House of the White Shadows — Book 5, Chapters 4-6
HEAVEN'S JUDGMENT
Within half an hour of midnight he arrived at the hill, and saw the shadow of a man who was leaning against a tree.
Gautran had been walking for nearly three hours, and during the whole time the storm of thunder and lightning had continued at intervals, now retreating, now advancing; but its full force had been spent many miles away, and it did not seem likely to approach much nearer to the House of White Shadows.
"The man is there," muttered Gautran, "with his face still towards the Advocate's window.
What is his purpose?"
He was curious about that, too, and thought he would endeavour to ferret it out.
It might be useful to him in the future, for it concerned the Advocate.
There was plenty of time before him to accomplish his own murderous design.
John Vanbrugh heard Gautran's footsteps.
"Who comes this way?"
he cried.
"A friend," replied Gautran.
"That is easily said," cried Vanbrugh.
"I am not in a trustful mood.
Hold off a bit, or I may do you mischief."
"Do you not know me?"
asked Gautran, approaching closer, and measuring himself with the dark form of Vanbrugh.
They were of exactly the same height.
"What, Gautran!"
exclaimed Vanbrugh in a gay tone.
"Yes, Gautran."
"Welcome, friend, welcome," said Vanbrugh, with a laugh.
"Give me your hand.
Veritable flesh and blood.
You have a powerful grip, Gautran.
I
thought we should meet again.
What caused you to make yourself scarce so suddenly last night?
You vanished like a cloud."
"I had business to do.
Have you got any more of that brandy about you?"
"I am not sure whether you deserve it.
After emptying my flask, you may make off again.
A poor return for hospitality, my friend."
"I promise to remain with you--it is what I came for--if you give me brandy."
"I take your word," said Vanbrugh, producing a flask.
"Drink, but not too greedily."
Gautran took a long draught and returned the flask, saying, "You have no food, I suppose?"
"Why, yes, I have.
Warned by previous experiences I supplied myself liberally for this night's watch.
I'll not refuse you, though I spent my last franc on it."
"Ah," said Gautran, with some eagerness, for an amicable exchange of clothing would render the more villainous part of his task easier of accomplishment, "you are poor, then?"
"Poor?
Yes, but not for long, Gautran.
The days of full purses are coming.
Here is the food.
Eat, rogue, eat.
It is honest bread and meat, bought and paid for; but none the sweeter for that.
We know which fruit is the sweetest.
So you had business to do when you took French leave of me!
How runs the matter?
I had just pointed out the Advocate's window to you--your own special Advocate, my friend, to whom you have so much reason to be grateful--when you disappeared like an arrow from a bow.
What follows then?
That, leaving me so abruptly, your business was important, and that it concerned the Advocate.
Right or wrong, rogue?"
"Right," replied Gautran, as he devoured the food.
"Come, that's candid of you, and spoken like a friend.
You did not know, before I informed you, that he lived in the villa yonder?"
"I did not."
"I begin to have hopes of you.
And learning it from me, you made up your mind on the spur of the moment--your business being so important--to pay him a friendly visit, despite the strangeness of the hour for a familiar call?"
"You've hit it," said Gautran.
John Vanbrugh pondered a while.
These direct answers, given without hesitation, puzzled him.
He had expected to meet with prevarication, and he was receiving, instead, straightforward confidence.
"You are not afraid," he said, "to speak the truth to me, Gautran?"
"I am not."
"But I am a stranger to you."
"That's true."
"Why, then, do you confide in me?"
It was Gautran's turn now to pause, but he soon replied, with a sinister look which John Vanbrugh, in the darkness, could not see: "Because, after what passes between us this night, I am sure you will not betray me."
"Good," said Vanbrugh; "then it is plain you sought me deliberately, because you think I can in some way serve you."
"Yes, because you can in some way serve me--that is why I am here."
"Then you intend to hide nothing from me?"
"Nothing--for the reason I have given."
A flash of lightning seemed to strike the spot on which he and Gautran were conversing, and he waited for the thunder.
It came--long, deep, and threatening.
"There is a terrible storm somewhere," he said.
"It does not matter," rejoined Gautran, with a shudder, "so long as a man is not alone.
Don't mind my coming so close.
I have walked many a mile to find you.
I have not a friend in the world but you."
"Not even the Advocate?"
"Not even him.
He will see me no more."
"He told you that last night?"
"Yes."
"But how did you get to him, Gautran?
You did not enter by the gates."
"No; I dropped over the wall at the back.
Tell me.
It is but fair; I answer you honestly enough.
