The House of the White Shadows

"Don't play with me, master. I mean to have what I ask for."

"How can you, if I do not possess it? How will you if, possessing it, I refuse to give it you?"

The reply was a crashing blow at an overhanging branch, which broke it to the ground. It was evident that the man carried a stout weapon, and that he meant to use it, with murderous effect, if driven to extremes. They spoke at arm's-length; neither was quite within the other's grasp.

"A strong argument," said the Advocate, without blenching, "and a savage one. You have a staff in your hand, and, probably, a knife in your pocket."

"Ah, I have, and a sharp blade to it."

"I thought as much. Would not that do your business more effectually?"

"Perhaps. But I've learnt a lesson to-day about knives, which teaches me not to use mine too freely."

The Advocate frowned.

"Other scoundrels would run less risk of the gaol if their proceeding's were as logical. Do you know me?"

"How should I?"

"It might be, then," continued the Advocate, secretly taking a box of matches from his pocket, "that, like yourself, I am both a thief and a would-be murderer."

As he uttered the last words he flung a lighted match straight at the man's face, and for a moment the glare revealed the ruffian's features. He staggered back, repeating the word "Murderer!" in a hoarse startled whisper. The Advocate strode swiftly to his side, and striking another match, held it up to his own face.

"Look at me, Gautran," he said.

The man looked up, and recognising the Advocate, recoiled, muttering:

"Aye, aye-I see who it is."

"And you would rob me, wretch!"

"Not now, master, not now. Your voice-it was the voice of another man. I crave your pardon, humbly."

"So-you recommence work early, Gautran. Have you not had enough of the gaol?"

"More than enough. Don't be hard on me, master; call me mad if you like."

"Mad or sane, Gautran, every man is properly made accountable for his acts. Take this to heart."

"It won't do me any good. What is a poor wretch to do with nothing but empty pockets?"

"You are a dull-witted knave, or you would be aware it is useless to lie to me. Gautran, I can read your soul. You wished to speak to me in the court. Here is your opportunity. Say what you had to say."

"Give me breathing time. You've the knack of driving the thoughts clean out of a man's head. Have you got a bit of something that a poor fellow can chew-the end of a cigar, or a nip of tobacco?"

"I have nothing about me but money, which you can't chew, and should not have if you could. Hearken, my friend. When you said you were starving, you lied to me."

"How do you know it?"

"Fool! Are there not fruit-trees here, laden with wholesome food, within any thief's grasp? Your pockets at this moment are filled with fruit."

"You have a gift," said Gautran with a cringing movement of his body. "It would be an act of charity to put me in the way of it."

"What would you purchase?" asked the advocate ironically. "Gold, for wine, and pleasure, and fine clothes?"

"Aye, master," replied Gautran with eager voice.

"Power, to crush those you hate, and make them smart and bleed?"

"Aye, master. That would be fine."

"Gautran, these things are precious, and have their price. What are you ready to pay for them?"

"Anything-anything but money!"

"Something of less worth-your soul?"

Gautran shuddered and crossed himself.

"No, no," he muttered; "not that-not that!"

"Strange," said the Advocate with a contemptuous smile, "the value we place upon an unknown quantity! We cannot bargain, friend. Say now what you desire to say, and as briefly as you can."

But it was some time before Gautran could sufficiently recover himself to speak with composure.

"I want to know," he said at length, with a clicking in his throat, "whether you've been paid for what you did for me?"

"At your trial?"

"Aye, master."

"I have not been paid for what I did for you."

"When they told me yonder," said Gautran after another pause, pointing in the direction of Geneva, where the prison lay, "that you were to appear for me, they asked me how I managed it, but I couldn't tell them, and I'm beating my head now to find out, without getting any nearer to it. There must be a reason."

"You strike a key-note, my friend."

"Someone has promised to pay you."

"No one has promised to pay me."

"You puzzle and confuse me, master. You're a stranger in Geneva, I'm told."

"It is true."

"I've lived about here half my life. I was born in Sierre. My father worked in the foundry, my mother in the fields. You are not a stranger in Sierre."

"I am a stranger there; I never visited the town."

"My father was born in Martigny. You knew my father."

"I did not know your father."

