Kitabı oku: «The House of the White Shadows», sayfa 29
"Aye."
"Disgrace?"
"In a certain form that may be borne, and life yet be worth the having."
"Good. Dishonour?"
"It matters little," said the Advocate; "but were the time not precious, I should be curious to learn why you desire to get at the heart of my secrets."
"The argument would be too long," said Pierre Lamont with earnestness, "but I can justify myself. There are worse things than death. Pardon me-an older man than yourself, and one who is well disposed towards you-for asking you bluntly whether such things have come to you?"
"They have. You can read the signs in my face."
"But if you have a secret, the revealing of which would be hurtful to you, cannot the mischief be averted? As far as I can expect you have been frank with me. Frankness for frankness. Say that the secret refers to Gautran and to your defence of him?"
"I have been living in a fool's paradise," said the Advocate with a scornful smile. "To whom is this known?"
"To Fritz the Fool, and to me, through him. He saw Gautran in your study after the trial-"
"Have I been watched?"
"The discovery was accidental. He was moved by some love-verses I read to him, and becoming sentimental, he dallied outside Dionetta's window, after the manner of foolish lovers. Then the lights of your study window attracted him, and he peeped through. When Gautran left the villa, Fritz followed him, and heard him in his terrified soliloquies proclaim his guilt. Were this to go out to the world, it would, according to its fashion, construe it in a manner which might be fatal to you. But Gautran is dead, and I can be silent, and can put a lock on Fritz's tongue-for in my soul I believe you were not aware the wretch was guilty when you defended him."
"I thank you. I believed him to be innocent."
"Why, then, my mind is easy. Friend, shake hands." He held the Advocate's hand in his thin fingers, and with something of wistfulness, said: "I would give a year of my life if I could prevail upon you to remain with us."
"You cannot prevail upon me. So much being said between us, more is necessary. The avowal of my ignorance of Gautran's guilt at the time I defended him-I learnt it after the trial, mind you-will not avail me. A written confession, – sworn upon his dying oath, exists, which accuses me of that which the world will be ready to believe. Strange to say, this is my lightest trouble. There are others of graver moment which more vitally concern me-unknown to you, unless, indeed, you possess a wizard's art of divination."
"Comrade," said Pierre Lamont, slowly and with emphasis, "there breathes not in the world a woman worth the breaking of a man's heart."
"Stop!" cried the Advocate in a voice of agony.
In silence he and Pierre Lamont gazed upon each other, and in the old lawyer's face the Advocate saw that his wife's faithlessness and his friend's treachery were known.
"Enough," he said; "there is for me no deeper shame, no deeper dishonour."
And he turned abruptly from Pierre Lamont, and left the hut staggering like a drunken man.
"Fritz, Fritz!" cried Pierre Lamont. "Come quickly!" Fritz instantly made his appearance from the inner room. "Look you, Fritz," said the old lawyer, in hurried, excited tones, "the Advocate has gone upon his mad errand-has gone alone. After him at once, and if you can save him from the consequences of his desperate resolve-if you can advise, assist him, do so for my sake. Quick, Fritz, quick!"
"Master Lamont," said Fritz, "are you asking me to do a man's work?'
"Yes, Fritz-you can do no more."
"Well and good. As far as a man dare go, I will go; but if a madman persists in rushing upon certain death, it will not help him for a fool to follow his example. I am fond of life, Master Lamont, doubly fond of it just now, for reasons." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the room which contained Dionetta. "But I will do what can be done. You may depend upon me."
He was gone at least two hours, and when he returned he was exhausted and panting for breath.
"I was never born to be drowned," he said, and he threw himself into a chair, and sat there, gasping.
"Well, Fritz, well?" cried Pierre Lamont.
"Wait till I get my breath. I followed this great Advocate as you desired, and for some time, so deep was he in his dreams, he did not know I was with him. But once, when he was waist high in water-not that he cared, it was as though he was inviting death-and I, who was acquainted with the road through which he was wading, pulled him suddenly back and so saved his life, he turned upon me savagely, and demanded who I was. He recognised me the moment he spoke the words-I will say this of him, that in the presence of another man he never loses his self-possession, and that, in my belief he would be a match for Death, if it presented itself to him in a visible, palpable shape. 'Ah,' said he, 'you are Fritz the Fool; why do you dog me?' 'I do not dog you,' I replied; 'Master Lamont bade me guide and assist you, if you needed guidance and assistance. He is the only man for whom I would risk my life.' 'Honesty is a rare virtue,' he said; 'keep with me, then, for just as long as you think yourself to be safe. You saw my wife and Mr. Almer leave the House of White Shadows. Is it likely they took this road?' 'They could take no other, and live,' I said, 'but there is no trace of them. They must have turned back to the villa.' 'Could they reach it, do you think?' he asked. 'A brave man can do wonders,' I replied; 'some hours ago they may have reached it; but they could not stop in the lower rooms, which even at that time must have been below water-mark. I will not answer for the upper part of the house at this moment, and before morning it will be swept away.' 'Guide me as far on the road as you care to accompany me,' said he, 'and when you leave me point me out the way I should go.' I did so, and we encountered dangers, and but for me he would not have been alive when I left him. We came to the bridge which spans the ravine of pines, two miles this side of the House of White Shadows. A great part of it had been torn away, and down below a torrent was rushing fierce enough to beat the life out of any living being, human or animal. 'There is no other way but this,' I said, 'to the House of White Shadows. I shall not cross the bridge.' He said no word, but struggled on to the bridge, which-all that was left of it-consisted of three slender trunks half hanging over the ravine. It was nothing short of a miracle that he got across; no sooner was he upon the other side than the remaining portion of the bridge fell into the ravine. He waved his hand to me, and I soon lost sight of him in the darkness. I stumbled here as well as I could. Master Lamont, I never want another journey such as that; had not the saints watched over me I should not be here to tell the tale. This is the blackest night in my remembrance."
