The House of Whispers

CHAPTER XXXI

DESCRIBES A CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE

To Hamilton it was evident that the man Krail, now smartly dressed in country tweeds, was telling the girl something which surprised her. He was speaking quickly, making involuntary gestures which betrayed his foreign birth, while she stood pale, surprised, and yet defiant. The Baron's secretary was not near enough to overhear their words. Indeed, he remained there in concealment in order to watch.

Why had Gabrielle met Felix Krail—of all men? She was beautiful. Yes, there could be no two opinions upon that point, Edgar decided. And yet how strange it all was, how very remarkable, how romantic!

The man was evidently endeavouring to impress upon the girl some plain truths to which, at first, she refused to listen. She shrugged her shoulders impatiently and swung her walking-stick before her in an attempt to remain unconcerned. But from where Hamilton was standing he could plainly detect her agitation. Whatever Krail had told her had caused her much nervous anxiety. What could it be?

Across the meadows, beyond the river, could be seen the lantern-tower of old Fotheringhay church, with the mound behind where once stood the castle where ill-fated Mary met her doom.

And as the Baron's secretary watched, he saw that the foreigner's attitude was gradually changing from persuasive to threatening. He was speaking quickly, probably in French, making wild gestures with his hands, while she had drawn back with an expression of alarm. She was now, it seemed, frightened at the man, and to Edgar Hamilton this increased the interest tenfold.

Through his mind there flashed the recollection of a previous occasion when he had seen the man now before him. He was in different garb, and acting a very different part. But his face was still the same—a countenance which it was impossible to forget. He was watching the changing expression upon the girl's face. Would that he could read the secret hidden behind those wonderful eyes! He had, quite unexpectedly, discovered a mysterious circumstance. Why should Krail meet her by accident at that lonely spot?

The pair moved very slowly together along the path which, having left the way to Southwick, ran along the very edge of the broad, winding river towards Fotheringhay. Until they had crossed the wide pasture-land and followed the bend of the stream Hamilton dare not emerge from his place of concealment. They might glance back and discover him. If so, then to watch Krail's movements further would be futile.

He saw that, by the exercise of caution, he might perhaps learn something of deeper interest than he imagined. So he watched until they disappeared, and then sped along the path they had taken until he came to a clump of bushes which afforded further cover. From where he stood, however, he could see nothing. He could hear voices—a man's voice raised in distinct threats, and a woman's quick, defiant response.

He walked round the bushes quickly, trying to get sight of the pair, but the river bent sharply at that point in such a manner that he could not get a glimpse of them.

Again he heard Krail speaking rapidly in French, and still again the girl's response. Then, next instant, there was a shrill scream and a loud splash.

Next moment, he had darted from his hiding-place to find the girl struggling in the water, while at the same time he caught sight of Krail disappearing quickly around the path. Had he glanced back he could not have seen the girl in the stream.

At that point the bank was steep, and the stillness of the river and absence of rushes told that it was deep.

The girl was throwing up her hand, shrieking for help; therefore, without a second's hesitation, Hamilton, who was a good swimmer, threw off his coat, and, diving in, was soon at her side.

By this time Krail had hurried on, and could obtain no glimpse of what was in progress owing to the sharp bend of the river.

After considerable splashing—Hamilton urging her to remain calm—he succeeded in bringing her to land, where they both struggled up the bank dripping wet and more or less exhausted. Some moments elapsed before either spoke; until, indeed, Hamilton, looking straight into the girl's face and bursting out laughing, exclaimed, "Well, I think I have the pleasure of being acquainted with you, but I must say that we both look like drowned rats!"

"I look horrid!" she declared, staring at him half-dazed, putting her hands to her dripping hair. "I know I must. But I have to thank you for pulling me out. Only fancy, Mr. Hamilton—you!"

"Oh, no thanks are required! What we must do is to get to some place and get our clothes dried," he said. "Do you know this neighbourhood?"

"Oh, yes. Straight over there, about a quarter of a mile away, is Wyatt's farm. Mrs. Wyatt will look after us, I'm sure." And as she rose to her feet, regarding her companion shyly, her skirts clung around her and the water squelched from her shoes.

"Very well," he answered cheerily. "Let's go and see what can be done towards getting some dry kit. I'm glad you're not too frightened. A good many girls would have fainted, and all that kind of thing."

"I certainly should have gone under if you hadn't so fortunately come along!" she exclaimed. "I really don't know how to thank you sufficiently. You've actually saved my life, you know! If it were not for you I'd have been dead by this time, for I can't swim a stroke."

"By Jove!" he laughed, treating the whole affair as a huge joke, "how romantic it sounds! Fancy meeting you again after all this time, and saving your life! I suppose the papers will be full of it if they get to know—gallant rescue, and all that kind of twaddle."

"Well, personally, I hope the papers won't get hold of this piece of intelligence," she said seriously, as they walked together, rather pitiable objects, across the wide grass-fields.

He glanced at her pale face, her hair hanging dank and wet about it, and saw that, even under these disadvantageous conditions, she had grown more beautiful than before. Of late he had heard of her—heard a good deal of her—but had never dreamed that they would meet again in that manner.

"How did it happen?" he asked in pretence of ignorance of her companion's presence.

She raised her fine eyes to his for a moment, and wavered beneath his inquiring gaze.

"I—I—well, I really don't know," was her rather lame answer. "The bank was very slippery, and—well, I suppose I walked too near."

Her reply struck him as curious. Why did she attempt to shield the man who, by his sudden flight, was self-convicted of an attempt upon her life?

Felix Krail was not a complete stranger to her. Why had their meeting been a clandestine one? This, and a thousand similar queries ran through his mind as they walked across the field in the direction of a long, low, thatched farmhouse which stood in the distance.

