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CHAPTER V
FATHER CAPEL DISCOVERS GAUTRAN IN HIS PERIL

Father Capel was wending his way slowly over the hill from the bedside of the sick woman whom he had attended for two nights in succession. On the first night she was in a state of delirium, and Father Capel could not arouse her to a consciousness of surrounding things. In her delirium she had repeatedly uttered a name which had powerfully interested him. "Madeline! Madeline! my Madeline," she moaned again and again. "Is it possible," thought the priest, "that the girl whose name she utters with agonised affection is the poor child who was so ruthlessly murdered?" On this, the second night, the woman whose last minutes on earth were approaching, was conscious, and she made certain disclosures to Father Capel which, veiled as they were, had grievously disturbed his usually serene mood. She had, also, given him a mission to perform which did not tend to compose his mind. He had promised faithfully to obey her, and they were to meet again within a few hours. To his earnest request that she would pray with him, she had impatiently answered:

"There will be time enough after I have seen the man you have promised to bring with you. I shall live till then."

So he had knelt by her bedside and had prayed for her and for himself, and for all the erring. His compassionate heart had room for them all.

For twenty miles around there was no man better loved than he. His life had been reproachless, and his tender nature never turned from the performance of a good deed, though it entailed suffering and privation upon himself. These were matters not to be considered when duty beckoned to him. A poor man, and one who very often deprived himself of a meal in the cause of charity. A priest in the truest sense of the word.

Seldom, in the course of a long, merciful, and charitable career, had he met with so much cause to grieve as on the present occasion. In the first place, because it was an added proof to the many he had received that a false step in life, in the taking of which one human being caused another to suffer, was certain to bring at some time or other its own bitter punishment; in the second place, because in this particular instance, the punishment, and the remorse that must surely follow, were as terrible as the mind of man could conceive.

His road lay towards the hill upon which the desperate conflict between John Vanbrugh and Gautran was taking place. There was no occasion for him to cross this hill; by skirting its base he could follow the road he intended to take. But as he approached the spot, the wind bore to him, in moments when the fury of the storm was lulled, cries which sounded in his ears like cries of pain and despair They were faint, and difficult to ascribe to any precise definite cause; they might be the cries of an animal, but even in that case it was more than likely that Father Capel would have proceeded in their direction. Presently, however, he heard a human cry for help; the word was distinct, and it decided his movements. Without hesitation he began to climb the hill.

As he approached nearer and nearer to the spot on which the struggle was proceeding, there was no longer room to doubt its nature.

"Holy Mother!" murmured the priest, quickening his steps, "will the evil passions of men never be stilled? It seems as if murder were being done here. Grant that I am not too late to avert the crime!"

Then came the terrific lightning-flash, followed immediately by Gautran's piercing scream as he was struck down by the tree.

"Who calls for help?" cried Father Capel, in a loud voice, but his words were lost in the peals of thunder which shook the earth and made it tremble beneath his feet. When comparative silence reigned, he shouted again:

"Who calls for help? I am a priest, and tender it."

Gautran's voice answered him:

"Here-here! I am crushed and dying!"

This appeal was not coherently made, but the groans which accompanied it guided Father Capel to the spot upon which Gautran lay. He felt amid the darkness and shuddered at the touch of blood, and then he clasped Gautran's right hand. The tree had fallen across the murderer's legs, and had so crushed them into the earth that he could not move the lower part of his body; his chest and arms were free. A heavy branch had inflicted a terrible gash on his forehead, and it was from this wound that he was bleeding to death.

"Who are you?" said Father Capel, kneeling by the dying man, "that lies here in this sad condition? I cannot see you. Is this Heaven's deed, or man's?"

"It is Heaven's," gasped Gautran, "and I am justly punished."

"I heard the sounds of a struggle between two men. Are you one of those who were fighting in the midst of this awful darkness?"

"Yes, I am one."

"And the design," continued Father Capel, "was murder. You do not answer me; your silence is sufficient confirmation. Are you hurt much?"

"I am hurt to death. In a few minutes I shall be in eternal fire unless you grant me absolution and forgiveness for my crimes."

"Speak first the truth. Were you set upon, or were you the attacker in this evil combat?"

