The House of Whispers

by William Le Queux

  THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS

  By

  WILLIAM LE QUEUX

  1910

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ITHE LAIRD OF GLENCARDINE

  CHAPTER IIFROM OUT THE NIGHT

  CHAPTER IIISEALS OF DESTINY

  CHAPTER IVSOMETHING CONCERNING JAMES FLOCKART

  CHAPTER VTHE MURIES OF CONNACHAN

  CHAPTER VICONCERNS GABRIELLE'S SECRET

  CHAPTER VIICONTAINS CURIOUS CONFIDENCES

  CHAPTER VIIICASTING THE BAIT

  CHAPTER IXREVEALS A MYSTERIOUS BUSINESS

  CHAPTER XDECLARES A WOMAN'S LOVE

  CHAPTER XICONCERNS THE WHISPERS

  CHAPTER XIIEXPLAINS SOME CURIOUS FACTS

  CHAPTER XIIIWHAT FLOCKART FORESAW

  CHAPTER XIVCONCERNS THE CURSE OF THE CARDINAL

  CHAPTER XVFOLLOWS FLOCKART'S FORTUNES

  CHAPTER XVISHOWS A GIRL'S BONDAGE

  CHAPTER XVIIDESCRIBES A FRENCHMAN'S VISIT

  CHAPTER XVIIIREVEALS THE SPY

  CHAPTER XIXSHOWS GABRIELLE DEFIANT

  CHAPTER XXTELLS OF FLOCKART'S TRIUMPH

  CHAPTER XXITHROUGH THE MISTS

  CHAPTER XXIIBY THE MEDITERRANEAN

  CHAPTER XXIIIWHICH SHOWS A SHABBY FOREIGNER

  CHAPTER XXIV"WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK"

  CHAPTER XXVSHOWS GABRIELLE IN EXILE

  CHAPTER XXVITHE VELVET PAW

  CHAPTER XXVIIBETRAYS THE BOND

  CHAPTER XXVIIITHE WHISPERS AGAIN

  CHAPTER XXIXCONTAINS A FURTHER MYSTERY

  CHAPTER XXXREVEALS SOMETHING TO HAMILTON

  CHAPTER XXXIDESCRIBES A CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE

  CHAPTER XXXIIOUTSIDE THE WINDOW

  CHAPTER XXXIIIIS ABOUT THE MAISON LENARD

  CHAPTER XXXIVSURPRISES MR. FLOCKART

  CHAPTER XXXVDISCLOSES A SECRET

  CHAPTER XXXVIIN WHICH GABRIELLE TELLS A STRANGE STORY

  CHAPTER XXXVIIINCREASES THE INTEREST

  CHAPTER XXXVIII"THAT MAN'S VOICE!"

  CHAPTER XXXIXCONTAINS THE CONCLUSION

  THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS

  CHAPTER I

  THE LAIRD OF GLENCARDINE

  "Why, what's the matter, child? Tell me."

  "Nothing, dad--really nothing."

  "But you are breathing hard; your hand trembles; your pulse beatsquickly. There's something amiss--I'm sure there is. Now, what is it?Come, no secrets."

  The girl, quickly snatching away her hand, answered with a forced laugh,"How absurd you really are, dear old dad! You're always fancyingsomething or other."

  "Because my senses of hearing and feeling are sharper and more developedthan those of other folk perhaps," replied the grey-bearded oldgentleman, as he turned his sharp-cut, grey, but expressionlesscountenance to the tall, sweet-faced girl standing beside his chair.

  No second glance was needed to realise the pitiful truth. The man seatedthere in his fine library, with the summer sunset slanting across thered carpet from the open French windows, was blind.

  Since his daughter Gabrielle had been a pretty, prattling child of nine,nursing her dolly, he had never looked upon her fair face. But he wasever as devoted to her as she to him.

  Surely his was a sad and lonely life. Within the last fifteen years orso great wealth had come to him; but, alas! he was unable to enjoy it.Until eleven years ago he had been a prominent figure in politics and insociety in London. He had sat in the House for one of the divisions ofHampshire, was a member of the Carlton, and one year he found his nameamong the Birthday Honours with a K.C.M.G. For him everybody predicted abrilliant future. The Press gave prominence to his speeches, and to hishouse in Park Street came Cabinet Ministers and most of the well-knownmen of his party. Indeed, it was an open secret in a certain circle thathe had been promised a seat in the Cabinet in the near future.

  Then, at the very moment of his popularity, a terrible tragedy hadoccurred. He was on the platform of the Albert Hall addressing a greatmeeting at which the Prime Minister was the principal speaker. Hisspeech was a brilliant one, and the applause had been vociferous. Fullof satisfaction, he drove home that night to Park Street; but nextmorning the report spread that his brilliant political career had ended.He had suddenly been stricken by blindness.

  In political circles and in the clubs the greatest consternation wascaused, and some strange gossip became rife.

