The House of Whispers

CHAPTER XXV

SHOWS GABRIELLE IN EXILE

Midway between historic Fotheringhay and ancient Apethorpe, the ancestral seat of the Earls of Westmorland, lay the long, straggling, and rather poverty-stricken village of Woodnewton. Like many other Northamptonshire villages, it consisted of one long street of cottages, many of them with dormer windows peeping from beneath the brown thatch, the better houses of stone, with old mullioned windows, but all of them more or less in stages of decay. With the depreciation in agriculture, Woodnewton, once quite a prosperous little place, was now terribly shabby and depressing.

As he entered the village, the first object that met the eye of the stranger was a barn with the roof half fallen away, and next it a ruined house with its moss-grown thatch full of holes. The paving was ill-kept, and even the several inns bore an appearance of struggles with poverty.

Half-way up the long, straight, dispiriting street stood a cottage larger and neater-looking than the rest. Its ugly exterior was half-hidden by ivy, which had been cut away from the diamond-paned windows; while, unlike its neighbours, its roof was tiled and its brown door newly painted and highly varnished.

Old Miss Heyburn lived there, and had lived there for the past half-century. The prim, grey-haired, and somewhat eccentric old lady was a well-known figure to all on that country-side. Twice each Sunday, with her large-type Prayer-book in her hand, and her steel-rimmed spectacles on her thin nose, she walked to church, while she was one of the principal supporters of the village clothing-club and such-like institutions inaugurated by the worthy rector.

Essentially an ascetic person, she was looked upon with fear by all the villagers. Her manner was brusque, her speech sharp, and her criticism of neglectful mothers caustic and much to the point. Prim, always in black bonnet and jet-trimmed cape of years gone by, both in summer and winter, she took no heed of the vagaries of fashion, even when they reached Woodnewton so tardily.

The common report was that when a girl she had been "crossed in love," for her single maidservant she always trained to a sober and loveless life like her own, and as soon as a girl cast an eye upon a likely swain she was ignominiously dismissed.

That the sharp-tongued spinster possessed means was undoubted. It was known that she was sister of Sir Henry Heyburn of Caistor, in Lincolnshire; and, on account of her social standing, she on rare occasions was bidden to the omnium gatherings at some of the mansions in the neighbourhood. She seldom accepted; but when she did it was only to satisfy her curiosity and to criticise.

The household of two, the old lady and her exemplary maid, was assuredly a dull one. Meals were taken with punctual regularity amid a cleanliness that was almost painful. The tiny drawing-room, with its row of window-plants, including a pot of strong-smelling musk, was hardly ever entered. Not a speck of dust was allowed anywhere, for Miss Emily's eye was sharp, and woe betide the maid if a mere suspicion of dirt were discovered! Everything was kept locked up. One maid who resigned hurriedly, refusing to be criticised, afterwards declared that her mistress kept the paraffin under lock and key.

And into this uncomfortably prim and proper household little Gabrielle had suddenly been introduced. Her heart overburdened by grief, and full of regret at being compelled to part from the father she so fondly loved, she had accepted the inevitable, fully realising the dull greyness of the life that lay before her. Surely her exile there was a cruel and crushing one! The house seemed so tiny and so suffocating after the splendid halls and huge rooms at Glencardine, while her aunt's constant sarcasm about her father—whom she had not seen for eight years—was particularly galling.

The woman treated the girl as a wayward child sent there for punishment and correction. She showed her neither kindness nor consideration; for, truth to tell, it annoyed her to think that her brother should have imposed the girl upon her. She hated to be bothered with the girl; but, existing upon Sir Henry's charity, as she really did, though none knew it, she could do no otherwise than accept his daughter as her guest.

Days, weeks, months had passed, each day dragging on as its predecessor, a wretched, hopeless, despairing existence to a girl so full of life and vitality as Gabrielle. Though she had written several times to her father, he had sent her no reply. To her mother at San Remo she had also written, and from her had received one letter, cold and unresponsive. From Walter Murie nothing—not a single word.

