"The morning passed, and my lady made no sign. Master Christian, flitting restlessly in and out and about the room, waited impatiently for his mother's instructions to bring her husband to her. I offered her food, but she could not eat it. On the previous day the doctor, who regularly attended her, had said that his services were required at a great distance from the villa, and that he should not be able to visit my lady on the morrow. She had replied:
"'Do not trouble, doctor; you can do nothing for me.'
"And, indeed, there appeared to be no special necessity for his presence. My lady was not in pain; she looked happy and contented. But she was so quiet, so very, very quiet! Not a word of complaint or suffering, not a moan, not a sigh. Why, therefore, did my heart sink as I gazed at her?
"At length Master Christian was compelled to speak; he could no longer control his impatience.
"'Mamma, do you like the way I have arranged the flowers? The room looks pretty, does it not?'
"'Yes, my child.'
"'I wanted it to look very bright to-day. So did you, did you not, mamma? Papa will be pleased when he comes.'
"'I hope so, my dear.'
"'And I shall tell him that it is not so every day, and that it is done for him. Shall I go for him now?'
"'Presently, my dear. Wait yet a little while.'
"'But, mamma, it was to be to-day, you know, and it is nearly afternoon. Just look at the clock, mamma, it is nearly two---- Ah, but you are tired, and I am worrying you! Now I will sit quite still, and when the clock strikes two, you shall tell me to go for papa. Say yes, or look it, mamma.'
"'Yes, my dear, at two o'clock you shall go. Denise will accompany you, for perhaps, Christian, your papa will think that the message comes from your affectionate heart, and not from me.'
"'That,' said Master Christian,' is because I have tried to bring papa to you before. But I did it out of love, mamma.'
"'I know, my dear, I know. If, when you were a little baby, and could not speak or think of things, I had reflected, it might all have been different. Perhaps I have been to blame.'
"'No, mamma, you shall not say that; I will not let you say that. You can't do anything wrong, and papa can't do anything wrong. Now I shall be quite still, and watch the clock, and I will not say another word till it strikes.'
"He sat, as he had promised, quite still, with his eyes fixed on the clock, and I saw by the motion of his lips that he was counting the seconds. Slowly, oh, so slowly, the hands moved round till they reached the hour, and then the silver chimes were heard. First, the four divisions of the hour, then the hour itself. One, Two. In my ears it was like the chapel bell calling the people to prayer.
"'Now, mamma!' cried Master Christian, starting up.
"She took his pretty face between her hands, and drew it close to hers. She kissed his lips and his forehead, and then her hands fell to her side.
"'May I go now, mamma?'
"He saw in her eyes that she was willing he should bring his father, and he embraced her joyfully, and ran out of the room crying:
"'Come, Denise, come! Papa, papa!'
"He did not wait for me, and when I arrived at the study door, the father and son were standing together, and Master Christian was trying to pull my master along.
"'This little fellow here,' said my master, striving to speak cheerfully, but his lips trembled, and his voice was husky, 'has a strong imagination, and his heart is so full of love that it runs away with his tongue.'
"'It does not, papa, it does not,' cried Master Christian very earnestly. 'And it is not imagination. Mamma wants you to come and love her.'
"My master turned his enquiring eyes to my face.
"'My lady wishes you to come to her, sir,' I said simply.
"I knew that the fewer words I spoke at such a time the better it would be.
"He did not question me. He was satisfied that I spoke the truth.
"His agitation was great, and he walked a few steps from me, holding Master Christian by the hand, and then stood still for quite a minute. Then he stooped and kissed his son, and suffered himself to be led to my lady's room.
"I followed them at a little distance, and remained outside my lady's room, while they entered and closed the door behind them. It was not right that any eyes but theirs should witness so sacred a meeting; but though I denied myself the pleasure of being present, my heart was in my ears. It was proper that I should be within call. In my lady's weak state, my services might be required.
"From where I stood, I heard Master Christian's eager, happy voice:
"'Mamma, mamma--here is papa! He is come at last, mamma! Speak to him, and love him, as I do! Papa, put your arms around mamma's neck, and kiss her.'
