advocate's," said Adelaide, and she glided to the door, and turned the key as softly as if it were made of velvet.
"He will see a light in the room," said Christian. "He has come to talk with me. What shall we do?"
She gazed at him with a bright smile. His face was white with apprehension; hers, red with excitement and exaltation.
"I am St. George," she whispered; "but really there is no dragon to kill; we have only to send him to sleep. Of course you must see him. I will conceal myself in the inner room, and you will lock me in, and put the key in your pocket, so that I shall be quite safe. Do not be uneasy about me; I can amuse myself with books and pictures, and I will turn over the leaves so quietly that even a butterfly would not be disturbed. And when the dragon is gone I will run away immediately. I am almost sorry I came, it has distressed you so."
She kissed the tips of her fingers to him, and entered the adjoining room. Then, turning the key in the door Christian Almer admitted the Advocate.
Pause we here a moment, and contemplate the threads of the web which Chance, Fate, or Retribution was weaving round this man.
With the exception of a few idle weeks in his youth, his life had been a life of honour and renown. His ambition was a worthy one, and success had not been attained without unwearying labour and devotion. Close study and application, zeal, earnestness, unflagging industry, these were the steps in the ladder he had climbed. Had it not been for his keen intellect these qualities would not have been sufficient to conduct him to the goal he had in view. Good luck is not to be despised, but unless it is allied with brain power of a high order only an ephemeral success can be achieved.
Never, to outward appearance, was a great reputation more stable or better deserved. His wonderful talents, and the victories he had gained in the face of formidable odds, had destroyed all the petty jealousies with which he had to cope in the outset of his career, and he stood now upon a lofty pinnacle, acknowledged by all as a master in his craft. Wealth and distinction were his, and higher honours lay within his grasp; and, in addition, he had won for his wife one of the most beautiful of women. It seemed as if the world had nothing to add to his happiness.
And yet destruction stared him in the face. The fabric he had raised, on a foundation so secure that it appeared as if nothing could shake it, was tottering, and might fall, destroying him and all he had worked for in the ruins.
He stood at the door of the only man in the world to whom he had given the full measure of his friendship. With all the strength of his nature he believed in Christian Almer. In the gravest crisis of his life he would have called this friend to his side, and would have placed in his hands, without hesitation, his life, his reputation, and his honour. To Almer, in their conversation, he had revealed what may be termed his inner life, that life the workings of which were concealed from all other men. And in this friend's chamber his wife was concealed; and dishonour hung over him by the slenderest thread. Not only dishonour, but unutterable grief, for he loved this woman with a most complete undoubting love. Little time had he for dalliance; but he believed in his wife implicitly. His trust in her was a perfect trust.
Within the room at the door of which he was waiting, stood his one friend, with white face and guilty conscience, about to admit him and grasp his hand. Had the heart of this friend been laid bare to him, he would have shrunk from it in horror and loathing, and from that moment to the last moment of his life the sentiment of friendship would have been to him the bitterest mockery and delusion with which man could be cursed.
Not five yards from where he stood lay Pierre Lamont, listening and watching for proofs of the perfidy which would bring disgrace upon him--which would cause men and women to speak of him in terms of derision for his blindness and scorn for his weakness--which would make a byeword of him--of him, the great Advocate, who had played his part in many celebrated cases in which woman's faithlessness and disloyalty were the prominent features--and which would cause him to regard the sentiment of love as the falsest delusion with which mankind was ever afflicted.
In the study he had left but a few minutes since slept a man who, in a certain sense, claimed comradeship with him, a man whom he had championed and set free, a self-confessed murderer, a wretch so vile that he had fled from him in horror at the act he had himself accomplished.
And in the open air, upon a hill, a hundred yards from the House of White Shadows, lay John Vanbrugh, a friend of his youth, a man disgraced by his career, watching for the signal which would warrant him in coming forward and divulging what was in his mind. If what John Vanbrugh had disclosed in his mutterings during his lonely watch was true, he held in his hands the key to a mystery, which, revealed, would overwhelm the Advocate with shame and infamy.
