The House of the White Shadows

CHAPTER IX

CHRISTIAN ALMER RECEIVES TWO VISITORS

Upon Christian Almer's desk lay the note written by Adelaide. He saw it the moment he entered the room, and knew, therefore, that some person had called during his absence. At first he thought it must have been the Advocate, who, not finding him in his room, had left the note for him; but as he opened the envelope a faint perfume floated from it.

"It is from Adelaide," he murmured. "How often and how vainly have I warned her!"

He read the note:

"Dear Christian:

"I cannot sleep until I wish you good-night, with no horrid people around us. Let me see you for one minute only.

To comply with her request at such an hour would be simple folly; infatuated as he was he would not deliberately commit himself to such an act.

"Surely she cannot have been here," he thought. "But if another hand placed this note upon my desk, another person must share the secret which it is imperative should never be revealed. I must be firm with her. There must be an end to this imprudence. Fortunately there is no place in Edward's nature for suspicion."

He blushed with shame at the unworthy thought. Five years ago, could he have seen-he who up to that time never had stooped to meanness and deceit-the position in which he now stood, he would have rejected the mere suspicion of its possibility with indignation. But by what fatally easy steps had he reached it!

In the midst of these reflections his heart almost stopped beating at the sound of a light footstep without. He listened, and heard a soft tapping on the door, not with the knuckles, but with the finger-tips; he opened the door, and Adelaide stood smiling before him.

With her finger at her lips she stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her.

"It would not do for me to be seen," she whispered. "Do not be alarmed; I shall not be here longer than one little minute. I have only come to wish you good-night. Give me a chair, or I shall sink to the ground. I am really very, very frightened. Quick; bring me a chair. Do you not see how weak I am?"

He drew a chair towards Her, and she sank languidly into it.

"As you would not come to me," she said, "I was compelled to come to you."

"Compelled!" he said.

They spoke in low tones, fearful lest their voices should travel beyond the room.

"Yes, compelled. I was urged by a spirit."

His face grew white. "A spirit!"

"How you echo me, Christian. Yes, by a spirit, to which you yourself shall give a name. Shall we call it a spirit of restlessness, or jealousy, or love?" She gazed at him with an arch smile.

"Adelaide," he said, "your imprudence will ruin us."

"Nonsense, Christian, nonsense," she said lightly; "ruined because I happened to utter one little word! To be sure I ought, so as to prove myself an apt pupil, to put a longer word before it, and call it platonic love. How unreasonable you are! What harm is there in our having a moment's chat? We are old friends, are we not? No, I will not let you interrupt me; I know what you are going to say. You are going to say, Think of the hour! I decline to think of the hour. I think of nothing but you. And instead of looking delighted, as you should do, as any other man would do, there you stand as serious as an owl. Now, answer me, sir. Why did you not come to me the moment you received my note?"

"I had but just read it when you tapped at my door."

"I forgive you. Where have you been? With the Advocate?"

"No; I have been walking in the grounds."

"You saw nothing, Christian?" she asked with a little shiver.

"Nothing to alarm or disturb me."

"There was a light in the Advocate's study, was there not?"

"Yes."

"He will remain up late, and then he will retire to his room. My life is a very bright and beautiful life with him. He is so tender in his ways-so fond of pleasure-pays me so much attention, and such compliments-is so light-hearted and joyous-sings to me, dances with me! Oh, you don't know him, you don't indeed. I remember asking him to join in a cotillon; you should have seen the look he gave me!" She laughed out loud, and clapped her hand on her mouth to stifle the sound. "I wonder whether he was ever young, like you and me. What a wonderful child he must have been-with scientific toys, and books always under his arm-yes, a wonderful child, holding in disdain little girls who wished him to join in their innocent games. What is your real opinion of him, Christian?"

"It pains me to hear you speak of him in that way."

"It should please you; but men are never satisfied. I speak lightly, do I not, but there are moments when I shudder at my fate. Confess, it is not a happy one."

"It is not," he replied, after a pause, "but if I had not crossed your path, life would be full of joy for you."

It was not this he intended to say, but there was such compelling power in her lightest words that his very thoughts seemed to be under her dominion.