"Then all was quiet--so quiet, so quiet! Not a sound, not a breath. Ah, Holy Mother! I can hear the silence now:--I can feel it about me! It was in this very room, and my lady was sitting in the chair in which you are seated.
"Suddenly the silence was broken. My master was calling loudly for me.
"'Denise--Denise! Where are you? Come quickly, for God's sake!'
"Before the words were out of his lips, I was in the room. My master was looking wildly upon his wife and child. The lad, with his arms about his mother, was kissing her passionately, and crying over her.
"'Mamma, mamma! why do you not speak? Here is papa waiting for you. Oh, mamma, say only one word!'
"'Is it true,' my master whispered to me, 'that your lady sent you for me?'
"'It is true, sir,' I replied in a low tone.
"'What, then, is the meaning of this?' he asked, still in the same unnatural whisper. 'I have spoken to her--she will not answer me. She will not even look at me!'
"A sudden fear smote my heart. I stepped softly to my lady's side. I gently unwound Master Christian's arms from his mother's neck. I took her hand in mine, and pressed it. The pressure was not returned. Her fingers, though still warm, were motionless.
"'What is it, Denise?' my master asked hoarsely. 'The truth--the truth!'
"He read the answer in my eyes. We were gazing on the face of a dead woman!
"Yes, she was dead, and no word had been exchanged between them--no look of affection--no token of forgiveness. How truly, how prophetically, had she spoken to her husband in their last interview on this spot, eight years before! 'After this night I will never open my lips to you, nor, willingly, will I ever again listen to your voice!'
"From that hour to this he had never heard the sound of her voice, and now that, after their long agony--for there is no doubt that his sufferings were as great as hers--she had summoned him to her, she was dead! Ah, if she had only lived to say:
"'Mine was the fault; it was not only I who was betrayed; let there be peace and forgiveness between us!'
"Did she know, when she called him to her, that he would look upon her dead face? Could she so measure her moments upon earth as to be certain that her heart would cease to beat as he entered the room at her bidding? No, it could not have been, for this premeditation would have proclaimed her capable of vindictive passion. She was full of tender feeling and sweet compassion, and the influence of her child must have softened her heart towards the man who had loved and married her, and had done her no wrong.
"That she knew she was dying was certain, and she was willing--nay more than willing, wishful to forgive and to ask forgiveness as she stood upon the brink of another world. The sight of his worn and wasted face may have shocked her and caused her sudden death. But it remained a mystery whether she had seen him--whether her spirit had not taken flight before her husband presented himself to her. It was a question none could answer.
"I am aware that there are people who would say that my lady deliberately designed this last bitter blow to her husband. My master did not think so. When the first shock of his grief was spent, his face expressed nothing but sorrow and compassion. He kissed her once--on her forehead, not on her lips--and after her eyes were closed and she lay, white and beautiful, upon her bed, he sat by her side the whole of the day and night--for a great part of the time with Master Christian in his arms.
"There were those in the villa who declared that on the night of her death the white shadow of my lady was seen gliding about the grounds, and from that day the place was supposed to be haunted. For my own part I knew that these were foolish fancies, but you cannot reason people out of them.
"The next day my master made preparations for the funeral. His strange manner of conducting it strengthened the superstition. He would not have any of his old friends at the funeral, although many wrote to him. Only himself and Master Christian and the servants followed my lady to her grave. He would not allow any black crape to be worn, and all the female servants of the house were dressed in white.
"It caused a great deal of talk, a good many people saying that it was a sinful proceeding on the part of my master, and that it was a sign of joy at his wife's death. They must have been blind to the grief in his face--so plainly written there that the tears came to my eyes as I looked at it--when they uttered this slander. And yet, if the truth were told, if it were deeply searched for among the ashes in his heart, it is not unlikely that my master was sorrowfully grateful that his wife's martyrdom was at an end. For her sake, not for his own, did he experience this sad feeling of gratitude. It was entirely in accordance with his stern sense of justice--in the exercise of which he was least likely to spare himself of all people in the world--that, while he was bowed down to the earth in grief, he should be glad that his wife was dead.
"All kinds of rumours were afloat concerning the house and the family. The gossips declared that on certain nights the grounds were filled with white shadows, mournfully following each other in a long funeral train. That is how the villa grew to be called The House of Shadows.