"My mother-her father once owned a vineyard. You knew her."

"I did not know her."

Once more was Gautran silent. What he desired now to say raised up images so terrifying that he had not the courage to give it utterance.

"You are in deep shadow, my friend," said the Advocate, "body and soul. Shall I tell you what is in your mind?"

"You can do that?"

"You wish to know if I was acquainted with the unhappy girl with whose murder you were charged."

"Is there another in the world like you?" asked Gautran, with fear in his voice. "Yes, that is what I want to know."

"I was not acquainted with her."

Gautran retreated a step or two, in positive terror. "Then what," he exclaimed, "in the fiend's name made you come forward?"

"At length," said the Advocate, "we arrive at an interesting point in our conversation. I thank you for the opportunity you afford me in questioning my inner self. What made me come forward to the assistance of such a scoundrel? Humanity? No. Sympathy? No. What, then, was my motive? Indeed, friend, you strike home. Shall I say I was prompted by a desire to assist the course of justice-or by a contemptible feeling of vanity to engage in a contest for the simple purpose of proving myself the victor? It was something of both, mayhap. Do you know, Gautran, a kind of self-despisal stirs within me at the present moment? You do not understand me? I will give you a close illustration. You are a thief."

"Yes, master."

"You steal sometimes from habit, to keep your hand in as it were, and you feel a certain satisfaction at having accomplished your theft in a workmanlike manner. We are all of us but gross and earthly patches. It is simply a question of degree, and it is because I am in an idle mood-indeed, I am grateful to you for this playful hour-that I make a confession to you which would not elevate me in the eyes of better men. You were anxious to know whether I have been paid for my services. I now acknowledge payment. I accept as my fee the recreation you have afforded me."

"I shall be obliged to you, master," said Gautran, "if you will leave your mysteries, and come back to my trial."

"I will oblige you. I read the particulars of the case for the first time on my arrival here, and it appeared to me almost impossible you could escape conviction. It was simply that. I examined you, and saw the legal point which, villain as you are, proclaimed your innocence. That laugh of yours, Gautran, has no mirth in it. I am beginning to be dangerously shaken. I will do, I said then, for this wretch what I believe no other man can do. I will perform a miracle."

"You have done it!" cried Gautran, falling on his knees in a paroxysm of fear, and kissing the Advocate's hand, which was instantly snatched away. "You are great-you are the greatest! You knew the truth!"

"The truth!" echoed the Advocate, and his face grew ashen white.

"Aye, the truth-and you were sent to save me. You can read the soul; nothing is hidden from you. But you have not finished your work. You can save me entirely-you can, you can! Oh, master, finish your work, and I will be your slave to the last hour of my life!"

"Save you! From what?" demanded the Advocate. He was compelled to exercise great control over himself, for a horror was stealing upon him.

The trembling wretch rose, and pointed to the opposite roadside.

"From shadows-from dreams-from the wild eyes of Madeline! Look there-look there!"

The Advocate turned in the direction of Gautran's outstretched trembling hand. A pale light was coining into the sky, and weird shadows were on the earth.

"What are you gazing on?"

"You ask me to torture me," moaned Gautran. "She dogs me like my shadow-I cannot shake her off! I have threatened her, but she does not heed me. She is waiting-there-there-to follow me when I am alone-to put her arms about me-to breathe upon my face, and turn my heart to ice! If I could hold her, I would tear her piecemeal! You must have known her, you who can read what passes in a man's soul-you who knew the truth when you came to me in my cell! She will not obey me, but she will you. Command her, compel her to leave me, or she will drive me mad!"

With amazing strength the Advocate placed his hands on Gautran's shoulders, and twisted the man's face so close to his own that not an inch of space divided them. Their eyes met, Gautran's wavering and dilating with fear, the Advocate's fixed and stern, and with a fire in them terrible to behold.

"Recall," said the Advocate, in a clear voice that rang through the night like a bell, "what passed between you and Madeline on the last night of her life. Speak!"

CHAPTER IV

THE CONFESSION

"I sought her in the Quartier St. Gervais," said I Gautran, speaking like a man in a dream, "and found her at eight o'clock in the company of a man. I watched them, and kept out of their sight.