"There would have been no joy in my life," she said, "without you. We will not discuss it. What is, is. Sometimes when I think of things they make my head ache. Then I say, I will think of them no longer. If everybody did the same, would not this world be a great deal pleasanter than it is? Oh, you must not forget what the Advocate called me to-night in your presence-a philosopher in petticoats. Don't you see that even he is on my side, though it is against himself? Of course one can't help respecting him. He is a very learned man. He should have married a very learned woman. What a pity it is that I am not wise! But that is not my fault. I hate learning, I hate science, I hate theories. What is the good of them? They say, this is not right, that is not right. And all we poor creatures can do is to look on in a state of bewilderment, and wonder what they mean. If people would only let the world alone, they would find it a very beautiful world. But they will not let it alone; they will meddle. A flower, now-is it not sweet-is it not enough that it is sent to give us pleasure? But these disagreeable people say, 'Of what is this flower composed-is it as good as other flowers-has it qualities, and what qualities?' What do I care? I put it in my hair, and I am happy because it becomes me, because it is pretty, because Nature sent it to me to enjoy. Why, I have actually made you smile!"

"Because there is a great deal of natural wisdom in what you are saying-"

"Natural wisdom! There now, does it not prove I am right? Thank you, Christian. It comes to you to say exactly the right thing exactly at the right time. I shall begin to feel proud."

"And," continued Almer, "if you were only to talk to me like that in the middle of the day instead of the middle of the night-"

She interrupted him again:

"You have undone it all with your 'ifs.' What does it matter if it is in the middle of the day or the middle of the night? What is right, is right, is it not, without thinking of the time? Don't get disagreeable; but indeed I will not allow you to be anything but nice to me. You have made me forget everything I was going to say."

"Except one thing," he said gravely, "which you came to say, 'Good-night.'"

"The minute is not gone yet," she said with a silvery laugh.

"Many minutes, many minutes," he said helplessly, "and every minute is fraught with danger."

"I will protect you," she said with supreme assurance. "Do not fear. I see quite plainly that if there is a dragon to kill I shall have to be the St. George. Well, I am ready. Danger is sweet when you are with me."

He was powerless against her; he resigned himself to his fate.

"Who brought your letter to my room?" he asked. "Dionetta."

"Have you confided in her?"

"She knows nothing, and she is devoted to me. If the simple maid thought of the letter at all-as to what was in it, I mean-she thought, of course, that it was something I wanted you to do for me to-morrow, and had forgotten to tell you. But even here I was prudent, although you do not give me credit for prudence. I made her promise not to tell a soul, not even her grandmother, that queer, good old Mother Denise, that she had taken a letter from me to you. She did more than promise-she swore she would not tell. I bribed her, Christian-I gave her things, and to-night I gave her a pair of earrings. You should have witnessed her delight! I would wager that she is at this moment no more asleep than I am. She is looking at herself in the glass, shaking her pretty little head to make the diamonds glisten."

"Diamonds, Adelaide! A simple maid like Dionetta with diamond earrings! What will the folks say?"

"Oh, they all know I am fond of her-"

They started to their feet with a simultaneous movement.

"Footsteps!" whispered Almer.

"The Advocate's," said Adelaide, and she glided to the door, and turned the key as softly as if it were made of velvet.

"He will see a light in the room," said Christian. "He has come to talk with me. What shall we do?"

She gazed at him with a bright smile. His face was white with apprehension; hers, red with excitement and exaltation.

"I am St. George," she whispered; "but really there is no dragon to kill; we have only to send him to sleep. Of course you must see him. I will conceal myself in the inner room, and you will lock me in, and put the key in your pocket, so that I shall be quite safe. Do not be uneasy about me; I can amuse myself with books and pictures, and I will turn over the leaves so quietly that even a butterfly would not be disturbed. And when the dragon is gone I will run away immediately. I am almost sorry I came, it has distressed you so."

She kissed the tips of her fingers to him, and entered the adjoining room. Then, turning the key in the door Christian Almer admitted the Advocate.

CHAPTER X

A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE WEB

Pause we here a moment, and contemplate the threads of the web which Chance, Fate, or Retribution was weaving round this man.

With the exception of a few idle weeks in his youth, his life had been a life of honour and renown. His ambition was a worthy one, and success had not been attained without unwearying labour and devotion. Close study and application, zeal, earnestness, unflagging industry, these were the steps in the ladder he had climbed. Had it not been for his keen intellect these qualities would not have been sufficient to conduct him to the goal he had in view. Good luck is not to be despised, but unless it is allied with brain power of a high order only an ephemeral success can be achieved.

Never, to outward appearance, was a great reputation more stable or better deserved. His wonderful talents, and the victories he had gained in the face of formidable odds, had destroyed all the petty jealousies with which he had to cope in the outset of his career, and he stood now upon a lofty pinnacle, acknowledged by all as a master in his craft. Wealth and distinction were his, and higher honours lay within his grasp; and, in addition, he had won for his wife one of the most beautiful of women. It seemed as if the world had nothing to add to his happiness.