"It was like a tomb. Not a person was permitted to pass the gates. Not a servant could be prevailed upon to stop. All of them left, with the exception of Martin and myself, and my daughter, Dionetta's mother. Dionetta was not born at the time. We were glad to take Fritz the Fool into the place, to run of errands and do odd jobs. He was a young lad then, an orphan, and has been hanging about ever since. But for all the good he is, he might as well be at the other end of the world.
"The rumours spread into distant quarters, and one day a priest, who had travelled scores of miles for the purpose of seeing my master, presented himself at the gates, which were always kept locked by my master's orders. I asked the priest what he wanted, and he said he must speak to Mr. Almer. I told him that no person was admitted, and that my master would see none, but he insisted that I should give his errand. I did so, and my master accompanied me to the gates.
"'You have received your answer from my servant,' said my master. 'Why do you persist in your attempts to force yourself upon me?'
"'My errand is a solemn one,' said the priest; 'I am bidden by Heaven to come to you.'
"My master smiled scornfully. 'What deeds in my life,' he said, 'I shall be called upon to answer for before a divine tribunal, concern me, and me only. Were you an officer of justice you should be admitted; but you are a priest, and I do not need you. I am my own priest. Begone.'
"He was importunate, and was not so easily got rid of. Day after day, for two weeks, he made his appearance at the gates, but he could not obtain admittance, and at length he was compelled to forego his mission, whatever it might have been, and to leave without having any further speech with my master.
"Soon after he left, my master took Master Christian to school, at a great distance from the village, and returning alone, resumed his solitary habits.
"How well do I remember the evening on which he desired me not to disturb him on any account whatever, and to come to his study at four o'clock on the afternoon of the following day. At that hour, I knocked at the door, and received no answer. I knocked several times, and, becoming alarmed, tried the handle of the door. It was unlocked, and I stepped into the study, and said:
"'It is I, sir, Denise; you bade me come at this hour.'
"I spoke to deaf ears. On the floor lay my master stone dead!
"He had not killed himself; he died a natural death, and must have been forewarned that his moments on earth were numbered.
"That is all I have to tell, my lady."
"And you have really told it very well, Mother Denise," said the Advocate's wife; "with such sentiment, and in such beautiful language! It is a great talent: I don't know when I have been so interested. Why, in some parts you actually gave me the creeps! And here is Dionetta, as white as a lily. What a comfort it must have been to the poor lady to have had a good soul like you about her! If such a misfortune happened to me, I should like to have just such a servant as you were to her."
"Heaven forbid, my lady," said Mother Denise, raising her hands, "that such an unhappy lot should be yours!"
"Well, to tell you the truth," said Adelaide, with a bright smile, "I do not think it at all likely to happen. Of course, there is no telling what one might have to go through. Men are such strange creatures, and lead such strange lives! They may do anything--absolutely anything!--fight, gamble, make love without the least sincerity, deceive poor women and forsake them--yes, they may do all that, and the world will smile indulgently upon them. But if one of us, Mother Denise, makes the slightest trip, dear me! what a fuss is made about it--how shocked everybody is! A perfect carnival for the scandal-mongers! 'Isn't it altogether too dreadful.' 'Did you ever hear of such a thing?' 'Would you have believed it of her?' That is what is said by all sorts of people. But if I happened to be treated badly I should not submit to it tamely--nor between you and me, Mother Denise, in my opinion, did the lady whose story you have just related."
"Everything occurred," said Mother Denise stiffly, "exactly as I have described it."
"With a small allowance," said Adelaide archly, "for exaggeration, and with here and there a chapter left out. Come, you must admit that!"
"I have omitted nothing, my lady. I am angry with myself for having told so much. I doubt whether I have not done wrong."
"Mr. Christian Almer, whom I expect every minute"--and Adelaide looked at her watch--"would have been seriously annoyed with you if you had not satisfied my curiosity. Where is the harm? To be living here, with such an interesting tale untold, would have been inexcusable, perfectly inexcusable. But I am certain that you have purposely passed over more than one chapter, and I admire you for it. It is highly to your credit not to have told all you know, though it could hurt no one at this distance of time."