"I attacked him first."

"Then he may be dead!" exclaimed Father Capel, and rising hastily to his feet, he peered into the darkness, and felt about with his hands, and called aloud to know if the other man was conscious. "This is horrible," said the priest, in deep perplexity, scarcely knowing what it was best to do; "one man dying, another in all likelihood dead."

He turned as if about to go, and Gautran, divining his intention, cried in a tone of agony:

"Do not leave me, father, do not leave me!"

"Truly," murmured the priest, "it seems to me that my present duty is more with the living than the dead." He knelt again by the side of Gautran. "Miserable wretch, if the man you attacked be dead, you have murdered him, and you have been smitten for your crime. It may not be the only sin that lies upon your soul."

"It is not, it is not," groaned Gautran. "My strength is deserting me; I can hardly speak. Father, is there hope for a murderer? Do not let me die yet. Give me something to revive me. I am fainting."

"I have nothing with me to restore your strength. To go for wine, and for assistance to remove this heavy timber which imprisons you-my weak arms cannot stir it-cannot be accomplished in less than half an hour. It will be best, perhaps, for me to take this course; in the meantime, pray, miserable man, with all the earnestness of your heart and soul, for Divine forgiveness. What is your name?"

"I am Gautran," faintly answered the murderer.

Father Capel's frame shook under the influence of a strong agitation.

"From the bedside of the woman I have left within the hour," he murmured, "to this poor sinner who has but a few minutes to live! The hand of God is visible in it."

He addressed himself to the dying man:

"You are he who was tried for the murder of Madeline, the flower-girl?"

"I am he," moaned Gautran.

"Hearken to me," said Father Capel. "For that crime you were tried and acquitted by an earthly tribunal, which pronounced you innocent. But you are now about to appear before the Divine throne for judgment; and from God nothing can be hidden. He sees into the hearts of men. Who is ready-as you but now admitted to me-to commit one murder, and who, perhaps, has committed it, for, from the silence, I infer that the body of your victim lies at no great distance, will not shrink from committing two. Answer me truly, as you hope for mercy. Were you guilty or innocent of the murder of Madeline?"

"I was guilty," groaned Gautran. "Wretch that I am, I killed her. I loved her, father-I loved her!"

Gautran, from whose lips these words had come amid gasps of agony, could say no more; his senses were fast leaving him.

"Ah me-ah me!" sighed Father Capel; "how shall such a crime be expiated?"

"Father," moaned Gautran, rallying a little, "had I lived till to-morrow, I intended to buy masses for the repose of her soul. I will buy them now, and for my own soul too. I have money. Feel in my pocket; there is gold. Take it all-all-every piece-and tell me I am forgiven."

Father Capel did not attempt to take the money.

"Stolen gold will not buy absolution or the soul's repose," he said sadly. "Crime upon crime-sin upon sin! Gautran, evil spirits have been luring you to destruction."

"I did not steal the gold," gasped Gautran. "It was given to me-freely given."

"Forgiveness you cannot hope for," said Father Capel, "if in these awful moments you swerve from the truth by a hair's-breadth. Confess you stole the gold, and tell me from whom, so that it may be restored."

"May eternal torments be mine if I stole it! Believe me, father-believe me. I speak the truth."

"Who gave it to you, then?"

"The Advocate."

"The Advocate! He who defended you, and so blinded the judgment of men as to cause them to set a murderer loose?"

"Yes; he, and no other man."

"From what motive, Gautran-compassion?"

"No, from fear."

"What reason has he to fear you?"

"I have his secret, as he had mine, and he wished to get rid of me, so that he and I should never meet again. It was for that he gave me the gold."

"What is the nature of this secret which made him fear your presence?"

"He knew me to be guilty."

"What do you say? When he defended you, he knew you to be guilty?"

"Aye, he knew it well."

"Incredible-horrible!" exclaimed Father Capel, raising his hands. "He shared, then, your crime. Yes; though he committed not the deed, his guilt is as heavy as the guilt of the murderer. How will he atone for it? – how can atone for it? And if what I otherwise fear to be true, what pangs of remorse await him!"