The well-thumbed books in the village library she had read, as well as those in the possession of her aunt. She had tried needlework, problems of patience, and the translation of a few chapters of an Italian novel into English in order to occupy her time. But those hours when she was alone in her little upstairs room with the sloping roof passed, alas! so very slowly.

Upon her, ever oppressive, were thoughts of that bitter past. At one staggering blow she had lost all that had made her young life worth living—her father's esteem and her lover's love. She was innocent, entirely innocent, of the terrible allegations against her, and yet she was so utterly defenceless!

Often she sat at her little window for hours watching the lethargy of village life in the street below, that rural life in which the rector and the schoolmaster were the principal figures. The dullness of it all was maddening. Her aunt's mid-Victorian primness, her snappishness towards the trembling maid, and the thousand and one rules of her daily life irritated her and jarred upon her nerves.

So, in order to kill time, and at the same time to study the antiquities of the neighbourhood—her father having taught her so much deep antiquarian knowledge—it had been her habit for three months past to take long walks for many miles across the country, accompanied by the black collie Rover belonging to a young farmer who lived at the end of the village. The animal had one day attached itself to her while she was taking a walk on the Apethorpe road; and now, by her feeding him daily and making a pet of him, the girl and the dog had become inseparable. By long walks and short train-journeys she had, in three months, been able to inspect most of the antiquities of Northamptonshire. Much of the history of the county was intensely interesting: the connection of old Fotheringhay with the ill-fated Mary Queen of Scots, the beauties of Peterborough Cathedral, the splendid old Tudor house of Deene (the home of the Earls of Cardigan), the legends of King John concerning King's Cliffe, the gaunt splendour of ruined Kirby, and the old-world charm of Apethorpe. All these, and many others, had great attraction for her. She read them up in books she ordered from London, and then visited the old places with all the enthusiasm of a spectacled antiquary.

Every day, no matter what the weather, she might be seen, in her thick boots, burberry, and tam o'shanter, trudging along the roads or across the fields accompanied by the faithful collie. The winter had been a comparatively mild one, with excessive rain. But no downpour troubled her. She liked the rain to beat into her face, for the dismal, monotonous cheerlessness of the brown fields, bare trees, and muddy roads was in keeping with the tragedy of her own young life.

She knew that her aunt Emily disliked her. The covert sneers, the caustic criticisms, and the go-to-meeting attitude of the old lady irritated the girl beyond measure. She was not wanted in that painfully prim cottage, and had been made to understand it from the first day.

Hence it was that she spent all the time she possibly could out of doors. Alone she had traversed the whole county, seeking permission to glance at the interior of any old house or building that promised archaeological interest, and by that means making some curious friendships.

Many people regarded the pretty young girl who made a study of old churches and old houses as somewhat eccentric. Local antiquaries, however, stared at her in wonder when they found that she was possessed of knowledge far more profound than theirs, and that she could decipher old documents and read Latin inscriptions with ease.

She made few friends, preferring solitude and reflection to visiting and gossiping. Hers was, indeed, a pathetic little figure, and the countryfolk used to stare at her in surprise and sigh as she passed through the various little hamlets and villages so regularly, the black collie bounding before her.

Quickly she had become known as "Miss Heyburn's niece," and the report having spread that she was "a bit eccentric, poor thing," people soon ceased to wonder, and began to regard that pale, sad face with sympathy. The whole country-side was wondering why such a pretty young lady had gone to live in the deadly dullness of Woodnewton, and what was the cause of that great sorrow written upon her countenance.

Her daily burden of bitter reflection was, indeed, hard to bear. Her one thought, as she walked those miles of lonely rural byways, so bare and cheerless, was of Walter—her Walter—the man who, she knew, would have willingly given his very life for hers. She had met her just punishment, and was now endeavouring to bear it bravely. She had renounced his love for ever.

One afternoon, dark and rainy, in the gloom of early March, she was sitting at the old-fashioned and rather tuneless piano in the damp, unused "best room," which was devoid of fire for economic reasons. Her aunt was seated in the window busily crocheting, while she, with her white fingers running across the keys, raised her sweet contralto voice in that old-world Florentine song that for centuries has been sung by the populace in the streets of the city by the Arno:

Miss Heyburn sighed, and looked up from her work. "Can't you sing something in English, Gabrielle? It would be much better," she remarked in a snappy tone.