"What do you think I have concealed, my lady?"
"There was a certain M. Gabriel," said Adelaide, "who played a most important part in the story--a good many people would say, the most important part. If it had not been for him, there would have been no story to tell worth the hearing; there would have been no quarrel between husband and wife, and the foolish young lady would not have died, and I should not be here, listening to her story, and ready to cry my eyes out in pity for her. M. Gabriel must have been a very handsome young fellow, or there would not have been such a fuss made about him. There! I declare you have never even given me a description of him. Of course he was handsome."
She was full of vivacity, and as she leaned forward towards the old housekeeper, it appeared as if, in her estimation, nothing connected with the story she had heard was of so much importance as this question, which she repeated anxiously, "Tell me, Mother Denise, was he handsome?"
"He was exceedingly good-looking," Mother Denise was constrained to reply, "but not so distinguished in his bearing as my unhappy master."
"Tall?"
"Yes, tall, my lady."
"Dark or fair? But I think you gave me the impression that he was dark."
"Yes, my lady, he was dark," replied Mother Denise, coldly, more and more displeased at the frivolity of the questions.
"And young, of course--much younger than Mr. Almer?"
"Much younger, my lady."
"There would be no sense in the matter otherwise; anyone might guess that he was young and handsome and fascinating. Well, as I was about to say--I hope you will forgive me for flying off as I do; my head gets so full of ideas that they tumble over one another--all at once this M. Gabriel drops clean out of the story, and we hear nothing more of him. If there is one thing more inexplicable than another in the affair, it is that nothing more should be heard of M. Gabriel."
"We live out of the gay world, my lady; far removed from it, I am happy to think. It is not at all strange that in this quiet village we should not know what became of him."
"That is assuming that M. Gabriel went back into the gay world, as you call it, which is not such a bad place, I assure you, Mother Denise."
"He could not have stopped in the village, my lady, without its being known."
"Probably not; but, you dear old soul!" said Adelaide, her manner becoming more animated as that of Mother Denise became more frigid, "you dear old soul, they always come back! When lovers are dismissed, as M. Gabriel was, they always come back. They think they never will--they vow they never will--but they cannot help themselves. They are not their own masters. It is the story of the moth and the candle over again."
"You mean, my lady," said Mother Denise, very gravely, "that M. Gabriel returned to the villa."
"That is my meaning exactly. What else could he do?"
"I will not say whether I am glad or sorry to disappoint you, my lady, but M. Gabriel, after the summer-house was barred up, never made his appearance again in the village."
"Of course, under the circumstances, he could not show himself to everybody. It was necessary that he should be cautious. He had to come quietly--secretly, if you like."
"He never came, my lady," said Mother Denise, with determination.
"But he wrote, and sent his letters by a confidential messenger; he did that at least."
"I told you, my lady, that while my poor mistress lived in these rooms she never received or wrote a letter."
"If that is so, his letters to her must have been intercepted."
"There were no letters," said Mother Denise, stubbornly.
"There were," said Adelaide, smiling a reproof to Mother Denise. "I know the ways of men better than you do."
"By whom, my lady, do you suppose these imaginary letters were intercepted?"
"By her husband, of course, you dear, simple soul!"
"Mr. Almer could not have been guilty of such an act."
The Advocate's wife gazed admiringly at the housekeeper. "Dionetta," she exclaimed, "never be tempted to betray your mistress's secrets; take pattern by your grandmother."
"She might do worse, my lady," said Mother Denise, still unbending.
"Indeed she might. I am thinking of something. On the night you were aroused from your sleep, and heard the sound of a man falling to the ground----"
"I only fancied it was a man, my lady; we never learnt the truth."
"It was a man, and he climbed the wall. And he chose a dark and stormy night for his adventure. He was a brave fellow. I quite admire him."
"Admire a thief!" exclaimed Mother Denise, in horror.
"My dear old soul, you must know it was not a thief. The house was not robbed, was it?"
"No, my lady, nothing was taken; but what is the use of speaking of it?"
