Kitabı oku: «The House of the White Shadows», sayfa 9

CHAPTER II
A STARTLING INTERRUPTION

The news of the acquittal of Gautran spread swiftly through the town, and the people gathered in front of the cafés and lingered in the streets, to gaze upon the celebrated Advocate who had worked the marvel.

"He has a face like the Sphynx," said one.

"With just as much feeling," said another.

"Do you believe Gautran was innocent?"

"Not I-though he made it appear so."

"Neither do I believe it, but I confess I am puzzled."

"If Gautran did not murder the girl, who did?" asked one, a waverer, who formed an exception to the general rule.

"That is for the law to find out."

"It was found out, and the murderer has been set loose. We shall have to take care of ourselves on dark nights."

"Would you condemn a man upon insufficient evidence?"

"I would condemn such as Gautran on any evidence. When you want to get rid of vermin it does not do to be over particular."

"The law must be respected."

"Life must be protected. That is the first law."

"Hush! Here he is. Best not let him overhear you."

There was but little diversity of opinion. Even in the inn of The Seven Liars, to which Fritz the Fool-who had attended the court every day of the trial, and who had the fleetest foot of any man for a dozen miles round-had already conveyed the news of Gautran's acquittal, the discussion was loud and animated; the women regarding the result as an outrage on their sex, the men more disposed to put Gautran out of the question, and to throw upon the Advocate the opprobrium of the verdict.

"Did I not tell you," said Fritz, "that he could turn black into white? A great man-a great man! If we had more like him, murdering would be a fine trade."

There were, doubtless, among those who thronged the streets to see the Advocate pass, some sinners whose consciences tormented them, and who secretly hoped, if exposure ever overtook them, that Heaven would send them such a defender. His reception, indeed, partook of the character of an ovation. These tributes to his powers made no impression upon him; he pursued his way steadily onward, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and soon the gaily-lighted shops and cafés of Geneva were far behind him.

His thoughts were upon John Vanbrugh, who had been one of his boy friends, and whom for many years he had believed to be dead. In his lonely walk to the House of White Shadows he recalled the image of Vanbrugh, and dwelt, with idle curiosity, upon the recollection of their youthful lives. He had determined not to see Vanbrugh, and was resolved not to renew a friendship which, during its existence, had been lacking in those sterling qualities necessary for endurance. That it was pleasant while it lasted was the best that could be said of it. When he and Vanbrugh grew to manhood there was a wide divergence in their paths.

One walked with firm unfaltering step the road which leads to honour and renown, sparing no labour, throwing aside seductive temptation when it presented itself to him, as it did in its most alluring forms, giving all his mental might to the cause to which he had devoted himself, studying by day and night so earnestly that his bright and strong intellect became stronger and clearer, and he could scarcely miss success. Only once in his younger days had he allowed himself, for a brief period, to be seduced from this path, and it was John Vanbrugh who had tempted him.

The other threw himself upon pleasure's tide, and, blind to earnest duty, drank the sunshine of life's springtime in draughts so intemperate that he became intoxicated with poisonous fire, and, falling into the arms of the knaves who thrive on human weakness and depravity, his moral sense, like theirs, grew warped, and he ripened into a knave himself.

Something of this, but not in its fulness, had reached the Advocate's ears, making but small impression upon him, and exciting no surprise, for by that time his judgment was matured, and human character was an open book to him; and when, some little while afterwards, he heard that John Vanbrugh was dead, he said, "He is better dead," and scarcely gave his once friend another thought.

He was a man who had no pity for the weak, and no forgiveness for the erring.

He walked slowly, with a calm enjoyment of the solitude and the quiet night, and presently entered a narrow lane, dotted with orchards.

It was now dark, and he could not see a dozen yards before him. He was fond of darkness; it contained mysterious possibilities, he had been heard to say. There was an ineffable charm in the stillness which encompassed him, and he enjoyed it to its full. There were cottages here and there, lying back from the road, but no light or movement in them; the inmates were asleep. Soft sighs proceeded from the drowsy trees, and slender boughs waved solemnly, while the only sounds from the farmyards were, at intervals, a muffled shaking of wings, and the barking of dogs whom his footsteps had aroused. As he passed a high wooden gate, through the bars of which he could dimly discern a line of tall trees standing like sentinels of the night, the perfume of limes was wafted towards him, and he softly breathed the words:

"My wife!"

He yielded up his senses to the thralldom of a delicious languor, in which the only image was that of the fair and beautiful woman who was waiting for him in their holiday home. Had any person seen the tender light in his eyes, and heard the tone in which the words were whispered, he could not have doubted that the woman they referred to was passionately adored.

Not for long was he permitted to muse upon the image of a being the thought of whom appeared to transform a passionless man into an ardent lover; a harsher interruption than sweet perfume floating on a breeze recalled him to his sterner self.

"Stop!"

"For what reason?"

"The best. Money!"

The summons proceeded from one in whom, as his voice betrayed, the worst passions were dominant.

CHAPTER III
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

There lived not in the world a man more fearless than the Advocate. At this threatening demand, which meant violence, perhaps murder, he exhibited as little trepidation as he would have done at an acquaintance asking him, in broad daylight, for a pinch of snuff. Indeed, he was so perfectly unembarrassed that his voice assumed a lightness foreign to its usual serious tones. "Money, my friend! How much?"

"All you've got."

"Terse, and to the point. If I refuse?"

"I am desperate. Look to yourself."

The Advocate smiled, and purposely deepened the airiness of his tones.

"This is a serious business, then?"

"You'll find it so, if you trifle with me."

"Are you hungry?"

"I am starving."

"You have a powerful voice for a starving man."

"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.