A frightful scream from Gautran arrested his further speech.

"Save me, father-save me!" shrieked the wretch. "Send her away! Tell her I repent. See, there-there! – she is creeping upon me, along the tree!"

"What is it you behold amidst the darkness of this appalling night?" asked Father Capel, crossing himself.

"It is Madeline-her spirit that will never, never leave me! Will you not be satisfied, you, with my punishment? Is not my death enough for you? You fiend-you fiend! I will strangle you if you come closer. Have mercy-mercy! You are a priest; have you no power over her? Then what is the use of prayer? It is a mockery-a mockery! My eyes are filled with blood! Ah!"

Then all was silent.

"Gautran," whispered Father Capel, "take this cross in your hand; put it to your lips and repeat the words I say. Gautran, do you hear me? No sound-no sound! He has gone to his account, unrepentant and unforgiven!"

Father Capel rose to his feet.

"I will seek assistance at once; there is another to be searched for. Ah, terrible, terrible night! Heaven have mercy upon us!"

And with a heart overburdened with grief, the good priest left the spot to seek for help.

CHAPTER VI
THE WRITTEN CONFESSION

During the whole of this interview John Vanbrugh had lain concealed within two or three yards of the fallen tree, and had heard every word that had passed between Gautran and Father Capel. For a few moments after he had thrown Gautran from him he was dazed and exhausted by the struggle in which he had been engaged, and by the crashing of the timber which had saved him from his deadly foe. Gradually he realised what had occurred, and when Father Capel's voice reached his ears he resolved not to discover himself, and to be a silent witness of what transpired.

In this decision lay safety for himself and absolute immunity, for Gautran knew nothing of him, not even his name, and to be dragged into the light, to be made to give evidence of the scene in which he had been a principal actor, would have seriously interfered with his plan of action respecting the Advocate.

Favoured by the night, he had no difficulty in concealing himself, and he derived an inward satisfaction from the reflection that he might turn even the tragic and unexpected event that had occurred to his own immediate advantage. He had not been seriously hurt in the conflict; a few bruises and scratches comprised the injuries he had received.

Among his small gifts lay the gift of mimicry; he could imitate another man's voice to perfection; and when Father Capel left Gautran for the purpose of obtaining assistance, an idea crossed his mind which he determined to carry out. He waited until he was assured that Father Capel was entirely out of hearing, and then he stepped from his hiding-place, and knelt by the side of Gautran. Having now no fear of his enemy, he placed his ear to Gautran's heart and listened.

"He breathes," he muttered, "there is yet a little life left in him."

He raised Gautran's head upon his knee, and taking his flask of brandy from his pocket, he poured some of the liquor down the dying man's throat. It revived him; he opened his eyes languidly; but he had not strength enough left in him to utter more than a word or two at the time.

"I have returned, Gautran," said John Vanbrugh, imitating the voice of the priest; "I had it not in my heart to desert you in your last moments. The man you fought with is dead, and in his pocket I found this flask of brandy. It serves one good purpose; it will give you time to earn salvation. You have two murders upon your soul. Are you prepared to do as I bid you?"

"Yes," replied Gautran.

"Answer my questions, then. What do you know of the man whom you have slain?"

"Nothing."

"Was he, then, an absolute stranger to you?"

"Yes."

"You do not even know his name?"

"No."

"There is no time to inquire into your reasons for attacking him, for I perceive from your breathing that your end is very near, and the precious moments must not be wasted. It is your soul-your soul-that has to be saved! And there is only one way-the guilty must be punished. You have met your punishment. Heaven's lightning has struck you down. These gold pieces which I now take from your pocket shall be expended in masses. Rest easy, rest easy, Gautran. There is but one thing for you to do-and then you will have made atonement. You hear me-you understand me?"

"Yes-quick-quick!"

"To die, leaving behind you no record of the guilt of your associate-of the Advocate who, knowing you to be a murderer, deliberately defeated the ends of justice-will be to provoke Divine anger against you. There is no hope for pardon in that case. Can you write?"

"No."

"Your name, with my assistance, you could trace?"

"Perhaps."

"I will write a confession which you must sign. Then you shall receive absolution."