And yet destruction stared him in the face. The fabric he had raised, on a foundation so secure that it appeared as if nothing could shake it, was tottering, and might fall, destroying him and all he had worked for in the ruins.

He stood at the door of the only man in the world to whom he had given the full measure of his friendship. With all the strength of his nature he believed in Christian Almer. In the gravest crisis of his life he would have called this friend to his side, and would have placed in his hands, without hesitation, his life, his reputation, and his honour. To Almer, in their conversation, he had revealed what may be termed his inner life, that life the workings of which were concealed from all other men. And in this friend's chamber his wife was concealed; and dishonour hung over him by the slenderest thread. Not only dishonour, but unutterable grief, for he loved this woman with a most complete undoubting love. Little time had he for dalliance; but he believed in his wife implicitly. His trust in her was a perfect trust.

Within the room at the door of which he was waiting, stood his one friend, with white face and guilty conscience, about to admit him and grasp his hand. Had the heart of this friend been laid bare to him, he would have shrunk from it in horror and loathing, and from that moment to the last moment of his life the sentiment of friendship would have been to him the bitterest mockery and delusion with which man could be cursed.

Not five yards from where he stood lay Pierre Lamont, listening and watching for proofs of the perfidy which would bring disgrace upon him-which would cause men and women to speak of him in terms of derision for his blindness and scorn for his weakness-which would make a byeword of him-of him, the great Advocate, who had played his part in many celebrated cases in which woman's faithlessness and disloyalty were the prominent features-and which would cause him to regard the sentiment of love as the falsest delusion with which mankind was ever afflicted.

In the study he had left but a few minutes since slept a man who, in a certain sense, claimed comradeship with him, a man whom he had championed and set free, a self-confessed murderer, a wretch so vile that he had fled from him in horror at the act he had himself accomplished.

And in the open air, upon a hill, a hundred yards from the House of White Shadows, lay John Vanbrugh, a friend of his youth, a man disgraced by his career, watching for the signal which would warrant him in coming forward and divulging what was in his mind. If what John Vanbrugh had disclosed in his mutterings during his lonely watch was true, he held in his hands the key to a mystery, which, revealed, would overwhelm the Advocate with shame and infamy.

Thus was he threatened on all sides by friend and foe alike.

CHAPTER XI

A CRISIS

"Have I disturbed you, Christian?" asked the Advocate, entering the room. "I hesitated a moment or two, hearing no sound, but seeing your lamp was lighted, I thought you were up, and might be expecting me."

"I had an idea you would come," said Almer, with a feeling of relief at the Advocate's statement that he had heard no sound; and then he said, so that he might be certain of his ground, "You have not been to my room before to-night?"

"No; for the last two hours I have not left my study. Half an hour's converse with you will do me good. I am terribly jaded."

"The reaction of the excitement of the long trial in which you have been engaged."

"Probably; though I have endured fatigue as great without feeling as jaded as I do now."

"You must take rest. Your doctors who prescribed repose for you would be angry if they were aware of the strain you have put upon your mind."

"They do know. The physician I place the greatest faith in writes to me that I must have been mad to have undertaken Gautran's defence. It might have been better if I had not entered into that trial."

"You have one consolation. Defended by a lawyer less eminent than yourself, an unfortunate man might have been convicted of a crime he did not commit."

"Yes," said the Advocate slowly, "that is true."

"You compel admiration, Edward. With frightful odds against you, with the public voice against you, you voluntarily engage in a contest from which nothing is to be gained, and come out triumphant. I do not envy the feelings of the lawyers on the other side."

"At least, Christian, as you have said, they have the public voice with them."

"And you, Edward, have justice on your side, and the consciousness of right. The higher height is yours; you must regard these narrower minds with a feeling of pity."

"I have no feeling whatever for them; they do not trouble me. Christian, we will quit the subject of Gautran; you can well understand that I have had enough of him. Let us speak of yourself. I am an older man than you, and there is something of a fatherly interest in the friendship I entertain for you. Since my marriage I have sometimes thought if I had a son I should have been pleased if his nature resembled yours, and if I had a daughter it would be in the hands of such a man as yourself I should wish to place her happiness."

"You esteem me too highly," said Almer, in a tone of sadness.

