The House of the White Shadows. B. L. Farjeon

what I came here to tell you."

      "The Advocate intends to defend Gautran, who stands charged with the murder of the flower-girl."

      "You are a master worth serving. I have half a mind to give you back your franc."

      "Make it a whole mind, Fritz."

      "No; second thoughts are best. My pockets are not as warm as yours. They are not so well lined. How did you guess, Master Lamont?"

      "By means of a golden rule, an infallible rule, by the Rule of One--which, intelligibly interpreted to shallow minds--no offence, Fritz, I hope----"

      "Don't mind me, Master Lamont; I am a fool and used to hard knocks."

      "Then by the Rule of One, which means the rule of human nature--as, for example, that makes the drunkard stagger to the wine-shop and the sluggard to his bed--I guessed that the Advocate could not withstand so tempting a chance to prove the truth of the scriptural words that all men are liars. What will be palatable information to me is the manner in which the news has been received."

      "Heaven keep me from ever being so received! The Advocate has not added to the number of his friends. People are gazing at each other in amazement, and asking for reasons which none are able to give."

      "And his wife, Fritz, his wife?"

      "Takes as much interest in his doings as a bee does in the crawling of a snail."

      "Rogue, you have cheated me! How about one and one being one?"

      "There are marriages and marriages. This was not made in Heaven; when it came about there was a confusion in the pairing, and another couple are as badly off. There will be a natural end to both."

      "How brought about, fool?"

      "By your own rule, the rule of human nature."

      "When a jumper jumps, he first measures his distance with his eye. Do they quarrel?"

      "No."

      "Does she look coldly upon him, or he upon her?"

      "No."

      "Is there silence between them?"

      "No."

      "You are a bad jumper, Fritz. You have not measured your distance."

      "See, Master Lamont, I will prove it to you by a figure of speech. There travels from the south a flame of fire. There travels from the north a lump of snow. They meet. What happens? Either that the snow extinguishes the fire and it dies, or that the fire puts an end to the snow."

      "Fairly illustrated, Fritz. Fire and snow! Truly a most unfortunate conjunction."

      "She was in the mood to visit you yesterday had you lived a mile nearer the valley."

      "You were out together."

      "She and Dionetta were walking, and I met them and accompanied them. She spoke graciously to the villagers, and went into the cottages, and drank more than one cup of milk. She was sweeter than sugar, Master Lamont, and won the hearts of some of the women and of all the men. As for the children, they would have followed her to the world's end, I do believe, out of pure admiration. They carry now in their little heads the vision of the beautiful lady. Even Father Capel was struck by her beauty."

      "Priests are mortals, Fritz. On which side did you walk--next to my lady or Dionetta?"

      "I should be wrecked in a tempest. I sail only in quiet lakes."

      "And the maid--did she object to your walking close to her?--for you are other than I take you to be if you did not walk close."

      "Why should she object? Am I not a man? Women rather like fools."

      "How stands the pretty maid with her new mistress?"

      "In high favour, if one can judge from fingers."

      "Fritz, your wit resembles a tide that is for ever flowing. Favour me with your parable."

      "It is a delicate point to decide where actual love commences. Have you ever considered it, Master Lamont?"

      "Not deeply, fool. In my young days I was a mad-brain; you are a philosopher. Like a bee, I took what fell in my way, and did not puzzle myself or the flower with questions. Where love commences? In the heart."

      "No."

      "In the brain."

      "No."

      "In the eye."

      "No."

      "Where, then?"

      "In the finger-tips. Dionetta and I, walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder, our arms hanging down, brought into close contact our finger-tips. What wonder that they touched!"

      "Natural magnetism, Fritz."

      "With our finger-tips touching, we walked along, and if her heart palpitated as mine did, she must have experienced an inward commotion. Master Lamont, this is a confession for your ears only. I should be base and ungrateful to hide it from you."

      "Your confidence shall be respected."

      "It leads to an answer to your question as to how Dionetta stands with her new mistress. First the finger-tips, then the fingers, and her little hand was clasped in mine. It was then I felt the ring upon her finger."

      "Ah!"

      "Now, Dionetta never till yesterday owned a ring. I felt it, as a man who is curious would do, and suddenly her hand was snatched from mine. A moment or two afterwards, her hand was in mine again, but the ring was gone. A fine piece of conjuring. A man is no match for a woman in these small ways. To-day I saw her for about as long as I could count three. 'Who gave you the ring?' I asked. 'My lady,' she answered. 'Don't tell grandmother that I have got a ring.' Therefore, Master Lamont, Dionetta stands well with her mistress."

      "Logically carried out, Fritz. The saints prosper your wooing."

CHAPTER XII

       Table of Contents

THE STRUGGLE OF LOVE AND DUTY

       Table of Contents

      In his lonely room in the mountain hut in which he had taken up his quarters, Christian Almer sat writing. It was early morning; he had risen before the sun. During the past week he had struggled earnestly with the terror which oppressed him; his suffering had been great, but he believed he was conquering. The task he had imposed upon himself of setting his duty before him in clear terms afforded him consolation. The book in which he was writing contained the record of a love which had filled him with unrest, and threatened to bring dishonor into his life.

      * * * * * *

      "I thank Heaven," he wrote, "that I am calmer than I have been for several days. Separation has proved an inestimable blessing. The day may come when I shall look upon my love as dead, and shall be able to think of it as one thinks of a beloved being whom death has snatched away.

      "Even now, as I think of her, there is no fever in the thought. I have not betrayed my friend.

      "How would he regard me if he were acquainted with my mad passion--if he knew that the woman he adored looked upon him with aversion, and gave her love to the friend whom he trusted as a brother?

      "There was the error. To listen to her confession of love, and to make confession of my own.

      "That a man should so forget himself--should be so completely the slave of his passions!

      "How