"He was speaking to her softly, and some things he said to her made her smile; and every time she showed her white teeth I swore that she should be mine and mine alone. They remained together for an hour, and then they parted, he going one way, Madeline another.

"I followed her along the banks of the river, and when no one was near us I spoke to her. She was not pleased with my company, and bade me leave her, but I replied that I had something particular to say to her, and did not intend to go till it was spoken.

"It was a dark night; there was no moon.

"I told her I had been watching her, and that I knew she had another lover. 'Do you mean to give me up?' I said, and she answered that she had never accepted me, and that after that night she would never see me again. I said it might happen, and that it might be the last night we should ever see each other. She asked me if I was going away, and I said no, it might be her that was going away on the longest journey she had ever taken. 'What journey?' she asked, and I answered, a journey with Death for the coachman, for I had sworn a dozen times that night that if she would not swear upon her cross to be true and faithful to me, I would kill her.

"I said it twice, and some persons passed and turned to look at us, but there was not light enough to see us clearly.

"Madeline would have cried to them for help, but I held my hand over her mouth, and whispered that if she uttered a word it would be her last, and that she need not be frightened, for I loved her too well to do her any harm.

"But when we were alone again, and no soul was near us, I told her again that as sure as there was a sky above us I would kill her, unless she swore to give up her other lover, and be true to me. She said she would promise, and she put her little hand in mine and pressed it, and said:

"'Gautran, I will be only yours; now let us go back.'

"But I told her it was not enough; that she must kneel, and swear upon the holy cross that she would have nothing to do with any man but me. I forced her upon her knees, and knelt by her side, and put the cross to her lips; and then she began to sob and tremble. She dared not put her soul in peril, she said; she did not love me-how could she swear to be true to me?

"I said it was that or death, and that it would be the blackest hour of my life to kill her, but that I meant to do it if she would not give in to me. I asked her for the last time whether she would take the oath, and she said she daren't. Then I told her to say a prayer, for she had not five minutes to live. She started to her feet and ran along the bank. I ran after her, and she stumbled and fell to the ground, and before she could escape me again I had her in my arms to fling her into the river.

"She did not scratch or bite me, but clung to me, and her tears fell all about my face. I said to her:

"'You love me, kissing me so; swear then; it is not too late!'

"But she cried:

"No, no! I kiss you so that you may not have the heart to kill me!'

"Soon she got weak, and her arms had no power in them, and I lifted her high in the air, and flung her far from me into the river.

"I waited a minute or two, and thought she was dead, but then I heard a bubbling and a scratching, and, looking down, saw that by a miracle she had got back to the river's brink, and that there was yet life in her. I pulled her out, and she clung to me in a weak way, and whispered, nearly choked the while, that the Virgin Mary would not let me kill her.

"Will you take the oath?' I asked, and she shook her head from side to side.

"'No! no! no!'

"I took my handkerchief, and tied it tight round her neck, and she smiled in my face. Then I lifted her up, and threw her into the river again.

"I saw her no more that night!"

* * * * * *

The Advocate removed his eyes, with a shudder, from the eyes of the wretch who had made this horrible confession, and who now sank to the ground, quivering in every limb, crying:

"Save me, master, save me!"

"Monster!" exclaimed the Advocate. "Live and die accursed!"

But the terror-stricken man did not hear the words, and the Advocate, upon whose features, during Gautran's narration, a deep gloom had settled, strode swiftly from him through the peaceful narrow lane, fragrant with the perfume of limes, at the end of which the lights in the House of White Shadows were shining a welcome to him.

BOOK III. – THE GRAVE OF HONOUR

CHAPTER I

PREPARATIONS FOR A VISITOR

At noon the same day the old housekeeper, Mother Denise, and her pretty granddaughter Dionetta were busily employed setting in order and arranging the furniture in a suite of rooms intended for an expected visitor. There were but two floors in the House of White Shadows, and the rooms in which Mother Denise and Dionetta were busy were situated on the upper floor.

"I think they will do now," said Mother Denise, wiping imaginary dust away with her apron.