Thus was he threatened on all sides by friend and foe alike.
"Have I disturbed you, Christian?" asked the Advocate, entering the room. "I hesitated a moment or two, hearing no sound, but seeing your lamp was lighted, I thought you were up, and might be expecting me."
"I had an idea you would come," said Almer, with a feeling of relief at the Advocate's statement that he had heard no sound; and then he said, so that he might be certain of his ground, "You have not been to my room before to-night?"
"No; for the last two hours I have not left my study. Half an hour's converse with you will do me good. I am terribly jaded."
"The reaction of the excitement of the long trial in which you have been engaged."
"Probably; though I have endured fatigue as great without feeling as jaded as I do now."
"You must take rest. Your doctors who prescribed repose for you would be angry if they were aware of the strain you have put upon your mind."
"They do know. The physician I place the greatest faith in writes to me that I must have been mad to have undertaken Gautran's defence. It might have been better if I had not entered into that trial."
"You have one consolation. Defended by a lawyer less eminent than yourself, an unfortunate man might have been convicted of a crime he did not commit."
"Yes," said the Advocate slowly, "that is true."
"You compel admiration, Edward. With frightful odds against you, with the public voice against you, you voluntarily engage in a contest from which nothing is to be gained, and come out triumphant. I do not envy the feelings of the lawyers on the other side."
"At least, Christian, as you have said, they have the public voice with them."
"And you, Edward, have justice on your side, and the consciousness of right. The higher height is yours; you must regard these narrower minds with a feeling of pity."
"I have no feeling whatever for them; they do not trouble me. Christian, we will quit the subject of Gautran; you can well understand that I have had enough of him. Let us speak of yourself. I am an older man than you, and there is something of a fatherly interest in the friendship I entertain for you. Since my marriage I have sometimes thought if I had a son I should have been pleased if his nature resembled yours, and if I had a daughter it would be in the hands of such a man as yourself I should wish to place her happiness."
"You esteem me too highly," said Almer, in a tone of sadness.
"I esteem you as you deserve, friend. Within your nature are possibilities you do not recognise. It is needful to be bold in this world, Christian; not arrogant, or over-confident, or vain-glorious, but modestly bold. Unless a man assert himself his powers will lie dormant; and not to use the gifts with which we are endowed is a distinct reproach upon us. I have heard able men say it is a crime to neglect our powers, for great gifts are bestowed upon us for others' good as well as for our own. Besides, it is healthy in every way to lead a busy life, to set our minds upon the accomplishment of certain tasks. If we fail--well, failure is very often more honourable than success. We have at least striven to mount the hill which rises above the pettiness and selfishness of our everyday life; we have at least proved ourselves worthy of the spiritual influences which prompt the execution of noble deeds. You did not reply to the letter I sent you in the mountains; but Adelaide heard from you, and that is sufficient. Sufficient, also, that you are here with us, and that we know we have a true friend in the house. You were many weeks in the mountains."
"Yes."
"Were you engaged on any work? Did you paint or write?"
"I made a few sketches, which pleased me one day and displeased me the next, so I tore them up and threw them away. There is enough indifferent work in the world."
"Nothing short of perfection will satisfy you," said the Advocate with a serious smile; "but some men must march in the ranks."
"I am not worthy even of that position," said Almer moodily.
The Advocate regarded him with thoughtful eyes.
"If your mind is not deeply reflective, if your power of observation applies only to the surface of things, you are capable of imparting what some call tenderness and I call soul, to every subject which presents itself to you. I have detected this in your letters and conversation. It is a valuable quality. I grant that you may be unfit to cope with practical matters, but in your study you would be able to produce works which would charm if they did not instruct. There is in you a heart instinct which, as it forms part of your nature, would display itself in everything you wrote."
"Useless, Edward, useless! My father was an author; it brought him no happiness."