"When once I get an idea into my head," said Adelaide, "it carries me along, whether I like it or not. So, then--some time after you heard a man falling or jumping from the wall, you heard the sound of someone walking in the paths outside. He was fearful of disturbing anyone in the house, and he trod very, very softly. I should have done just the same. Now can't you guess the name of that man?"
"No, my lady, it was never discovered. He was a villain, whoever he was, to poison our dogs."
"That was a small matter. What is the life of a dog--of a thousand dogs--when a man is in love?"
"My lady!" cried Mother Denise. "What is it you are saying?"
"Nothing will deter him," continued Adelaide, with an intense enjoyment of the old woman's uneasiness, "nothing will frighten him, if he is brave and earnest, as M. Gabriel was. You dear old soul, the man you heard in the grounds that night was M. Gabriel, and he came to see your mistress--perhaps to carry her off! This window is not very high; I could almost jump from it myself."
Mother Denise pressed her hand to her side, as though to relieve a sudden pain; her face was white with a newly born apprehension.
"Do you really believe, my lady," she asked in trembling tones, "that M. Gabriel would have dared to enter the grounds in the dead of night, like a thief, after what had occurred?"
"I certainly believe it; it was the daring of a lover, not of a thief. Were any traces of blood discovered in the grounds?"
"None were discovered; but if blood was spilt, the rain would have washed it away."
"Or it could have been wiped away in the dark night!"
"Is it possible," said Mother Denise under her breath, "that you can be right, and that my master and M. Gabriel met on that night!"
"The most probable occurrence in the world," said Adelaide, with a pleasant smile. "What should have made your old master so anxious that you should not speak of the sounds you heard? He had a motive, depend upon it."
Mother Denise, who had sunk into a chair in great agitation, suddenly rose, and said abruptly:
"My lady, this is very painful to me. Will you allow me to go?"
"Certainly; do not let me detain you a moment. I cannot express to you the obligations you have laid me under by relating the history of this house and family. There is nothing more to do in these rooms, I believe. How very, very pretty they look! We must do everything in our power to make the place pleasant to the young master who is coming. But I think I can promise he will be happy here."
Not even Adelaide's smiles and good-humour could smooth Mother Denise's temper for the rest of the day.
"Mark my words, Martin," she said to her husband, "something wrong will happen before the Advocate and his fine lady leave the villa. She has put such horrible ideas into my head! Ah, but I will not think of them; it is treason, rank treason! We shall rue the day she came among us."
"Ha, ha!" chuckled the old man slyly. "You're jealous, Denise, you're jealous! She is the pleasantest lady, and the sweetest spoken, and the most generous, and the handsomest, for twenty miles round. The whole village is in love with her."
"And you as well as the rest, I suppose," snapped Mother Denise.
"I don't say that--I don't say that," piped Martin, with a childish laugh. "Never kiss and tell, Denise, never kiss and tell! If I was young and straight----"
"But you're old and crooked," retorted Mother Denise, "and your mind's going, if it hasn't gone already. You grow sillier and sillier every day."
A reproach the old man received with gleeful laughs and tiresome coughs. His worship of the beautiful lady was not to be lightly disturbed.
"The sweetest and the handsomest!" he chuckled, as he hobbled away, at the rate of half a mile an hour. "I'd walk twenty mile to serve her--twenty mile--twenty mile!"
"And this is actually the room," said Adelaide, walking about it, "in which that poor lady spent so many unhappy years! Her prison! Her grave! Dionetta, my pretty one, when the chance of happiness is offered to you, do not throw it away. Life is short. Enjoy it. A great many people moralise and preach, but if you were to see what they do, and put it in by the side of what they say, you would understand what fools those people must be who believe in their moralising and preaching. The persecuted lady whose story your grandmother has told us--what happiness did she enjoy in her life? None. Do you know why, Dionetta? Because it was life without love. Love is life's sunshine. Better to be dead than to live without it! Hark! Is not that a carriage driving up at the gates?"
She ran swiftly from the room, down the stairs, into the grounds. The gates were thrown open. A young man, just alighted, came towards her. She ran forward to meet him, with outstretched hands, with face beaming with joy. He took her hands in his.
"Welcome, Mr. Almer," she said aloud, so that those around her could hear her. "You have had a pleasant journey, I hope." And then, in a whisper, "Christian!"