He poured a few drops of brandy into Gautran's mouth, and they were swallowed with difficulty. After this he allowed Gautran's head to rest upon the earth, and tore from his pocket-book some sheets of blank paper, upon which, with much labour, he wrote the following:

"I, Gautran, the woodman, lately tried for the murder of Madeline, the flower-girl, being now upon the point of death, and conscious that I have only a few minutes to live, and being in full possession of my reason, hereby make oath, and swear:

"That being thrown into prison, awaiting my trial. I believed there was no escape from the doom I justly merited, for the reason that I was guilty of the murder.

"That some days before my trial was to take place, the Advocate who defended me voluntarily undertook to prove to my judges that I was innocent of the crime I committed.

"That with this full knowledge he conducted my case with such ability that I was set free and pronounced innocent.

"That on the night of my acquittal, after midnight had struck, and when every person but himself in the House of White Shadows was asleep, I secretly visited him in his study, and remained with him some time.

"That he gave me food and money, and bade me go my way.

"That I am ignorant of the motives which induced him to whom I was a perfect stranger, to deliberately defeat the ends of justice.

"That the proof that he knew me to be guilty lies in the fact that I made a full confession to him.

"To which I solemnly swear, being about to appear before a just God to answer for my crime. I pray for forgiveness and mercy.

"Signed-."

And here John Vanbrugh left a space for Gautran's name. He read the statement to Gautran, who was now fast sinking, and then he raised the dying man's head in his arms, and holding the pencil in the almost nerveless fingers, assisted him to trace the name "Gautran."

This was no sooner accomplished than Gautran, with a wild scream, fell back.

John Vanbrugh lost not another moment. With an exultant smile he placed the fatal evidence in his pocket, and prepared to depart. As he did so he heard the voices of men who were ascending the hill.

"This paper," thought Vanbrugh, as he crept softly away in an opposite direction, "is worth, I should say, at least half the Advocate's fortune. It is the ruin of his life and career, and, if he does not purchase it of me on my own terms, let him look to himself."

When Father Capel, with the men he had summoned to his assistance, arrived at the spot upon which Gautran lay, the murderer was dead.

BOOK VI. – A RECORD OF THE PAST

CHAPTER I
THE DISCOVERY OF THE MANUSCRIPT

All was silent in the House of White Shadows. Strange as was the drama that was in progress within its walls it found no open expression, and to the Advocate, seated alone in his study, was about to be unfolded a record of events long buried in the past, the disclosure of which had not, up to this moment, been revealed to man. During the afternoon, the Advocate had said to Christian Almer:

"Now that I have leisure, I intend, with your permission, to devote some time to your father's works. In his day, certainly for a number of years, he was celebrated, and well known in many countries, and I have heard surprise expressed that a career which promised to shed lasting lustre upon the name you bear seemed suddenly to come to an end. Of this abrupt break in the labours of an eminent man there is no explanation-as to what led to it, and in what way it was broken off. I may chance upon the reason of a singular and complete diversion from a pursuit which he loved. It will interest me, if you will give me permission to search among his papers."

"A permission," rejoined Christian Almer, "freely accorded. Everything in the study is at your disposal. For my own part the impressions of my childhood are of such a nature as to render distasteful the records of my father's labours. But you are a student and a man of deeper observation and research than myself. You may unearth something of value. I place all my father's manuscripts at your unreserved disposal. Pray, read them if you care to do so, and use them in any way you may desire."

Thus it happened that, two hours before midnight, the Advocate, after looking through a number of manuscripts, most of them in an incomplete shape, came upon some written pages, the opening lines of which exercised upon him a powerful fascination. The only heading of these pages was, "A FAITHFUL RECORD." And it was made in the following strain:

CHAPTER II
CHRISTIAN ALMER'S FATHER

"It devolves upon me, Ernest Christian Almer, as a duty, to set down here, in a brief form, before I die, the record of certain events in my life which led me to the commission of a crime. Whether justifiable or not-whether this which I call a crime may be otherwise designated as an accident or as the execution of a just punishment for trust and friendship betrayed-is for others to determine.