The girl's mouth hardened slightly at the corners, and she closed the piano without replying.

"I don't mean you to stop," exclaimed the ascetic old lady. "I only think that girls, instead of learning foreign songs, should be able to sing English ones properly. Won't you sing another?"

"No," replied the girl, rising. "The rain has ceased, so I shall go for my walk;" and she left the room to put on her hat and mackintosh, passing along before the window a few minutes later in the direction of King's Cliffe.

It was always the same. If she indulged herself in singing one or other of those ancient love-songs of the hot-blooded Tuscan peasants her aunt always scolded. Nothing she did was right, for the simple reason that she was an unwelcome visitor.

She was alone. Rover was conducting sheep to Stamford market, as was his duty every week; therefore in the fading daylight she went along, immersed in her own sad thoughts. Her walk at that hour was entirely aimless. She had only gone forth because of the irritation she felt at her aunt's constant complaints. So entirely engrossed was she by her own despair that she had not noticed the figure of a man who, catching sight of her at the end of Woodnewton village, had held back until she had gone a considerable distance, and had then sauntered leisurely in the direction she had taken.

The man kept her in view, but did not approach her. The high, red mail-cart passed, and the driver touched his hat respectfully to her. The man who collected the evening mail from all the villages between Deene and Peterborough met her almost every evening, and had long ago inquired and learnt who she was.

For nearly two miles she walked onward, until, close by the junction of the road which comes down the hill from Nassington, the man who had been following hastened up and overtook her.

She heard herself addressed by name, and, turning quickly, found herself face to face with James Flockart.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE VELVET PAW

The new-comer stood before Gabrielle, hat in hand, smiling pleasantly and uttering a greeting of surprise.

Her response was cold, for was not all her present unhappiness due to him?

"I've come here to speak to you, Gabrielle—to speak to you in confidence."

"Whatever you have to say may surely be said in the hearing of a third person?" was her dignified answer. His sudden appearance had startled her, but only for a moment. She was cool again next instant, and on her guard against her enemy.

"I hardly think," he said, with a meaning smile, "that you would really like me to speak before a third party."

"I really care nothing," was her answer. "And I cannot see why you seek me here. When one is hopeless, as I am, one becomes callous of what the future may bring."

"Hopeless! Yes," he said in a changed voice, "I know that; living in this dismal hole, Gabrielle, you must be hopeless. I know that your exile here, away from all your friends and those you love, must be soul-killing. Don't think that I have not reflected upon it a hundred times."

"Ah, then you have at last experienced remorse!" she cried bitterly, looking straight into the man's face. "You have estranged me from my father, and tried to ruin him! You lied to him—lied in order to save yourself!"

The man laughed. "My dear child," he exclaimed, "you really misjudge me entirely. I am here for two reasons: to ask your forgiveness for making that allegation which was imperative; and, secondly, to assure you that, if you will allow me, I will yet be your friend."

"Friend!" she echoed in a hollow voice. "You—my friend!"

"Yes. I know that you mistrust me," he replied; "but I want to prove that my intentions towards you are those of real friendship."

"And you, who ever since my girlhood days have been my worst enemy, ask me now to trust you!" she exclaimed with indignation. "No; go back to Lady Heyburn and tell her that I refuse to accept the olive-branch which you and she hold out to me."

"My dear girl, you don't follow me," he exclaimed impatiently. "This has nothing whatever to do with Lady Heyburn. I have come to you from purely personal motives. My sole desire is to effect your return to Glencardine."

"For your own ends, Mr. Flockart, without a doubt!" she said bitterly.

"Ah! there you are quite mistaken. Though you assert that I am your father's enemy, I am, I tell you, his friend. He is ever thinking of you with regret. You were his right hand. Would it not be far better if he invited you to return?"

She sighed at the thought of the blind man whom she regarded with such entire devotion, but answered, "No, I shall never return to Glencardine."

"Why?" he asked. "Was it anything more than natural that, believing you had been prying into his affairs, your father, in a moment of anger, condemned you to this life of appalling monotony?"