"Do you think he can escape, Fritz?" asked Pierre Lamont.
"His life is not worth a straw," replied Fritz. "Look you here, Master Lamont. If I were to see him tomorrow, or any other day, alive, I should know that he is in league with the Evil One. No human power can save him."
"Peace be with him," said Pierre Lamont. "A great man is lost to us-a noble mind has gone."
"Master Lamont," said Fritz sententiously, "there is such a thing as being too clever. Better to be a simpleton than to be over-wise or over-confident. I intend to remain a fool to the end of my days. I have no pity for such a man. Who climbs must risk the fall. Not rocky peaks, but level ground, with bits of soft moss, for Fritz the Fool."
He slept well and soundly, but Pierre Lamont tossed about the whole of the night, thinking with sadness and regret upon the downfall of the Advocate.
CHAPTER V
THE DOOM OF THE HOUSE OF WHITE SHADOWS
An unerring instinct guided him; a superhuman power possessed him; and at midnight-though he could keep no count of time-he found himself within the gates of the House of White Shadows. Upon his lips, contracted and spasmodic with pain and suffering, appeared a pitiable smile as he gazed at a window on the upper floor, and saw a light. It was reflected from the window of Christian Almer's room.
"There they are," he muttered; "I shall not die unavenged."
The water was breast high. He battled through it, and reached the open door of the villa. Slowly he ascended the stairs until he arrived at the landing above. He listened at Christian Almer's door, but heard no sound. Enraged at the thought that they might, after all, have escaped him, he dashed into the room, and called out the names of his wife and friend. Silence answered him. He staggered towards the lamp, which stood on a table covered with a shade which threw the light downward. Before the lamp was a sheet of paper, with writing upon it, and bending over it the Advocate saw that it was addressed to him, and was intended for his perusal.
A steadier survey of the room brought its revelations. At the extreme end of the apartment lay a woman, still and motionless. He crept towards her, knelt by her, and lowered his face to hers. It was his wife, cold and dead!
A rosy tint was in her cheeks; a smile was on her lips; her death had brought no suffering with it.
"Fair and false," he said. "Beauty is a sinful possession."
Her clothes were wet, and he knew that she had been drowned.
Then, turning, he saw what had before escaped his notice-the body of Christian Almer, lying near the table. He put his ear to Almer's heart and felt a slight beating.
"He can wait," muttered the Advocate. "I will first read what he has written."
He was about to sit at the table when he heard a surging sound without. He stepped into the passage, and saw the waters swaying beneath him.
"It is well," he thought. "In a little while all will be over for those who have sinned."
This reflection softened him somewhat toward those who lay within the room, and by whom he believed himself to have been wronged. Was he not himself the greatest sinner in that fatal house? He returned to the table and read what Christian Almer had written.
"Edward:
"I pray that these words may reach your eyes. Above all things on earth have I valued your friendship, and my heart is wrung with anguish by the reproach that I have not been worthy of it. Last night, when your wife and I parted, I knew that you had discovered the weak and treacherous part I have played towards you, for as I turned towards my room-at that very moment, looking downward, I saw you below. I did not dare to come to you-I did not dare to show my face to the man I had wronged. It was my intention to fly this morning from your presence and hers, and never to see you more; and also to write to you the words to which, by the memory of all that I hold sacred, I now solemnly swear-that the wrong I have done you is compassed by sentiment. I do not seek to excuse myself; I know that treachery in thought is as base between you and me, as treachery in act. Yet in all humbleness I implore you to endeavour to find some palliation, though but the slightest, of my conduct in the reflection that sometimes in the strongest men-even in such a man as yourself, whose mind and life are most pure and noble-error cannot be avoided. We are hurried into wrong by subtle forces which wither one's earnest endeavours to step in the right path. Thus it has been with me. If you will recall certain words which were spoken in our conversation at midnight in the room in which this is written, you will understand what was meant when I said that I flew to the mountains to rid myself, by a happy chance, of a terror which possessed me. You who have never erred, you who have never sinned, may not be able to find it in your heart to forgive me. If it be so, I bow my head to your judgment-which is just, as in all your actions you are known to be. But if you cannot forgive me, I entreat you to pity me.
"You were not in the house to-day when we endeavoured to escape to a place of shelter in which we should be protected from this terrible inundation. We did not succeed-we were beaten back; and being engulfed in a sudden rush of waters, I could not save your wife. The utmost I could do was to bear her lifeless body back to this fatal house. It was I who should have died, not she; but my last moments are approaching. Think kindly of her if you can.
"Christian Almer."
Had he not been absorbed, not only in the last words written by Christian Almer, but by the reflections which they engendered, the Advocate would have known that the floods were increasing in volume, and that, in the short time he had been in the house, the waters had risen several feet. But he was living an inner life-a life in which the spiritual part of himself was dominant.
He stepped to the body of his wife and said:
"Poor child! Mine the error."
Then he knelt by the side of Christian Almer, and raised him in his arms. Aroused to consciousness by the action, Almer opened his eyes. They rested upon the Advocate's face vacantly, but presently they dilated in terror.
"Be not afraid," said the Advocate, "I have read what you have written. I know all."
"I am very weak," murmured Christian Almer. "Do not torture me; say that you pity me."
"I pity and forgive you, Christian," replied the Advocate in a very gentle voice.
"Thank God! Thank God!" said Almer, and closed his eyes, from which the warm tears gushed.
"God be merciful to sinners!" murmured the Advocate.
When daylight broke, the House of White Shadows, and all that it contained, had been swept from the face of the earth. A bare waste was all that remained to mark the record of human love and human ambition.