"How do you know? It may have afforded him consolation, and that is happiness. But I was not speaking of happiness. The true artist does not look to results. He has only one aim and one desire--to produce a perfect work. His task being done--not that he produces a perfect work, but the ennoblement lies in the aspiration and the earnest application--that being done, he has accomplished something worthy, whatever its degree of excellence. The day upon which a man first devotes himself to such labour he awakes within his being a new and delightful life, the life of creative thought. Fresh wonders continually reveal themselves--quaint suggestions, exquisite fancies, and he makes use of them according to the strength of his intellect. He enriches the world."
"And if he is a poor man, starves."
"Maybe; but he wears the crown. You, however, are rich."
"Nothing to be grateful for. I had no incentive to effort, therefore I stand to-day an idle, aimless man. You have spoken of books. When I looked at crowded bookshelves, I should blush at the thought of adding to them any rubbish of my own creation."
"I find no fault with you for that. Blush if you like--but work, produce."
"And let the world call me vain and presumptuous."
"Give it the chance of judging; it may be the other way. Perhaps the greatest difficulty we have to encounter in life is in the discovery of that kind of work for which we are best fitted. Fortunate the man who gravitates to it naturally, and who, having the capacity to become a fine shoemaker, is not clapped upon a watchmaker's bench instead of a cobbler's stool. Being fitted, he is certain to acquire some kind of distinction. Believe me, Christian, it is not out of idleness, or for the mere purpose of making conversation that I open up this subject. It would afford me great pleasure if you were in a more settled frame of mind. You cannot disguise from me that you are uneasy, perhaps unhappy. I see it this very moment in your wandering glances, and in the difficulty you experience in fixing your attention upon what I am saying. You are not satisfied with yourself. You have probably arrived at that stage when a man questions himself as to what is before him--when he reviews the past, and discovers that he has allowed the years to slip by without having made an effort to use them to a worthy end. You ask yourself, 'Is it for this I am here? Are there not certain duties which I ought to perform? If I allow the future to slip away as the past has done, without having accomplished a man's work in the world, I shall find myself one day an old man, of whom it may be said, "He lived only for himself; he had no thought, no desire beyond himself; the struggles of humanity, the advance of civilisation, the progress and development of thought which have effected such marvellous changes in the aspects of society, the exposing of error--these things touched him not; he bore no part in them, but stood idly by, a careless observer, whose only ambition it was to utilise the hours to his own selfish pleasures."' A heavy charge, Christian. What you want is occupation. Politics--your inclinations do not lead that way; trade is abhorrent to you. You are not sufficiently frivolous to develop into a butterfly leader of fashion. Law is distasteful to you. Science demands qualities which you do not possess. For a literary life you are specially adapted. I say to you, turn your attention to it for a while. If it disappoint you, it is easy to relinquish it. It will be but an attempt made in the right direction. But understand, Christian, without earnestness, without devotion, without application, it will be useless to make the attempt."
"And that is precisely the reason why I hesitate to make it. I am wanting in firmness of purpose. I doubt myself; I should have begun earlier."
"But you will think over what I have said?"
"Yes, I will think of it, and I cordially thank you."
"And now tell me how you enjoyed yourself in the mountains."
"Passably well. It was a negative sort of life. There was no pleasure in it, and no pain. One day was so exactly like another, that I should scarcely have been surprised if I had awoke one morning and discovered that in the dull uniformity of the hours my hair had grown white and I into an old man. The principal subject of interest was the weather, and that palled so soon that sunshine or storm became a matter of indifference to me."
"Look at me a moment, Christian."
They sat gazing at each other in silence for a little while. There was an unusual tenderness in the Advocate's eyes which pierced Christian Almer to the heart. During the whole of this interview the thought never left his mind:
"If he knew the part I am playing towards him--if he suspected that simply by listening at this inner door he could hear his wife's soft breathing--in what way would he call me to account for my treachery?"
He dreaded every moment that something would occur to betray him.
Adelaide was careless, reckless. If she made a movement to attract attention, if she overturned a chair, if she let a book fall, what was he to say in answer to the Advocate's questioning look?
But all was quiet within; he was tortured only by the whisperings of his conscience.
"You are suffering, Christian," said the Advocate.