"Adelaide!" he said, in a tone as low as hers.
"Now I am the happiest woman!" she murmured. "It is an eternity since I saw you. How could you have kept away from me so long?"
It happened that certain persons had selected this evening as a suitable occasion for a friendly visit to the House of White Shadows; Jacob Hartrich, the banker, was one of these. The banker was accompanied by his wife, a handsome and dignified woman, and by his two daughters, whose personal attractions, enhanced by their father's wealth and their consequent expectations, would have created a sensation in fashionable circles. Although in his religious observances Jacob Hartrich was by no means orthodox, he did not consider himself less a true Jew on that account. It is recognised by the most intelligent and liberal-minded of his race in the civilised countries of the world that the carrying-out of the Mosaic law in its integrity would not only debar them from social relations, but would check their social advancement. It is a consequence of the recognition of this undoubted fact that the severe ordinances of the Jewish religion should become relaxed in their fulfilment. Jacob Hartrich was a member of this band of reformers, and though his conscience occasionally gave him a twinge, he was none the less devoted, in a curiously jealous and illogical spirit, to the faith of his forefathers, to which he clung with the greater tenacity because his daily habits compelled him to act, to some extent, in antagonism with the decrees they had laid down.
Master Pierre Lamont was also at the villa. His bodily ailments were more severe than usual, and the jolting over the rough roads, as he was drawn from his house in his hand-carriage, had caused him excruciating suffering. He bore it with grins and grimaces, scorning to give pain an open triumph over him. Fritz was not by his side to amuse him with his humour; the Fool was at the court, on this last day of Gautran's trial, as he had been on every previous day, hastening thence every evening to Pierre Lamont, to give him an account of the day's proceedings.
Father Capel was there--a simple and learned ecclesiastic, with a smile and a pleasant greeting for old and young, for rich and poor alike. A benevolent, sweet-natured man, who, when trouble came to his door, received it with cheerful resignation; universally beloved; a man whose course through life was strewn with flowers of charity and kindness.
The visit of these and other guests was unexpected by Adelaide, and she inwardly resented the interruption to a contemplated quiet evening with Christian Almer; but outwardly she was all affability.
The principal topic of conversation was the trial of Gautran, and Pierre Lamont was enthusiastic on the theme.
"The trial will end this evening," he said, "and intellect will triumph."
"Truth, I trust, will triumph," said Jacob Hartrich, gravely.
"Intellect is truth's best champion," said Pierre Lamont. "But some mortals believe themselves to be omniscient, and set up a standard of truth which is independent of proof. I understood that you were to have been on the jury at the trial."
"I was excused," said Jacob Hartrich, "on the ground that I had already formed so strong a view of the guilt of the prisoner that no testimony could affect it."
"Decidedly," observed Pierre Lamont, "an unfit frame of mind to take part in a judicial inquiry of great difficulty. For my own part, I would willingly have given a year of my life, which cannot have too many years to run, to have been able to be in Geneva these last few days. It will be long before another trial so celebrated will take place in our courts."
"I am happy to think so."
"It has always been a puzzle to me," said Adelaide, whose feelings towards Pierre Lamont were of the most contradictory character--now inclining her to be exceedingly partial to him, now to detest him--"how such vulgar cases can excite the interest they do."
"It is surprising," was Pierre Lamont's comment, "that the wife of an Advocate so celebrated should express such an opinion."
"There are stranger things than that in the world, Master Lamont."
"Truly, truly," said Pierre Lamont, regarding her with curiosity; "but cannot you understand how even these vulgar cases become, at least for a time, great and grand when the highest qualities of the mind are engaged in unravelling the threads which bind them?"
"No, I cannot understand it," she replied with an amiable smile. "I believe that you lawyers are only happy when people are murdering and robbing each other."
"My friend the Advocate," said Pierre Lamont, bending gallantly, an exertion which sent a twinge of pain through his body, "is at least happy in one other respect--that of being the husband of a lady whom none can see without admiring--if I were a younger man I should say without loving."
"Pierre Lamont," said Jacob Hartrich, "gives us here a proof that love and law can go hand in hand."
