CHAPTER XXI
THROUGH THE MISTS
Sir Henry refused to speak with his daughter when, on the followingmorning, she stole in and laid her hand softly upon his arm. He orderedher, in a tone quite unusual, to leave the library. Through the morninghours she had lain awake trying to make a resolve. But, alas! she darednot tell the truth; she was in deadly fear of Flockart's reprisals.
That morning, at nine o'clock, Lady Heyburn and Flockart had heldhurried consultation in secret, at which he had explained to her whathad occurred.
"Excellent!" she had remarked briefly. "But we must now have a care, mydear friend. Mind the girl does not throw all prudence to the winds andturn upon us."
"Bah!" he laughed, "I don't fear that for a single second." And he leftthe room again, to salute her in the breakfast-room a quarter of an hourlater as though they had not met before that day.
Gabrielle, on leaving her father, went out for a long walk alone, awayover the heather-clad hills. For hours she went on--Jock, her Aberdeenterrier, toddling at her side, in her hand a stout ash-stick--regardlessof the muddy roads or the wet weather. It was grey, damp, and dismal,one of those days which in the Highlands are often so very cheerless anddispiriting. Yet on, and still on, she went, her mind full of the eventsof the previous night; full, also, of the dread secret which preventedher from exposing her father's false friend. In order to save herfather, should she sacrifice herself--sacrifice her own life? That wasthe one problem before her.
She saw nothing; she heeded nothing. Hunger or fatigue troubled her not.Indeed, she took no notice of where her footsteps led her. Beyond Crieffshe wandered, along the river-bank a short distance, ascending a hill,where a wild and wonderful view spread before her. There she sat downupon a big boulder to rest.
Her hair blown by the chill wind, she sat staring straight before her,thinking--ever thinking. She had not seen Lady Heyburn that day. She hadseen no one.
At six o'clock that morning she had written a long letter to WalterMurie. She had not mentioned the midnight incident, but she had, withmany expressions of regret, pointed out the futility of any furtheraffection between them. She had not attempted to excuse herself. Shemerely told him that she considered herself unworthy of his love, andbecause of that, and that alone, she had decided to break off theirengagement.
A dozen times she had reread the letter after she had completed it.Surely it was the letter of a heart-broken and desperate woman. Would hetake it in the spirit in which it was meant, she wondered. She lovedhim--ah, loved him better than any one else in all the world! But shenow saw that it was useless to masquerade any longer. The blow hadfallen, and it had crushed her. She was powerless to resist, powerlessto deny the false charge against her, powerless to tell the truth.
That letter, which she knew must come as a cruel blow to Walter, she hadgiven to the postman with her own hands, and it was now on its waysouth. As she sat on the summit of that heather-clad hill she waswondering what effect her written words would have upon him. He hadloved her so devotedly ever since they had been children together! Wellshe knew how strong was his passion for her, how his life was at herdisposal. She knew that on reading those despairing lines of hers hewould be staggered. She recalled the dear face of her soul-mate, his hotkisses, his soft terms of endearment, and alone there, with none towitness her bitter grief, she burst into a flood of tears.
The sad greyness of the landscape was in keeping with her own greatsorrow. She had lost all that was dear to her; and, young as she was,with hardly any experience of the world and its ways, she was alreadythe victim of grim circumstance, broken by the grief of a self-renouncedlove gnawing at her true heart.
The knowledge that Lady Heyburn and Flockart would exult over herdownfall and exile to that tiny house in a sleepy littleNorthamptonshire village did not trouble her. Her enemies had triumphed.She had played the game and lost, just as she might have lost atbilliards or at bridge, for she was a thorough sportswoman. She onlygrieved because she saw the grave peril of her dear father, and becauseshe now foresaw the utter hopelessness of her own happiness.
It was better, she reflected, far better, that she should go into thedull and dreary exile of an English village, with the unexcitingcompanionship of Aunt Emily, an ascetic spinster of the mid-Victorianera, and make pretence of pique with Walter, than to reveal to him theshameful truth. He would at least in those circumstances retain of her arecollection fond and tender. He would not despise nor hate her, as hemost certainly would do if he knew the real astounding facts.
How long she remained there, high up, with the chill winds of autumntossing her silky, light-brown hair, she knew not. Rainclouds weregathering, and the rugged hill before her was now hidden behind a bankof mist. Time had crept on without her heeding it, for what did time nowmatter to her? What, indeed, did anything matter? Her young life, thoughshe was still in her teens, had ended; or, at least, as far as she wasconcerned it had. Was she not calmly and coolly contemplating tellingthe truth and putting an end to her existence after saving her father'shonour?
Her sad, tearful eyes gazed slowly about her as she suddenly awakened tothe fact that she was far--very far--from home. She had been dazed,unconscious of everything, because of the heavy burden of grief withinher heart. But now she looked forth upon the small, grey loch, with itsdark fringe of trees, the grey and purple hills beyond, the grey sky,and the grey, filmy mists that hung everywhere. The world was, indeed,sad and gloomy, and even Jock sat looking up at his young mistress asthough regarding her grief in wonder.
Now and then distant shots came from across the hills. They wereshooting over the Drummond estate, she knew, for she had had aninvitation to join their luncheon-party that day. Lady Heyburn andFlockart had no doubt gone.
That, she told herself, was her last day in the Highlands, thatpicturesque, breezy country she loved so well. It was her last day amidthose familiar places where she and Walter had so often wanderedtogether, and where he had told her of his passionate devotion. Well,perhaps it was best, after all. Down south she would not be reminded ofhim every moment and at every turn. No, she sighed within herself as sherose to descend the hill, she must steel herself against her own sadreflections. She must learn how to forget.