Almer knew intuitively that on this point, as on many others, it would be useless to attempt to deceive the Advocate. To return an evasive answer might arouse suspicion. He said simply:
"Yes, I am suffering."
"It is not bodily suffering, though your pulse is feverish." He had taken Almer's wrist, and his fingers were on the pulse. "Your disease is mental." He paused, but Almer did not speak. "It is no breach of confidence," continued the Advocate, "to tell you that on the first day of my entering Geneva, Jacob Hartrich and I had a conversation about you. There was nothing said that need be kept private. We conversed as two men might converse concerning an absent friend in whom both took an affectionate interest. He had noticed a change in you which I have noticed since I entered this room. When you visited him he was impressed by an unusual strangeness in your manner. That strangeness of manner, without your being aware of it, is upon you now. He said that you were restless and ill at ease. You are at this moment restless and ill at ease. The muscles of your face, your eyes, your hands, are not under your control. They respond to the mental disease which causes you to suffer. You will forgive me for saying that you convey to me the impression that you would be more at ease at the present time if I were not with you."
"I entreat you," said Almer eagerly, "not to think so."
"I accept your assurance, which, nevertheless, does not convince me that I am wrong in my impression. The friendship which exists between us is too close and binding--I may even go so far as to say, too sacred--for me, a colder and more experienced man than yourself, to allow it to be affected by any matter outside its boundary. Deprive it of sympathy, and friendship is an unmeaning word. I sympathise with you deeply, sincerely, without knowing how to relieve you. I ask you frankly, however, one question which you may freely answer. Have you fixed your affections upon a woman who does not reciprocate your love?"
The Advocate was seated by the desk upon which Almer had, after reading it, carelessly thrown the note written to him by Adelaide, and as he put the question to his friend, he involuntarily laid his hand upon this damning evidence of his wife's disloyalty.
The slight action and the significant question presented a coincidence so startling that Christian Almer was fascinated by it. That there was premeditation or design in the coincidence, or that the Advocate had cunningly led the conversation to this point for the purpose of confounding him and bringing him face to face with his treachery, did not suggest itself to his mind. He was, indeed, incapable of reasoning coherently. All that he was momentarily conscious of was, that discovery was imminent, that the sword hung over him, suspended by a hair. Would it fall, and in its fall compel into a definite course the conflicting passions by which he was tortured?
It would, perhaps, be better so. Already did he experience a feeling of relief at this suggestion, and it appeared to him as if he were bending his head for the welcome blow.
But all was still and quiet, and through the dim mist before his eyes he saw the Advocate gazing kindly upon him.
Then there stole upon him a wild prompting, a mad impulse, to expedite discovery by his own voluntary act--to say to the Advocate:
"I have betrayed you. Read that note beneath your hand; take this key, and open yonder door; find there your wife. What do you propose to do?"
The words did actually shape themselves in his mind, and he half believed that he had uttered them. They did not, however, escape his lips. He was instinctively restrained by the consideration that in his punishment Adelaide would be involved. What right had he deliberately to ruin and expose her? A cowardly act thus to sacrifice a woman who in this crisis relied upon him for protection. In a humiliating, shameful sense it is true, but none the less was she under his direct protection at this moment. Self-tortured as he was he could still show that he had some spark of manliness left in him. To recklessly dispose of the fate of the woman whose only crime was that she loved him--this he dared not do.
His mood changed. Arrived at this conclusion, his fear now was that he had betrayed himself--that in some indefinite way he had given the Advocate the key to his thoughts, or that he had, by look or expression, conveyed to his friend a sense of the terrible importance of the perfumed note which lay upon the desk.
"You do not answer me, Christian," said the Advocate.
But Almer could not speak. His eyes were fixed upon Adelaide's note, and he found it impossible to divert his attention from the idle movements of the Advocate's fingers. His unreasoning impulse to hasten discovery was gone, and he was afflicted now by a feeling of apprehension. It was his imperative duty to protect Adelaide; while the Advocate's hand rested upon the envelope which contained her secret she was not safe. At all risks, even at the hazard of his life, must she be held blameless. Had the Advocate lifted the envelope from the desk, Almer would have torn it from him.