"Nay," said Pierre Lamont, whose eyes and mind were industriously studying the face of his beautiful hostess, "such proof from me is not needed. The Advocate has supplied it, and words cannot strengthen the case."
And he waved his hand courteously towards Adelaide.
These compliments were not wasted upon her, and Pierre Lamont laughed secretly as he observed their effect.
"You are worth studying, fair dame," he thought, "with your smiling face, and your heart of vanity, and your lack of sympathy with your husband's triumphs. If not with his triumphs, then not with him! Feeling you must have, though it is born of selfishness. Ah! the curtain is drawn aside. Which one, which one, you beautiful animal?" His eyes travelled from one to the other in the room, until they fell upon Christian Almer, whose eyes at that moment met those of Adelaide. "Ah!" and he drew a deep breath of enjoyment. "Are you the favoured one, my master of this House of Shadows! Then we must take you into the game, for it cannot be played without you."
The old lawyer was in his element, probing character and motive, and submitting them to mental analysis. Physically he was helpless amidst the animated life around him; curled up in his invalid chair he was dependent for every movement upon his fellow-creatures; despite his intellect, he was at the mercy of a hind; but he was nevertheless the strongest man in all that throng, the man most to be feared by those who had anything to conceal, any secret which it behoved them to hide from the knowledge of men.
"How such vulgar cases," he said aloud, to the astonishment of the Advocate's wife, who deemed the subject dismissed, "can excite the interest they do! It surprises you. But there is not one of these cases which does not contain elements of human sympathy and affinity with ourselves. This very case of Gautran--what is its leading feature? Love--the theme of minstrel and poet, the sentiment without which human and divine affairs would be plunged into darkness. Crimes for which Gautran is being tried are caused by the human passions and emotions which direct our own movements. The balance in our favour is so heavy when our desires and wishes clash with the desires and wishes of other men, that we easily find justification for our misdeeds. Father Capel is listening to me with more than ordinary attention. He perceives the justice of my argument."
"We travel by different roads," said Father Capel. "You do not take into account the prompting of evil spirits, ever on the alert to promote discord and instigate to crime. It is that consideration which makes me tolerant of human error, which makes me pity it, which makes me forgive it."
"I dispute your spiritual basis. All motive for crime springs from within ourselves."
"Nay, nay," gently remonstrated Father Capel.
"Pardon me for restraining you. I was about to say that not only does all motive for human crime spring from within ourselves, but all motive for human goodness as well. If your thesis that evil spirits prompt us to crime is correct, it must be equally correct that good spirits prompt us to deeds of mercy, and charity, and kindness. Then there is no merit in performing a good action. You rob life of its grace, and you virtually declare that it is an injustice to punish a man for murdering his fellow-creature. Plainly stated, you establish the doctrine of irresponsibility. I will not do you the injustice of believing that you are in earnest. Your tolerance of human error, and your pity and forgiveness for it, spring from natural kindliness, as my tolerance of it, and my lack of pity and forgiveness for it, spring from a natural hardness of heart, begot of much study of the weakness, perverseness, and selfishness of my species. In the rank soil of these imperfections grows that wondrous, necessary tree known by the name of Law, whose wide-spreading branches at once smite and protect. You may thank this tree for preserving to some extent the decencies of society."
"Well expressed, Pierre Lamont," said Jacob Hartrich approvingly. "I regret that the Advocate is not present to listen to your eloquence."
"Ah," said Pierre Lamont, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, "does your endorsement spring from judgment or self-interest?"
"You strike both friend and foe," said Father Capel, with much gentleness. "It is as dangerous to agree with you as to dissent from you. But in your extravagant laudation of the profession of which you are a representative you lose sight of a mightier engine than Law, towering far above it in usefulness, and as a protection, no less than a solace to mankind. Without Religion, Law would be powerless, and the world a world of wild beasts. It softens, humanizes----"
"Invents," sneered Pierre Lamont, with undisguised contempt, "fables which sober reason rejects."