"No, not more natural than that you, the culprit, should have made me the scapegoat for the second time," was her defiant reply.

"Have I not already told you that the reason I'm here is to crave your forgiveness? I admit that my actions have been the reverse of honourable; but—well, there were circumstances which compelled me to act as I did."

"You got an impression of my father's safe-key, had a duplicate made in Glasgow, as I have found out, and one night opened the safe and copied certain private documents having regard to a proposed loan to the Greek Government. The night I discovered you was the second occasion when you went to the library and opened the safe. Do you deny that?"

"What you allege, Gabrielle, is perfectly correct," he replied. "I know that I was a blackguard to shield myself behind you—to tell the lie I did that night. But how could I avoid it?"

"Suppose I had, in retaliation, spoken the truth?" she asked, looking the man straight in the face.

"Ah! I knew that you would not do that."

"You believe that I dare not—dare not for my own sake, eh?"

He nodded in the affirmative.

"Then you are much mistaken, Mr. Flockart," she said in a hard voice.

"You don't understand that a woman may become desperate."

"I can understand how desperate you have become, living in this 'Sleepy Hollow.' A week of it would, I admit, drive me to distraction."

"Then if you understand my present position you will know that I am fearless of you, or of anybody else. My life has ended. I have neither happiness, comfort, peace of mind, nor love. All is of the past. To you—you, James Flockart—I am indebted for all this! You have held me powerless. I was a happy girl once, but you and your dastardly friends crossed my path like an evil shadow, and I have existed in an inferno of remorse ever since. I–"

"Remorse! How absurdly you talk!"

"It will not be absurd when I speak the truth and tell the world what I know. It will be rather a serious matter for you, Mr. Flockart."

"You threaten me, then?" he asked, his eyes flashing for a second.

"I think it is as well for us to understand one another at once," she said frankly.

They had halted upon a small bridge close to the entrance to Apethorpe village.

"Then I'm to understand that you refuse my proffered assistance?" he asked.

"I require no assistance from my enemies," was her defiant and dignified reply. "I suppose Lady Heyburn is at the villa at San Remo as usual, and that it was she who sent you to me, because she recognises that you've both gone a little too far. You have. When the opportunity arises, then I shall speak, regardless of the consequences. Therefore, Mr. Flockart, I wish you good-evening;" and she turned away.

"No, Gabrielle," he cried, resolutely barring her path. "You must hear me. You don't grasp the point of my argument."

"With me none of your arguments are of any avail," was her response in a bitter tone. "I, alas! have reason to know you too well. For you—by your clever intrigue—I committed a crime; but God knows I am innocent of what was intended. Now that you have estranged me from my father and my lover, I shall confess—confess all—before I make an end of my life."

He saw from her pale, drawn face that she was desperate. He grew afraid.

"But, my dear girl, think—of what you are saying! You don't mean it; you can't mean it. Your father has relented, and will welcome you back, if only you will consent to return."

"I have no wish to be regarded as the prodigal daughter," was her proud response.

"Not for Walter Murie's sake?" asked the crafty man. "I have seen him. I was at the club with him last night, and we had a chat about you. He loves you very dearly. Ah! you do not know how he is suffering."

She was silent, and he recognised in an instant that his words had touched the sympathetic chord in her heart.

"He is not suffering any greater grief than I am," she said in a low, mechanical voice, her brow heavily clouded.

"Of course I can quite understand that," he remarked sympathetically. "Walter is a good fellow, and—well, it is indeed sad that matters should be as they are. He is entirely devoted to you, Gabrielle."

"Not more so than I am to him," declared the girl quite frankly.

"Then why did you write breaking off your engagement?"

"He told you that?" she exclaimed in surprise.

The truth was that Murie had told Flockart nothing. He had not even seen him. It was only a wild guess on Flockart's part.

"Tell me," she urged anxiously, "what did he say concerning myself?"

Flockart hesitated. His mind was instantly active in the concoction of a story.

"Oh, well—he expressed the most profound regret for all that had occurred at Glencardine, and is, of course, utterly puzzled. It appears that just before Christmas he went home to Connachan and visited your father several times. From him, I suppose, he heard how you had been discovered."