"Why do you not speak?" asked the Advocate. "Surely there is nothing offensive in such a question between friends like ourselves."
"I can offer you no explanation of what I am about to say," replied Almer: "it may sound childish, trivial, pitiful, but my thoughts are not under my own control while your hand is upon that letter."
With the slightest expression of surprise the Advocate handed Almer the envelope, scarcely looking at it as it passed from his possession.
"Why did you not speak of it before?" he said. "But when a mind is unbalanced, trifling matters are magnified into importance."
"I can only ask you to forgive me," said Almer, placing the envelope in his pocket-book. "I have no doubt in the course of your career you have met with many small incidents quite as inexplicable." Then an excuse which would surely be accepted occurred to him. "It may be sufficient for me to say that this is the first night of my return to the house in which I was born and passed a not too happy boyhood, and that in this room my mother died."
The Advocate pressed Almer's hand.
"There is no need for another word. You have been looking over some old family papers, and they have aroused melancholy reminiscences. I should have been more thoughtful; I was wrong in coming to you. It will be best to say good-night."
But Almer, anxious to avoid the slightest cause for suspicion in the right direction, said:
"Nay, stay with me a few minutes longer, or I shall reproach myself for having behaved unreasonably. You were asking----"
"A delicate question. Whether you love without being loved in return?"
"No, Edward, that is not the case with me."
"You have no intention of marrying?"
"No."
"Then your heart is still free. You reassure me. You are not suffering from what has been described as the most exquisite of all human sufferings--unrequited love. Neither have you experienced a disappointment in friendship?"
"No. I have scarcely a friend with the exception of yourself."
"And my wife. You must not forget her. She takes a cordial interest in you."
"Yes, and your wife."
"It was Jacob Hartrich who suggested that you might have met with a disappointment in love or friendship. I disputed it, in the belief that had it been unhappily so you would have confided in me. I am glad that I was right. Shall I continue?"
"Yes."
"The banker, who entertains the most kindly sentiments towards you, based all his conjectures upon a certain remark which made a strong impression upon him. You told him you were weary of the gaiety and the light and bustle of cities, and that it was your intention to seek some solitude where, by a happy chance, you might rid yourself of a terror which possessed you. I can understand your weariness of the false glare of fashionable city life; it can never for any long period satisfy the intellect. But neither can it instil a terror into a man's soul. That would spring from another and a deeper cause."
"The words were hastily spoken. Look upon them as an exaggeration."
"I certainly regard them in that light, but they were not an invention, and there must have been a serious motive for them. It is not in vain that I have studied your character, although I feel that I did not master the study. I am subjecting you, Christian, to a kind of mental analysis, in an endeavour to arrive at a conclusion which will enable me to be of assistance to you. And I do not disguise from you that, were it in my power, I would assist you even against your will. Our friendship, and my age and more varied experience, would justify me. I do not seek to force your confidence, but I ask you in the spirit of true friendship to consider--not at present, but in a few days, when your mind is in a calmer state--whether such counsel and guidance as it may be in my power to offer will not be a real help to you. Do not lightly reject my assistance in probing a painful wound. I will use my knife gently. There was a time when I believed there was nothing that could happen to either of us which we should be unwilling to confide each to the other, freely and without restraint. I find I am not too old to learn the lesson that the strongest beliefs, the firmest convictions, may be seriously weakened by the occurrence of circumstances for which the wisest foresight could not have provided. Keep, then, your secret, if you are so resolved, and bear in mind that on the day you come to me and say, 'Edward, help me, guide me,' you will find me ready. I shall not fail you, Christian, in any crisis."
Almer rose and slowly paced the room, while the Advocate sat back in his chair, and watched his friend with affectionate solicitude.
"Does this lesson," presently said Almer, "which you are not too old to learn, spring entirely from the newer impressions you are receiving of my character, or has something in your mind which you have not disclosed helped to lead you to it?"
It was a chance shot, but it strangely hit the mark. The question brought forcibly to the Advocate's mind the position in which he himself was placed by Gautran's confession, and by his subsequent resolve to conceal the knowledge of Gautran's crime.