"I esteem you as you deserve, friend. Within your nature are possibilities you do not recognise. It is needful to be bold in this world, Christian; not arrogant, or over-confident, or vain-glorious, but modestly bold. Unless a man assert himself his powers will lie dormant; and not to use the gifts with which we are endowed is a distinct reproach upon us. I have heard able men say it is a crime to neglect our powers, for great gifts are bestowed upon us for others' good as well as for our own. Besides, it is healthy in every way to lead a busy life, to set our minds upon the accomplishment of certain tasks. If we fail-well, failure is very often more honourable than success. We have at least striven to mount the hill which rises above the pettiness and selfishness of our everyday life; we have at least proved ourselves worthy of the spiritual influences which prompt the execution of noble deeds. You did not reply to the letter I sent you in the mountains; but Adelaide heard from you, and that is sufficient. Sufficient, also, that you are here with us, and that we know we have a true friend in the house. You were many weeks in the mountains."

"Yes."

"Were you engaged on any work? Did you paint or write?"

"I made a few sketches, which pleased me one day and displeased me the next, so I tore them up and threw them away. There is enough indifferent work in the world."

"Nothing short of perfection will satisfy you," said the Advocate with a serious smile; "but some men must march in the ranks."

"I am not worthy even of that position," said Almer moodily.

The Advocate regarded him with thoughtful eyes.

"If your mind is not deeply reflective, if your power of observation applies only to the surface of things, you are capable of imparting what some call tenderness and I call soul, to every subject which presents itself to you. I have detected this in your letters and conversation. It is a valuable quality. I grant that you may be unfit to cope with practical matters, but in your study you would be able to produce works which would charm if they did not instruct. There is in you a heart instinct which, as it forms part of your nature, would display itself in everything you wrote."

"Useless, Edward, useless! My father was an author; it brought him no happiness."

"How do you know? It may have afforded him consolation, and that is happiness. But I was not speaking of happiness. The true artist does not look to results. He has only one aim and one desire-to produce a perfect work. His task being done-not that he produces a perfect work, but the ennoblement lies in the aspiration and the earnest application-that being done, he has accomplished something worthy, whatever its degree of excellence. The day upon which a man first devotes himself to such labour he awakes within his being a new and delightful life, the life of creative thought. Fresh wonders continually reveal themselves-quaint suggestions, exquisite fancies, and he makes use of them according to the strength of his intellect. He enriches the world."

"And if he is a poor man, starves."

"Maybe; but he wears the crown. You, however, are rich."

"Nothing to be grateful for. I had no incentive to effort, therefore I stand to-day an idle, aimless man. You have spoken of books. When I looked at crowded bookshelves, I should blush at the thought of adding to them any rubbish of my own creation."

"I find no fault with you for that. Blush if you like-but work, produce."

"And let the world call me vain and presumptuous."

"Give it the chance of judging; it may be the other way. Perhaps the greatest difficulty we have to encounter in life is in the discovery of that kind of work for which we are best fitted. Fortunate the man who gravitates to it naturally, and who, having the capacity to become a fine shoemaker, is not clapped upon a watchmaker's bench instead of a cobbler's stool. Being fitted, he is certain to acquire some kind of distinction. Believe me, Christian, it is not out of idleness, or for the mere purpose of making conversation that I open up this subject. It would afford me great pleasure if you were in a more settled frame of mind. You cannot disguise from me that you are uneasy, perhaps unhappy. I see it this very moment in your wandering glances, and in the difficulty you experience in fixing your attention upon what I am saying. You are not satisfied with yourself. You have probably arrived at that stage when a man questions himself as to what is before him-when he reviews the past, and discovers that he has allowed the years to slip by without having made an effort to use them to a worthy end. You ask yourself, 'Is it for this I am here? Are there not certain duties which I ought to perform? If I allow the future to slip away as the past has done, without having accomplished a man's work in the world, I shall find myself one day an old man, of whom it may be said, "He lived only for himself; he had no thought, no desire beyond himself; the struggles of humanity, the advance of civilisation, the progress and development of thought which have effected such marvellous changes in the aspects of society, the exposing of error-these things touched him not; he bore no part in them, but stood idly by, a careless observer, whose only ambition it was to utilise the hours to his own selfish pleasures."' A heavy charge, Christian. What you want is occupation. Politics-your inclinations do not lead that way; trade is abhorrent to you. You are not sufficiently frivolous to develop into a butterfly leader of fashion. Law is distasteful to you. Science demands qualities which you do not possess. For a literary life you are specially adapted. I say to you, turn your attention to it for a while. If it disappoint you, it is easy to relinquish it. It will be but an attempt made in the right direction. But understand, Christian, without earnestness, without devotion, without application, it will be useless to make the attempt."