"All but the flowers." said Dionetta. "No, grandmother, that desk is wrong; it is my lady's own desk, and is to be placed exactly in this corner, by the window. There-it is right now. Be sure that everything is in its proper place, and that the rooms are sweet and bright-be sure-be sure! She has said that twenty times this week."

"Ah," said Mother Denise testily, "as if butterflies could teach bees how to work! My lady is turning your head, Dionetta, it is easy to see that; she has bewitched half the people in the village. Here is father, with the flowers. Haste, Martin, haste!"

"Easy to say, hard to do," grumbled Martin, entering slowly with a basket of cut flowers. "My bones get more obstinate every day. Here's my lady been teasing me out of my life to cut every flower worth looking at. She would have made the garden a wilderness, and spoilt every bed, if I had not argued with her."

"And what did she say," asked Mother Denise, "when you argued with her?"

"Say? Smiled, and showed all her white teeth at once. I never saw such teeth in my young days, nor such eyes, nor such hair, nor such hands-enough to drive a young man crazy."

"Or an old one either," interrupted Mother Denise. "She smiled as sweet as honey-you silly old man-and wheedled you, and wheedled you, till she got what she wanted."

"Pretty well, pretty well. You see, Dionetta, there are two ways of getting a thing done, a soft way and a hard way."

"There, there, there!" cried Mother Denise impatiently. "Do your work with a still tongue, and let us do ours. Get back to the garden, and repair the mischief my lady has caused you to do. What does a man want with a room full of roses?" she muttered, when Martin, quick to obey his domestic tyrant, had gone.

"It is a welcome home," said Dionetta. "If I were absent from my place a long, long while, it would make me feel glad when I returned, to see my rooms as bright as this. It is as though the very roses remembered you."

"You are young," said Mother Denise, "and your thoughts go the way of roses. I can't blame you, Dionetta."

"It was ten years since the master was here, you have told me, grandmother."

"Yes, Dionetta, yes, ten years ago this summer, and even then he did not sleep in the house. Christian Almer hates the place, and of all the rooms in the villa, this is the room he would be most anxious to avoid."

"But why, grandmother?" asked Dionetta, her eyes growing larger and rounder with wonder; "and does my lady know it?"

"My lady is a headstrong woman; she would not listen to me when I advised her to select other rooms for the young master, and she declares-in a light way to be sure, but these are not things to make light of-that she is very disappointed to find that the villa is not haunted. Haunted! I have never seen anything, nor has Martin, nor you, Dionetta."

"Oh, grandmother!" said the girl, in a timid voice, "I don't know whether I have or not. Sometimes I have fancied-"

"Of course you have fancied, and that is all; and you have woke up in the night, and been frightened by nothing. Mark me, Dionetta, if you do no wrong, and think no wrong, you will never see anything of the White Shadows of this house."

"I am certain," said Dionetta, more positively, "when I have been almost falling asleep, that I have heard them creeping, creeping past the door. I have listened to them over and over again, without daring to move in bed. Indeed I have."

"I am certain," retorted Mother Denise, "that you have heard nothing of the kind. You are a foolish, silly girl to speak of such things. You put me quite out of patience, child."

"But Fritz says-"

"Fritz is a fool, a cunning, lazy fool. If I were the owner of this property I would pack him off. There's no telling which master he serves-Christian Almer or Master Pierre Lamont. He likes his bread buttered on both sides, and accepts money from both gentlemen. That is not the conduct of a faithful servant. If I acted in such a manner I should consider myself disgraced."

"I am sure," murmured Dionetta, "that Fritz has done nothing to disgrace himself."

"Let those who are older than you," said Mother Denise, in a sharp tone, "be judges of that. Fritz is good for nothing but to chatter like a magpie and idle round the place from morning to night. When there's work to do, as there has been this week, carrying furniture and moving heavy things about, he must run away to the city, to the court-house where that murderer is being tried. Dionetta, I am not in love with the Advocate or his lady. The Advocate is trying to get a murderer off; it may be the work of a clever man, but it is not the work of a good man. If I had a son, I would sooner have him good than clever; and I would sooner you married a good man than a clever one, I hope you are not thinking of marrying a fool."

"Oh, grandmother, whoever thinks of marrying?"