"If you will have it so, yes. Fables to divert men's minds from sordid materialism into purer channels. Be thankful for Religion if you practise it not. In the Sabbath's holy peace, in the hush and calm of one day out of the turbulent seven, in the influences which touch you closely, though you do not acknowledge them, in the restraint imposed by fear, in the charitable feelings inspired by love, in the unseen spirit which softens and subdues, in the yearning hope which chastens grief when one dear to you is lost, lie the safeguard of your days and much of the happiness you enjoy. So much for your body. For your soul, I will pray to-night."
"Father Capel," said Pierre Lamont in a voice of honey, "if all priests were like you, I would wear a hair-shirt to-morrow."
"What need, my son," asked Father Capel, "if you have a conscience?"
"Let me pay for my sins," said Pierre Lamont, handing his purse to the priest.
Father Capel took a few francs from the purse. "For the poor," he said. "In their name I bless you!"
"The priest has the best of it," said Adelaide to Christian Almer. "I hate these dry arguments! It is altogether too bad that I should be called upon to entertain a set of musty old men. How much happier we should be, we two alone, even in the mountains where you have been hiding yourself from me!"
"You are in better health and spirits," said Jacob Hartrich, drawing Almer aside, "than when I last saw you. The mountain air has done you good. It is strange to see you in the old house; I thought it would never be opened again to receive guests."
"It is many years since we were together under this roof," said Christian Almer thoughtfully.
"You were so young at the time," rejoined the banker, "that you can scarcely have a remembrance of it."
"My remembrance is very keen. I could have been scarcely six years of age, and we had no visitors. I remember that my curiosity was excited because you were admitted."
"I came on business," said Jacob Hartrich, and then, unwilling to revive the sad reminiscences of the young man's childhood, he said abruptly: "Almer, you should marry." His eyes wandered to his two comely daughters.
"What is that you are saying?" interposed the Advocate's wife; "that Mr. Almer should marry? If I were a man--how I wish I were!--nothing, nothing in the world would tempt me to marry. I would live a life without chain or shackle."
"So, so, my fair dame," thought Pierre Lamont, who had overheard this remark. "Bright as you appear, there is a skeleton in your cupboard. Chains and shackles! But you are sufficiently self-willed to throw these off." And he said aloud: "Can you ascertain for me if Fritz the Fool has returned from Geneva?"
"Certainly," replied Adelaide, and Dionetta being in the room, she sent her out to inquire.
"If he has returned," said Pierre Lamont, "the trial is over. I miss the fool's nightly report of the proceedings, which he has given me regularly since the commencement of the inquiry."
"If the trial is over," said Christian Almer, "the Advocate should be here."
"You need not expect him so soon," said Pierre Lamont; "after such exertion as he has gone through, an hour's solitude is imperative. Besides, Fritz can travel faster than our slow-going horses; he is as fleet as a hare."
"A favourite of yours, evidently."
"I have the highest respect for him. This particular fool is the wisest fool in my acquaintance."
Dionetta entered the room with Fritz at her heels.
"Well, Fritz," called out Pierre Lamont, "is the trial over?"
"Yes, Master Lamont, and we're ready for the next."
"The verdict, Fritz, the verdict?" eagerly inquired Pierre Lamont, and everybody in the room listened anxiously for the reply.
"If I were a bandy-legged man," said Fritz, ignoring the question, "I would hire some scoundrel to do a deed, so that you might be on one side and my lord the Advocate on the other. Then we should witness a fine battle of brains."
"Come, Fritz--the verdict!" repeated Pierre Lamont impatiently.
"On second thoughts," said Fritz quietly, "you would be no match for the greatest lawyer living. I would not have you on my side. It is as well that your pleading days are ended."
"No fooling, Fritz. The verdict; Acquitted?"
"What else? Washed white as driven snow."
"I knew it would be so," cried the old lawyer triumphantly. "How was it received?"
"The town is mad about it. The women are furious, and the men thunderstruck. You should have heard the speech! Such a thing was never known. Men's minds were twisted inside out, and the jury were convinced against their convictions. Why, Master Lamont, even Gautran himself for a few minutes believed himself to be innocent!"
"Enough," said Christian Almer sternly. "Leave the room."
Fritz darted a sharp look at the newly returned master, and with a low bow quitted the apartment. The next moment the Advocate made his appearance, and all eyes were turned towards him.