"What a web is the world!" he thought. "How the lines which here are widely apart, but a short space beyond cross and are linked in closest companionship!" Both Christian and himself had something to conceal, and it would be acting in bad faith to his friend were he to return an evasive answer.
"It is not entirely from the newer impressions you speak of that I learn the lesson. It springs partly from a matter which disturbs my mind."
"Referring to me?"
"No, to myself. You are not concerned in it."
In his turn Almer now became the questioner.
"A new experience of your own, Edward?"
"Yes."
"Which must have occurred to you since we were last together?"
"It originated during your absence."
"Which came upon you unaware--for which your foresight could not have provided?"
"At all events it did not."
"You speak seriously, Edward, and your face is clouded."
"It is a very serious matter."
"Can I help you? Is it likely that my advice would be of assistance?"
"I can speak of it to no one."
"You also have a secret then?"
"Yes, I also have a secret."
Christian Almer appeared to gather strength--a warranty, as it were, for his own wrong-doing--from the singular direction the conversation had taken. It was as though part of a burden was lifted from him. He was not the only one who was suffering--he was not the only one who was standing on a dangerous brink--he was not the only one who had drifted into dangerous waters. Even this strong-brained man, this Advocate who had seemingly held aloof from pleasure, whose days and nights had been given up to study, whose powerful intellect could pierce dark mysteries and bring them into clear light, who was the last man in the world who could be suspected of yielding to a prompting of which his judgment and conscience could not approve--even he had a secret which he was guarding with jealous care. Was it likely then, that he, the younger and the more impressionable of the two, could escape snares into which the Advocate had fallen? The fatalist's creed recurred to him. All these matters of life were preordained. What folly--what worse than folly, what presumption, for one weak man to attempt to stem the irresistible current! It was delivering himself up to destruction. Better to yield and float upon the smooth tide and accept what good or ill fate has in store for him. What use to infuse into the sunlight, and the balmy air, and into all the sweets of life, the poison of self-torture? The confession he had extracted from the Advocate was in a certain sense a justification of himself. He would pursue the subject still further. As he had been questioned, so he would question. It was but just.
"To judge from your manner, Edward, your secret is no light one."
"It is of most serious import."
"I almost fear to ask a question which occurs to me."
"Ask freely. I have been candid with you, in my desire to ascertain how I could help you in your trouble. Be equally candid with me."
"But it may be misconstrued. I am ashamed that it should have suggested itself--for which, of course, the worser part of me is responsible. No--it shall remain unspoken."
"I should prefer that you asked it--nay, I desire you to do so. There is no fear of misconstruction. Do you think I wish to stand in your eyes as a perfect man? That would be arrogant, indeed. Or that I do not know that you and I and all men are possessed of contradictions which, viewed in certain aspects, may degrade the most noble? The purest of us--men and women alike--have undignified thoughts, unworthy imaginings, to which we would be loth to give utterance. But sometimes, as in this instance, it becomes a duty. I have had occasion quite lately to question myself closely, and I have fallen in my own estimation. There is more baseness in me than I imagined. Hesitate no longer. Ask your question, and as many more as may arise from it; these things are frequently hydra-headed. I shall know how far to answer without disclosing what I desire shall remain buried."
Almer put his question boldly.
"Is the fate of a woman involved in your secret?"
An almost imperceptible start revealed to Almer's eyes that another chance arrow had hit the mark. Truly, a woman's fate formed the kernel of the Advocate's secret--a virtuous, innocent woman who had been most foully murdered. He answered in set words, without any attempt at evasion.
"Yes, a woman's fate is involved in it."
"Your wife's?" Had his life depended upon it, Almer could not have kept back the words.
"No, not my wife's."
"In that case," said Almer slowly, "a man's honour is concerned."
"You guess aright--a man's honour is concerned."
"Yours?"
"Mine."