"Not you, of course, child-would you have me believe that? When I was your age I thought of nothing else, and when you are my age you will see the folly of it. No, I am not in love with the Advocate. He is performing unholy work down there in Geneva. The priest says as much. If that murderer escapes from justice, the guilt of blood will weigh upon the Advocate's soul."

"Oh, grandmother! If my lady heard you she would never forgive you."

"If she hears it, it will not be from my tongue. Dionetta, it was a young girl who was murdered, about the same age as yourself. It might have been you-ah, you may well turn white-and this clever lawyer, this stranger it is, who comes among us to prevent justice being done upon a murderous wretch. He will be punished for it, mark my words."

Dionetta, who knew how useless it was to oppose her grandmother's opinions, endeavoured to change the subject by saying:

"Tell me, grandmother, why Mr. Almer should be more anxious to avoid this room than any other room in the house? I think it is the prettiest of all."

Mother Denise did not reply. She looked round her with the air of a woman recalling a picture of long ago.

"The story connected with this part of the house," she presently said, "gave to the villa the name of the House of White Shadows. You are old enough to hear it. Let me see, let me see. Christian Almer is now thirty-one years old-yes, thirty-one on his last birthday. How time passes! I remember well the day he was born-"

"Hush, grandmother," said Dionetta, holding up her hand. "My lady."

The Advocate's wife had entered the room quietly, and was regarding the arrangements with approval.

"It is excellently done," she said, "exactly as I wished. Dionetta, it was you who arranged the flowers?"

"Yes, my lady."

"You have exquisite taste, really exquisite. Mother Denise, I am really obliged to you."

"I have done nothing," said Mother Denise, "that it was not my duty to do."

"Such an unpleasant way of putting it; for there is a way of doing things-"

"Just what grandfather said," cried Dionetta, gleefully, "a hard way and a soft way." And then becoming suddenly aware of her rudeness in interrupting her mistress, she curtsied, and with a bright colour in her face, said, "I beg your pardon, my lady."

"There's no occasion, child," said Adelaide graciously. "Grandfather is quite right, and everything in this room has been done beautifully." She held a framed picture in her hand, a coloured cabinet photograph of herself, and she looked round the walls to find a place for it. "This will do," she said, and she took down the picture of a child which hung immediately above her desk, and put her own in its stead. "It is nice," she said to Mother Denise, smiling, "to see the faces of old friends about us. Mr. Almer and I are very old friends."

"The picture you have taken down," said Mother Denise, "is of Christian Almer when he was a child."

"Indeed! How old was he then?"

"Five years, my lady."

"He was a handsome boy. His hair and eyes are darker now. You were speaking of him, Mother Denise, as I entered. You were saying he was thirty-one last birthday, and that you remember the day he was born."

"Yes, my lady."

"And you were about to tell Dionetta why this villa was called the House of White Shadows. Give me the privilege of hearing the story."

"I would rather not relate it, my lady."

"Nonsense, nonsense! If Dionetta may hear it, there can be no objection to me. Mr. Almer would be quite angry if he knew you refused me so simple a thing. Listen to what he says in his last letter," and Adelaide took a letter from her pocket, and read: "'Mother Denise, the housekeeper, and the most faithful servant of the house, will do everything in her power to make you comfortable and happy. She will carry out your wishes to the letter-tell her, if necessary, that it is my desire, and that she is to refuse you nothing.' Now, you dear old soul, are you satisfied?"

"Well, my lady, if you insist-"

"Of course I insist, you dear creature. I am sure there is no one in the village who can tell a story half as well as you. Come and stand by me, Dionetta, for fear of ghosts."

She seated herself before the desk, upon which she laid the picture of the lad, and Mother Denise, who was really by no means loth to recall old reminiscences, and who, as she proceeded, derived great enjoyment herself from her narration, thus commenced:

CHAPTER II

A LOVE STORY OF THE PAST

"I was born in this house, my lady; my mother was housekeeper here before me. I am sixty-eight years old, and I have never slept a night away from the villa; I hope to die here. Until your arrival the house has not been inhabited for more than twenty years. I dare say if Mr. Christian Almer, the present master, had the power to sell the estate, he would have done so long ago, but he is bound by his father's will not to dispose of it while he lives. So it has been left to our care all these years.