"It is probable that no human eye will read what I am about to write until I am dead; but if it should be brought to light in my lifetime I am ready to bear the consequences of my act. The reason why I myself do nothing to assist directly in the discovery (except in so far as making this record and placing it without concealment among my manuscripts) is that I may in that way be assisting in bringing into the life of my dear son, Christian Almer, a stigma and a reproach which will be a cause of suffering to him. If it should happen that many years elapse before these lines fall into the hands of a human being, if may perhaps be for the best. What is done is done, and cannot be recalled. Even had I the power to bring the dead to life I doubt whether I should avail myself of it.

"My name is not unknown to the small world in which I live and move, and I once cherished a hope that I should succeed in making it famous. That hope is now like a flower burnt to ashes, never more to blossom. It proves the vanity of ambition upon which we pride ourselves and which we imbue with false nobility.

"As a lad I was almost morbidly tender in my nature; I shrank from giving pain to living creature; the ordinary pursuits of childhood, in which cruelty to insects forms so prominent a feature, were to me revolting; to strip even a flower of its leaves was in my eyes a cruel proceeding. And yet I have lived to take a human life.

"My earliest aspiration was to win a name in literature. Every book I read and admired assisted in making this youthful aspiration a fixed purpose when I became a man. Often, as I read the last words of a book which had fired my imagination, would I think, and sometimes say aloud, 'Gladly would I die were I capable of writing a work so good, so grand as this.'

"My parents were rich, and allowed me to follow my bent. When they died I was left sole heir to their wealth. I had not to struggle as poorer men in the profession to which I resolved to devote myself have had to do. So much the worse for me perhaps-but that now matters little. Whether the books I hoped to write would be eagerly sought after or not was of no moment to me. What I desired was to produce; for the rest, as to being successful or unsuccessful, I was equal to either fortune.

"I made many friends and acquaintances, who grew to learn that they could use and enjoy my house as their own. In setting this down I lay no claim to unusual generosity; it was on my part simply the outcome of a nature that refused to become a slave to rigid forms of hospitality. The trouble entailed would have been too great, and I declined to undertake it. I chose to employ my hours after my own fashion-the fashion of solitude. I found great pleasure in it, and to see my friends around me without feeling myself called upon to sacrifice my time for their enjoyment, knowing (as they well knew) that they were welcome to the best my wealth and means could supply them with-this added to my pleasure a peculiar charm. They were satisfied, and so was I; and only in one instance was my hospitality abused and my friendship betrayed. But had I been wise, this one instance would never have occurred to destroy the hopes of my life.

"Although it is running somewhat ahead of the sequence of events, I may mention here the name of the man who proved false to friendship. It was M. Gabriel. He was almost young enough to be my son, and when I first knew him he was a boy and I was a man. He was an artist, with rare talents, and at the outset of his career I assisted him, for, like the majority of artists, he was poor. This simple mention of him will be sufficient for the present.

"As when I was a lad I took no delight in the pleasures of lads of my own age, so when I was a man I did not go the way of men in that absorbing passion to which is given the name of Love. Those around me were drawn into the net which natural impulse and desire spread for mankind. There was no credit in this; it was simply that it did not happen. I was by no means a woman-hater, but it would seem as if the pursuits to which I was devoted were too engrossing to admit of a rival. So I may say what few can say-that I had passed my fortieth year, and had never loved.

"My turn came, however.

"Among my guests were the lady who afterwards became my wife, and her parents. A sweet and beautiful lady, twenty-five years my junior. My unhappiness and ruin sprang from the chance which brought us together-as did her wretchedness and misery. In this I was more to blame than she-much more to blame. In the ordinary course of a life which had reached beyond its middle age I should have acquired sufficient experience to learn that youth should mate with youth-that nature has its laws which it is dangerous to trifle with. But such experience did not come to me. At forty-five years of age I was as unlearned as a child in matters of the heart; I had no thought of love or marriage, and the youngest man of my acquaintance would have laughed at my simplicity had the opportunity been afforded him of seeing my inner life. It was not the fault of the young lady that she knew nothing of this simplicity. No claim whatever had I to demand to be judged by special and exceptional rules. She had a perfect right to judge me as any other man of my age would have been judged. All that can be said of it was that it was most unfortunate for her and for me. If it should happen (which is not unlikely, for the unforeseen is always occurring) that these pages should be read by a man who is contemplating marriage with one young enough to be his daughter, I would advise him to pause and submit his case to the test of natural reason; for if both live, there must come a time when nature will take its revenge for the transgression. The glamour of the present is very alluring, but it is the duty of the wiser and the riper of the twain to consider the future, which will press more hardly upon the woman than upon the man. With the fashion of things as regards the coupling of the sexes I have nothing to do; fashions are artificial and often most mischievous. Frequently, when the deeper laws of nature are involved, they are destructive and fatal.