  It was whispered in certain quarters that the affliction was notproduced by natural causes. In fact, it was a mystery, and one that hadnever been solved. The first oculists of Europe had peered into andtested his eyes, but all to no purpose. The sight had gone for ever.

  Therefore, full of bitter regrets at being thus compelled to renouncethe stress and storm of political life which he loved so well, Sir HenryHeyburn had gone into strict retirement at Glencardine, his beautifulold Perthshire home, visiting London but very seldom.

  He was essentially a man of mystery. Even in the days of his universalpopularity the source of his vast wealth was unknown. His father, thetenth Baronet, had been sadly impoverished by the depreciation ofagricultural property in Lincolnshire, and had ended his days in thegenteel quietude of the Albany. But Sir Henry, without betraying to theworld his methods, had in fifteen years amassed a fortune which peopleguessed must be considerably over a million sterling.

  From a life of strenuous activity he had, in one single hour, beendoomed to one of loneliness and inactivity. His friends sympathised, asindeed the whole British public had done; but in a month the tragicaffair and its attendant mysterious gossip had been forgotten, as intruth had the very name of Sir Henry Heyburn, whom the Prime Minister,though his political opponent, had one night designated in the House as"one of the most brilliant and talented young men who has ever sat uponthe Opposition benches."

  In his declining years the life of this man was a pitiful tragedy, hisfilmy eyes sightless, his thin white fingers ever eager and nervous, hishours full of deep thought and silent immobility. To him, what was thebenefit of that beautiful Perthshire castle which he had purchased fromLord Strathavon a year before his compulsory retirement? What was theuse of the old ancestral manor near Caistor in Lincolnshire, or thetown-house in Park Street, the snug hunting-box at Melton, or thebeautiful palm-shaded, flower-embowered villa overlooking the bluesouthern sea at San Remo? He remembered them all. He had misty visionsof their splendour and their luxury; but since his blindness he hadseldom, if ever, entered them. That big library up in Scotland in whichhe now sat was the room he preferred; and with his daughter Gabrielle tobear him company, to smooth his brow with her soft hand, to chatter andto gossip, he wished for no other companion. His life was of the past, ameteor that had flashed and had vanished for ever.

  "Tell me, child, what is troubling you?" he was asking in a calm, kindvoice, as he still held the girl's hand in his. The sweet scent of theroses from the garden beyond filled the room.

  A smart footman in livery opened the door at that moment, asking,"Stokes has just returned with the car from Perth, Sir Henry, and asksif you want him further at present."

  "No," replied his blind master. "Has he brought back her ladyship?"

  "Yes, Sir Henry," replied the man. "I believe he is taking her to theball over at Connachan to-night."

  "Oh, yes, of course. How foolish I am! I quite forgot," said the Baronetwith a slight sigh. "Very well, Hill."

  And the clean-shaven young man, with his bright buttons bearing thechevron _gules_ betwixt three boars' heads erased _sable_, of theHeyburns, bowed and withdrew.

  "I had quite forgotten the ball at Connachan, dear," exclaimed herfather, stretching out his thin white hand in search of hers again. "Ofcourse you are going?"

  "No, dad; I'm staying at home with you."

  "Staying at
home!" echoed Sir Henry. "Why, my dear Gabrielle, the firstyear you're out, and missing the best ball in the county! Certainly not.I'm all right. I shan't be lonely. A little box came this morning fromthe Professor, didn't it?"

  "Yes, dad."

  "Then I shall be able to spend the evening very well alone. TheProfessor has sent me what he promised the other day."

  "I've decided not to go," was the girl's firm reply.

  "I fear, dear, your mother will be very annoyed if you refuse," heremarked.

  "I shall risk that, dear old dad, and stay with you to-night. Pleaseallow me," she added persuasively, taking his hand in hers and bendingtill her red lips touched his white brow. "You have quite a lot to do,remember. A big packet of papers came from Paris this morning. I mustread them over to you."

  "But your mother, my dear! Your absence will be commented upon. Peoplewill gossip, you know."

  "There is but one person I care for, dad--yourself," laughed the girllightly.

  "Perhaps you're disappointed over a new frock or something, eh?"

  "Not at all. My frock came from town the day before yesterday. Elisedeclares it suits me admirably, and she's very hard to please, you know.It's white, trimmed with tiny roses."

  "A perfect dream, I expect," remarked the blind man, smiling. "I wish Icould see you in it, dear. I often wonder what you are like, now thatyou've grown to be a woman."

  "I'm like what I always have been, dad, I suppose," she laughed.

  "Yes, yes," he sighed, in pretence of being troubled. "Wilful as always.And--and," he faltered a moment later, "I often hear your dear deadmother's voice in yours." Then he was silent, and by the deep lines inhis brow she knew that he was thinking.

