House of the White Shadows — Book 2, Chapters 1-2

A LETTER FROM JOHN VANBRUGH

For a little while Gautran scarcely comprehended that he was at liberty to wander forth.

He had so completely given himself up as lost that he was stupefied by the announcement that his liberty was restored to him.

He gazed vacantly before him, and the announcement had to be twice repeated before he arrived at an understanding of its purport; then his attitude changed.

A spasm of joy passed into his face, followed immediately by a spasm of fear; those who observed him would indeed have been amazed had they known what was passing through his mind.

"Free, am I?"

he asked.

"You have been told so twice," a warder answered.

"It astonishes you.

Well, you are not the only one."

As the warders fell from his side he watched them warily, fearing they were setting a trap which might prove his destruction.

From where he stood he could not see the Advocate, who was preparing to depart.

Distasteful as the verdict was to every person in court, with the exception of Gautran and his counsel, those members of the legal profession who had not taken an active part in the trial were filled with professional admiration at the skill the Advocate had displayed.

An eminent member of the bar remarked to him: "It is a veritable triumph, the greatest and most surprising I have ever witnessed.

None but yourself could have accomplished it.

Yet I cannot believe in the man's innocence."

This lawyer held too high and honourable a position for the Advocate to remain silent.

"The man is innocent," he said.

"You know him to be so?"

"I know him to be so.

I stake my reputation upon it."

"You almost convince me.

It would be fatal to any reputation were Gautran, after what has passed, to be proved guilty.

But that, of course, is impossible."

"Quite impossible," said the Advocate somewhat haughtily.

"Exactly so.

There can be no room for doubt, after your statement that you know the man to be innocent."

With no wish to continue the conversation, the Advocate turned to leave the court when an officer presented himself.

"He wishes to speak to you, sir."

"He!

Who?"

asked the Advocate.

He was impatient to be gone, his interest at the trial being at an end.

The victory was gained; there was nothing more to be done.

"The prisoner, sir.

He desired me to tell you."

"The prisoner!"

said the Advocate.

"You forget.

The man is free."

He walked towards Gautran, and for the first time during the long days of the trial gazed directly in his client's face.

The magnetism in the Advocate's eyes arrested Gautran's speech.

His own dilated, and he appeared to forget what he had intended to say.

They looked at each other in silence for a few moments, the expression on the face of the Advocate cold, keen, and searching, that on the face of Gautran as of a man entranced; and then the Advocate turned sternly away, without a word having been spoken between them.

When Gautran looked again for his defender he was gone.

Gautran still lingered; the court was nearly empty.

"Be off," said the warder, who had been his chief attendant in his cell; "we have done with you for the present."

But Gautran made no effort to leave.

The warder laid his hand upon the ruffian's shoulder, with the intention of expelling him from the court.

Gautran shook him off with the snarl of a wild beast.

"Touch me again," he cried, "and I'll strangle you!

I can do it easily enough--two of you at a time!"

And, indeed, so ferocious was his manner that it seemed as if he were disposed to carry his threat into execution.

"Women are more in your way," said the warder tauntingly.

"Look you, Gautran; if Madeline had been my daughter, your life would not be worth an hour's purchase, despite the verdict gained by your clever Advocate."

"You would not dare to say that to me if you and I were alone," retorted Gautran, scowling at the sullen faces of the officers about him.

"Away with you!"

exclaimed the warder, "at once, or we will throw you into the streets!"

"I will go when I get my property."

"What property?"

"The knife you took from me when you dragged me to prison.

I don't move without it."

They deemed it best to comply with this demand, the right being on his side, and his knife was restored to him.

It was an old knife, with a keen blade and a stout handle, and it opened and closed with a sharp click.

Gautran tried it three or four times with savage satisfaction and then, with another interchange of threatening glances, he slunk from the court.

The Advocate's carriage was at the door, ready to convey him to Christian Almer's villa.

But after his long confinement in the close court, he felt the need of physical exercise, and he dismissed his coachman, saying he intended to walk home.

As the carriage drove off, a person plucked him by the sleeve, and pressed a letter into his hand.

It was dusk, and the Advocate, although he looked quickly around, could not discover the giver.

His sight was short and strong, and standing beneath the light of a street-lamp he opened and read the letter.

"Old Friend, "It will doubtless surprise you to see my handwriting, it is so long since we met.

The sight of it may displease you, but that is of small consequence to me.

When a man is in a desperate strait, he is occasionally driven to desperate courses.

When needs must, as you are aware, the devil drives.

I have been but an hour in Geneva, and I have heard of your victory; I congratulate you upon it.

I must see you--soon.

I know the House of White Shadows in the pretty valley yonder.

At a short distance from the gates--but far enough off, and so situated as to enable a man to hide with safety if he desires--is a hill upon which I will wait for your signal to come to you, which shall be the waving of a white handkerchief from your study window.

At midnight and alone will be best.

You see how ready I am to oblige you.

I shall wait till sunrise for the signal.

If you are too busy to-night, let it be tomorrow night, or the next, or any night this week.

"I am, as ever, your friend, "John Vanbrugh."

The Advocate placed the letter in his pocket, and murmured as he walked through the streets of Geneva: "John Vanbrugh!

Has he risen from his grave?

He would see me at midnight and alone!

He must be mad, or drunk, to make such a request.

He may keep his vigil, undisturbed.

Of such a friendship there can be no renewal.

The gulf that separates us is too wide to be bridged over by sentimental memories.

John Vanbrugh, the vagabond!

I can imagine him, and the depth to which he has sunk.

Every man must bear the consequences of his actions.

Let him bear his, and make the best, or the worst, of them."

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!"