"It was my misfortune that during the visit of the young lady and her parents, the father, an old and harmless gentleman, met his death through an accident while he, I, and other gentlemen were riding. In my house he died.

"It occasioned me distress and profound sorrow, and I felt myself in some way accountable, though the fault was none of mine. Before his death he and I had private confidences, in which he asked me to look after his affairs, and if, as he feared, they were in an embarrassed state, to act as protector to his daughter. I gave him the promise readily, and, when he died, I took a journey for the purpose of ascertaining how the widow and the orphan were circumstanced. I found that they were literally beggars. As gently as I could I broke the news to them. The mother understood it; the daughter scarcely knew its meaning. Her charming, artless ignorance of the consequences of poverty deeply interested me, and I resolved in my mind how I could best serve her and render her future a happy one.

"Speaking as I am in a measure to my own soul, I will descend to no duplicity. That I was entirely unselfish in my desire that her life should be bright and free from anxieties with which she could not cope is true; but none the less true is it that, for the first time, I felt myself under the dominion of a passion deeper and more significant than I had ever felt for woman. It was love, I believe, but love in which there was reason. For I took myself to task; I set my age and hers before me; I did this on paper, and as I gazed at the figures I said. Absurd; it is not in nature, and I must fight it down.' I did wrestle with it, and although I did not succeed in vanquishing it, I was sufficiently master of myself to keep the struggle hidden in my own breast.

"How, then, did this hapless lady become my wife? Not, in the first instance, through any steps voluntarily and unreasoningly taken by myself. I had firmly resolved to hold my feelings in check. It was the mother who accomplished that upon which she had set her heart. I may speak freely. This worldly mother has been long dead, and my confession cannot harm her. It was she who ruined at least the happiness of one life, and made me what I am.

"Needless here to recount the arts by which she worked to the end she desired; needless to speak of the deceits she practised to make me believe her daughter loved me. It may be that the fault was mine, and that I was too ready to believe. Sufficient to say that we fell into the snare she prepared for us; that, intoxicated by the prospect of an earthly heaven, I accepted the meanings she put on her daughter's reserve and apparent coldness, and that, once engaged in the enterprise, I was animated by the ardour of my own heart, in which I allowed the flower of love to grow to fruition. So we were married, and with no doubt of the future I set out with my wife on our bridal tour. She was both child and wife to me, and I solemnly resolved and most earnestly desired to do my duty by her.

"Before we were many days away news arrived that my wife's mother had met with an accident, in a part of the grounds which was being beautified by my workmen according to plans I had prepared for the pleasure of my young bride-an accident so serious that death could not be averted. In sadness we returned to the villa. My wife's coldness I ascribed to grief-to no other cause. And, indeed, apart from the sorrow I felt at the dreadful news, I was myself overwhelmed for a time by the fatality which had deprived my wife of her parents within so short a time on my estate, and while they were my guests. 'But it will pass away,' I thought, 'and I will be parents, lover, husband, to the sweet flower who has given her happiness into my keeping.' When we arrived at the villa, her mother was dead.

"I allowed my wife's grief to take its natural course; seeing that she wished for solitude, I did not intrude upon her sorrow. I had to study this young girl's feelings and impulses; it was my duty to be tender and considerate to her. I was wise, and thoughtful, and loving, as I believed, and I spared no effort to comfort without disturbing her. 'Time will console her,' I thought, 'and then we will begin a new life. She will learn to look upon me not only as a husband, but as a protector who will fully supply the place of those she has lost.' I was patient-very patient-and I waited for the change. It never came.