  Outside, in the high elms beyond the level, well-kept lawn, with itsgrey old sundial, the homecoming rooks were cawing prior to settlingdown for the night. No other sound broke the stillness of that quietsunset hour save the solemn ticking of the long, old-fashioned clock atthe farther end of the big, book-lined room, with its wide fireplace,great overmantel of carved stone with emblazoned arms, and its threelong windows of old stained glass which gave it a somewhatecclesiastical aspect.

  "Tell me, child," repeated Sir Henry at length, "what was it that upsetyou just now?"

  "Nothing, dad--unless--well, perhaps it's the heat. I felt rather unwellwhen I went out for my ride this morning," she answered with a franticattempt at excuse.

  The blind man was well aware that her reply was but a subterfuge.Little, however, did he dream the cause. Little did he know that a darkshadow had fallen upon the young girl's life--a shadow of evil.

  "Gabrielle," he said in a low, intense voice, "why aren't you open andfrank with me as you once used to be? Remember that you, my daughter,are my only friend!"

  Slim, dainty, and small-waisted, with a sweet, dimpled face, and blueeyes large and clear like a child's, a white throat, a well-poised head,and light-chestnut hair dressed low with a large black bow, shepresented the picture of happy, careless youth, her features soft andrefined, her half-bare arms well moulded, and hands delicate and white.She wore only one ornament--upon her left hand was a small signet-ringwith her monogram engraved, a gift from one of her governesses when achild, and now worn upon the little finger.

  That face was strikingly beautiful, it had been remarked more than oncein London; but any admiration only called forth the covert sneers ofLady Heyburn.

  "Why don't you tell me?" urged the blind man. "Why don't you tell me thetruth?" he protested.

  Her countenance changed when she heard his words. In her blue eyes was alook of abject fear. Her left hand was tightly clenched and her mouthset hard, as though in resolution.

  "I really don't know what you mean, dad," she responded with a hollowlaugh. "You have such strange fancies nowadays."

  "Strange fancies, child!" echoed the afflicted man, lifting his grey,expressionless face to hers. "A blind man has always vague, suspicious,and black forebodings engendered by the darkness and loneliness of hislife. I am no exception," he sighed. "I think ever of themight-have-beens."

  "No, dear," exclaimed the girl, bending until her lips touched his whitebrow softly. "Forget it all, dear old dad. Surely your days here, withme, quiet and healthful in this beautiful Perthshire, are better, betterby far, than if you had been a politician up in London, ever struggling,ever speaking, and ever bearing the long hours at the House and theeternal stress of Parliamentary life?"

  "Yes, yes," he said, just a trifle impatiently. "It is not that. I don'tregret that I had to retire, except--well, except for your sake perhaps,dear."

  "For my sake! How?"

  "Because, had I been a member of this Cabinet--which some of my friendspredicted--you would have had the chance of a good marriage. But buriedas you are down here instead, what chances have you?"

  "I want no chance, dad," replied the girl. "I shall never marry."

  A painful thought crossed the old man's mind, being mirrored upon hisbrow by the deep lines which puckered there for a few brief moments."Well," he exclaimed, smiling, "that's surely no reason why you shouldnot go to the ball at Connachan to-night."

  "I have my duty to perform, dad; my duty is to remain with you," shesaid decisively. "You know you have quite a lot to do, and when yourmother has gone we'll spend an hour or two here at work."

  "I hear that Walter Murie is at home again at Connachan. Hill told methis morning," remarked her father.

  "So I heard also," answered the girl.

  "And yet you are not going to the ball, Gabrielle, eh?" laughed the oldman mischievously.

  "Now come, dad," the girl exclaimed, colouring slightly, "you're reallytoo bad! I thought you had promised me not to mention him again."

  "So I did, dear; I--I quite forgot," replied Sir Henry apologetically."Forgive me. You are now your own mistress. If you prefer to stay awayfrom Connachan, then do so by all means. Only, make a proper excuse toyour mother; otherwise she will be annoyed."

  "I think not, dear," his daughter replied in a meaning tone. "If Iremain at home she'll be rather glad than otherwise."

  "Why?" inquired the old man quickly.

  The girl hesitated. She saw instantly that her remark was an unfortunateone. "Well," she said rather lamely, "because my absence will relieveher of the responsibility of acting as chaperon."

  What else could she say? How could she tell her father--the kindly butafflicted man to whom she was devoted--the bitter truth? His lonely,dismal life was surely sufficiently hard to bear without the extraburden of suspicion, of enforced inactivity, of fierce hatred, and ofbitter regret. So she slowly disengaged her hand, kissed him again, andwith an excuse that she had the menus to write for the dinner-table,went out, leaving him alone.

  When the door had closed a great sigh sounded through the long,book-lined room, a sigh that ended in a sob.

  The old man had leaned his chin upon his hands, and his sightless eyeswere filled with tears. "Is it the truth?" he murmured to himself. "Isit really the truth?"