For a few moments neither of them spoke, and then the Advocate said:
"To men suspicious of each other--as most men naturally are, and generally with reason--such a turn in our conversation, and indeed the entire conversation in which we have indulged, might be twisted to fatal disadvantage. In the way of conjecture I mean--as to what is the essence of the secret which I do not reveal to my dearest friend, and the essence of that which my dearest friend does not reveal to me. It is fortunate, Christian, that you and I stand higher than most. We have rarely hesitated to speak heart to heart and soul to soul; and if, by some strange course of events, there has arisen in each of our inner lives a mystery which we have decided not to reveal, it will not weaken the feeling of affection we entertain for each other. Is that so, Christian?"
"Yes, it is so, Edward."
"Men of action, of deep thought, of strong passion, of sensitive natures, are less their own masters than peasants who take no part in the turmoil of the world. An uneventful life presents fewer temptations, and there is therefore more freedom in it. We live in an atmosphere of wine, and often miss our way. Well, we must be indulgent to each other, and be sometimes ready to say, 'The position of difficulty into which you have been thrust, the error you have committed, the sin--yes, even the sin--of which you have been guilty, may have fallen to my lot had I been placed in similar circumstances. It is not I who will be the first to condemn you.'"
"Even," said Almer, "if that error or that sin may be a grievous wrong inflicted against yourself. Even then you would be ready to excuse and forgive?"
"Yes, even in that case. I should be taking a narrow view of an argument if I applied to all the world what I hesitated to apply to myself."
"So that the committal of a great wrong may be justified by circumstances?"
"Yes, I will go as far as that. The fault of the child or the fault of the man, is but a question of degree. Some err deliberately, some are hurried into error by passions which master them."
"By natural passions?"
"All such passions are natural, although it is the fashion to condemn them when they clash with the conditions of social life. The workings of the moral and sympathetic affections are beyond our own control."
"Of those who have erred with deliberate intention and those who have been hurried blindly into error, which should you be most ready to forgive?"
"The latter," replied the Advocate, conscious that in his answer he was condemning himself; "they are comparatively innocent, having less power over, and being less able to retrace their steps."
"You pause," said Almer, a sudden thrill agitating his veins. "Why?"
"I thought I heard a sound--like a suppressed laugh! Did you not hear it?"
"No. I heard nothing."
Almer's teeth met in scorn of himself as he uttered this falsehood. The sound of the laugh was low but distinct, and it proceeded from the room in which Adelaide was concealed.
The Advocate stepped to the door by which he had entered, and looked up and down the passage, to which two lamps gave light. It was quiet and deserted.
"My fancy," he said, standing within the half-open door. "My physicians know more of the state of my nerves than I do myself. It is interesting, however, to observe one's own mental delusions. But I was wrong in mixing myself up with that trial."
Still that trial. Always that trial. It seemed to him as if he could never forget it, as if it would forever abide with him. It coloured his thoughts, it gave form to his arguments. Would it end by changing his very nature?
"You are over-wrought, Edward," said Almer. "If you were to seek what I have sought, solitude, it might be more beneficial to you than it has been to me."
"There is solitude enough for me in this retired village," said the Advocate, "and had I not undertaken the defence of Gautran, my health by this time might have been completely established. We are here sufficiently removed from the fierce passions of the world--they cannot touch us in this primitive birthplace of yours. Do you recognise how truly I spoke when I said that men like ourselves are the slaves, and peasants the free men? Besides, Christian, there is a medicine in friendship such as yours which I defy the doctors to rival. Even though there has been a veil over our confidences to-night, I feel that this last hour has been of benefit to me. You know that I am much given to thinking to myself. As a rule, at those times, one walks in a narrow groove; if he argues, the contradiction he receives is of that mild character that it can be easily proved wrong. No wonder, when the thinker creates it for the purpose of proving himself right. It is seldom healthy, this solitary communionship--it leads rarely to just conclusions. But in conversation new byeroads reveal themselves, in which we wander pleasantly--new vistas appear--new suggestions arise, to give variety to the argument and to show that it has more than one selfish side. He who leads entirely a life of thought lives a dead life. Good-night, Christian. I have kept you from your rest. Good-night. Sleep well."