What are you watching his house for?
A man does not do as you are doing, on such black nights as this, for idle pastime."
"No, indeed, Gautran!
I also have business with him.
And strangely enough, you, whom I met in the flesh for the first time within these last twenty-four hours, are indirectly concerned in it."
"Am I?
Strange enough, as you say.
But it will not matter after to-night."
Some hidden meaning in Gautran's tone struck warningly upon John Vanbrugh, and caused him to bestow a clearer observance upon Gautran's movements from this moment.
"There is a thing I wish to know, Gautran," he said.
"Between vagabonds like ourselves there is no need for concealment.
It is a delicate question, but you have been so frank with me that I will venture to ask it.
Besides, there are no witnesses, and you will not, therefore, incriminate yourself.
This girl, Madeline, whose spirit follows you----" Vanbrugh hesitated.
The question he was about to ask trembled on his lips, and he scarcely knew how to give it shape in words that would not provoke an outbreak on the part of Gautran.
He had no desire to come into open collision with this ruffian, of whose designs upon himself he was inwardly warned.
Gautran, with brutal recklessness, assisted him.
"You want to know if I killed her?"
"Why, yes--though you put it roughly."
"What matter?
Well, then, she died at my hands."
John Vanbrugh recoiled from the murderer in horror, and in a suppressed tone asked: "When the Advocate defended you, did he know you were guilty?"
"Aye.
We kept the secret to ourselves.
It was cleverly worked, was it not?"
"And last night," continued John Vanbrugh, "he received you in his study?"
"Aye--and gave me liquor, and food, and money.
Listen to it."
He rattled the gold pieces in the palms of his hands.
"Look you.
I have answered questions enough.
I answer no more for a while.
It is my turn now."
"Proceed, Gautran," said Vanbrugh; "I may satisfy you or not, according to my whim."
"You'll satisfy me, or I'll know the reason why.
There is no harm in what I am going to say.
You are a stranger in these parts--there is no offence in that, is there?"
"None.
Yes, I am a stranger in these parts.
Heavens!
what a flash!
The storm is coming nearer."
"All the better.
You will hardly believe that I have been bothering myself about the colour of your hair.
I hate red-haired men.
Yours, now.
Is there any offence in asking the colour of it?"
"None.
My hair is black."
Gautran's eyes glittered and a flash of lightning illuminated his face, and revealed to Vanbrugh the savage and ruthless look which shone there.
"And your height and build, about the same as mine," said Gautran.
"Let us strike a bargain.
I have gold--you have none.
I have taken a fancy to your clothes; I will buy them of you.
Two gold pieces in exchange for them, and mine thrown in."
"The clothes of a murderer," said Vanbrugh, slowly retreating as Gautran advanced upon him.
"Thank you for nothing.
Not for two hundred gold pieces, poor as I am.
Keep off.
Do not come so near to me."
"Why not?
You are no better than I. Three gold pieces!
That should content you."
"You have my answer, Gautran.
Leave me, I have had enough of you."
"You will have had more than enough before I have done with you," said Gautran, and Vanbrugh was satisfied now, from the man's brutal tones, that it was a deadly foe who stood within a few inches of him, "if you do not do as I bid you.
Say, done and done; you had better.
By fair means or foul I mean to have what I want."
"Not by fair means, you murderous villain.
Be warned.
I am on my guard."
"If you will have it, then!"
cried Gautran, and with a savage shout he threw himself upon Vanbrugh.
So sudden and fierce was the attack that Vanbrugh could not escape from it; but although he was no match for Gautran in strength, he had had, in former years, some experience in wrestling which came to his aid now in this terrible crisis.
The struggle that ensued was prolonged and deadly, and while the men were locked in each other's arms, the storm broke immediately over their heads.
The thunder pealed above them, the lightning played about their forms.
"You villain!"
gasped Vanbrugh, as he felt himself growing weaker.
"Have you been paid by the Advocate to do this deed?"
"Yes," answered Gautran, between his clenched teeth; "he is the fiend's agent, and I am his!
He bade me kill you.
Your last moment has come!"
"Not yet," cried Vanbrugh, and by a supreme and despairing effort he threw Gautran clear from him, and stood again on the defensive.
Simultaneously with the movement a flash of forked lightning struck the tree against which Vanbrugh had been leaning when Gautran first accosted him, and cleft it in twain; and as Gautran was about to spring forward, a huge mass of timber fell upon him with fatal force, and bore him to the earth--where he lay imprisoned, crushed and bleeding to death.
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.