"What will he say?" she murmured aloud as she went down, with Jockfrisking and barking before her. "What will he think of me when he getsmy letter? He will believe me fickle; he will believe that I haveanother lover. That is certain. Well, I must allow him to believe it. Wehave parted, and we must now, alas! remain apart for ever. Probably hewill seek from my father the truth concerning my disappearance fromGlencardine. Dad will tell him, no doubt. And then--then, what will hebelieve? He--he will know that I am unworthy to be his wife. Yet--yet isit not cruel that I dare not speak the truth and clear myself of thisfoul charge of betraying my own dear father? Was ever a girl placed insuch a position as myself, I wonder. Has any girl ever loved a manbetter than I love Walter?" Her white lips were set hard, and her fineeyes became again bedimmed by tears.
It commenced to rain, that fine drizzle so often experienced north ofthe Tweed. But she heeded not. She was used to it. To get wet throughwas, to her, quite a frequent occurrence when out fishing. Though therewas no path, she knew her way; and, walking through the wet heather, shecame after half-an-hour out upon a muddy byroad which led her into thetown of Crieff, whence her return was easy; though it was already dusk,and the dressing-bell had gone, before she re-entered the house by theservants' door and slipped unobserved up to her own room.
Elise found her seated in her blue gown before the welcome fire-log, herchin upon her breast. Her excuse was that she felt unwell; therefore oneof the maids brought her some dinner on a tray.
Upon the mantelshelf were many photographs, some of them snap-shots ofher schoolfellows and souvenirs of holidays, the odds and ends ofportraits and scenes which every girl unconsciously collects.
Among them, in a plain silver frame, was the picture of Walter Murietaken in New York only
a few weeks before. Upon the frame was engraved,"Gabrielle, from Walter." She took it in her hand, and stood for a longtime motionless. Never again, alas! would she look upon that face sodear to her. Her young heart was already broken, because she was heldfettered and powerless.
At last she put down the portrait, and, sinking into her chair, satcrying bitterly. Now that she was outcast by her father, to whom she hadbeen always such a close, devoted friend, her life was an absoluteblank. At one blow she had lost both lover and father. Already Elise hadtold her that she had received instructions to pack her trunks. Thethin-nosed Frenchwoman was apparently much puzzled at the order whichLady Heyburn had given her, and had asked the girl whom she intended tovisit. The maid had asked what dresses she would require; but Gabriellereplied that she might pack what she liked for a long visit. The girlcould hear Elise moving about, shaking out skirts, in the adjoiningroom, and making preparations for her departure on the morrow.
Despondent, hopeless, grief-stricken, she sat before the fire for a longtime. She had locked the door and switched off the light, for itirritated her. She loved the uncertain light of dancing flames, and sathuddled there in her big chair for the last time.
She was reflecting upon her own brief life. Scarcely out of theschoolroom, she had lived most of her days up in that dear old placewhere every inch of the big estate was so familiar to her. Sheremembered all those happy days at school, first in England, and then inFrance, with the kind-faced Sisters in their spotless head-dresses, andthe quiet, happy life of the convent. The calm, grave face of SisterMarguerite looked down upon her from the mantelshelf as if sympathisingwith her pretty pupil in those troubles that had so early come to her.She raised her eyes, and saw the portrait. Its sight aroused within hera new thought and fresh recollection. Had not Sister Marguerite alwaystaught her to beseech the Almighty's aid when in doubt or when introuble? Those grave, solemn words of the Mother Superior rang in herears, and she fell upon her knees beside her narrow bed in the alcove,and with murmuring lips prayed for divine support and assistance. Sheraised her sweet, troubled face to heaven and made confession to herMaker.
Then, after a long silence, she struggled again to her feet, more cooland more collected. She took up Walter's portrait, and, kissing it, putit away carefully in a drawer. Some of her little treasures she gatheredtogether and placed with it, preparatory to departure, for she would onthe morrow leave Glencardine perhaps for ever.
The stable-clock had struck ten. To where she stood came the stridentsounds of the mechanical piano-player, for some of the gay party werewaltzing in the hall. Their merry shouts and laughter were discordant toher ears. What cared any of those friends of her step-mother if she werein disgrace and an outcast?
Drawing aside the curtain, she saw that the night was bright andstarlit. She preferred the air out in the park to the sounds of gaietywithin that house which was no longer to be her home. Therefore sheslipped on a skirt and blouse, and, throwing her golf-cape across hershoulders and a shawl over her head, she crept past the room whereinElise was packing her belongings, and down the back-stairs to the lawn.
The sound of the laughter of the men and women of the shooting-partyaroused a poignant bitterness within her. As she passed across the driveshe saw a light in the library, where, no doubt, her father was sittingin his loneliness, feeling and examining his collection ofseal-impressions.
She turned, and, walking straight on, struck the gravelled path whichtook her to the castle ruins.
Not until the black, ponderous walls rose before her did she awaken to aconsciousness of her whereabouts. Then, entering the ruined courtyard,she halted and listened. All was dark. Above, the stars twinkledbrightly, and in the ivy the night-birds stirred the leaves. Holding herbreath, she strained her ears. Yes, she was not deceived! There weresounds distinct and undeniable. She was fascinated, listening again tothose shadow-voices that were always precursory of death--the fatalWhispers.
The House of Whispers Page 21