"I'm a complete stranger in these parts," Hamilton informed her. "I live nowadays mostly abroad, away above the Danube, and am only home for a holiday."

"And I'm afraid you've completely spoilt your clothes," she laughed, looking at his wet, muddy trousers and boots.

"Well, if I have, yours also are no further good."

"Oh, my blouse will wash, and I shall send my skirt to the cleaners, and it will come back like new," she answered. "Women's outdoor clothing never suffers by a wetting. We'll get Mrs. Wyatt to dry them, and then I'll get home again to my aunt in Woodnewton. Do you know the place?"

"I fancy I passed through it this morning. One of those long, lean villages, with a church at the end."

"That's it—the dullest little place in all England, I believe."

He was struck by her charm of manner. Though bedraggled and dishevelled, she was nevertheless delightful, and treated her sudden immersion with careless unconcern.

Why had Krail attempted to get rid of her in that manner? What motive had he?

They reached the farmhouse, where Mrs. Wyatt, a stout, ruddy-faced woman, detecting their approach, met them upon the threshold. "Lawks, Miss Heyburn! why, what's happened?" she asked in alarm.

"I fell into the river, and this gentleman fished me out. That's all," laughed the girl. "We want to dry our things, if we may."

In a few minutes, in bedrooms upstairs, they had exchanged their wet clothes for dry ones. Then Edgar in the farmer's Sunday suit of black, and Gabrielle in one of Mrs. Wyatt's stuff dresses, in the big folds of which her slim little figure was lost, met again in the spacious farmhouse-kitchen below.

They laughed heartily at the ridiculous figure which each presented, and drank the glasses of hot milk which the farmer's wife pressed upon them.

Old Miss Heyburn had been Mrs. Wyatt's mistress years ago, when she was in service, therefore she was most solicitous after the girl's welfare, and truth to tell looked askance at the good-looking stranger who had accompanied her.

Gabrielle, too, was puzzled to know why Mr. Hamilton should be there. That he now lived abroad "beside the Danube" was all the information he had vouchsafed regarding himself, yet from certain remarks he had dropped she was suspicious. She recollected only too vividly the occasion when they had met last, and what had occurred.

They sat together on the bench outside the house, enjoying the full sunshine, while the farmer's wife chattered on. A big fire had been made in the kitchen, and their clothes were rapidly drying.

Hamilton, by careful questions, endeavoured to obtain from the girl some information concerning her dealings with the man Krail. But she was too wary. It was evident that she had some distinct object in concealing the fact that he had deliberately flung her into the water after that heated altercation.

Felix Krail! The very name caused him to clench his hands. Fortunately, he knew the truth, therefore that dastardly attempt upon the girl's life should not go unpunished. As he sat there chatting with her, admiring her refinement and innate daintiness, he made a vow within himself to seek out that cowardly fugitive and meet him face to face.

Felix Krail! What could be his object in ridding the world of the daughter of Sir Henry Heyburn! What would the man gain thereby? He knew Krail too well to imagine that he ever did anything without a motive of gain. So well did he play his cards always that the police could never lay hands upon him. Yet his "friends," as he termed them, were among the most dangerous men in all Europe—men who were unscrupulous, and would hesitate at nothing in order to accomplish the coup which they had devised.

What was the coup in this particular instance? Ay, that was the question.

CHAPTER XXXII

OUTSIDE THE WINDOW

Late on the following afternoon Gabrielle was seated at the old-fashioned piano in her aunt's tiny drawing-room, her fingers running idly over the keys, her thoughts wandering back to the exciting adventure of the previous morning. Her aunt was out visiting some old people in connection with the village clothing club, therefore she sat gloomily amusing herself at the piano, and thinking—ever thinking.

She had been playing almost mechanically Berger's "Amoureuse" valse and some dreamy music from The Merry Widow, when she suddenly stopped and sat back with her eyes fixed out of the window upon the cottages opposite.

Why was Mr. Hamilton in that neighbourhood? He had given her no further information concerning himself. He seemed to be disinclined to talk about his recent movements. He had sprung from nowhere just at the critical moment when she was in such deadly peril. Then, after their clothes had been dried, they had walked together as far as the little bridge at the entrance to Fotheringhay.

There he had stopped, bent gallantly over her hand, congratulated her upon her escape, and as their ways lay in opposite directions—she back to Woodnewton and he on to Oundle—they had parted. "I hope, Miss Heyburn, that we may meet again one day," he had laughed cheerily as he raised his hat, "Good-bye." Then he had turned away, and had been lost to view round the bend of the road.

She was safe. That man whom she had known long ago under such strange circumstances, whom she would probably never see again, had been her rescuer. Of this curious and romantic fact she was now thinking.

But where was Walter? Why had he not replied to her letter? Ah! that was the one thought which oppressed her always, sleeping and waking, day and night. Why had he not written? Would he never write again?

She had at first consoled herself with the thought that he was probably on the Continent, and that her letter had not been forwarded. But as the days went on, and no reply came, the truth became more and more apparent that her lover—the man whom she adored and worshipped—had put her aside, had accepted her at her own estimate as worthless.

A thousand times she had regretted the step she had taken in writing that cruel letter before she left Glencardine. But it was all too late. She had tried to retract; but, alas! it was now impossible.

Tears welled in her splendid eyes at thought of the man whom she had loved so well. The world had, indeed, been cruel to her. Her enemies had profited by her inexperience, and she had fallen an unhappy victim of an unscrupulous blackguard. Yes, it was only too true. She did not try to conceal the ugly truth from herself. Yet she had been compelled to keep Walter in ignorance of the truth, for he loved her.

A hardness showed at the corners of her sweet lips, and the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. Then, bestirring herself with an effort, her white fingers ran over the keys again, and in her sweet, musical voice she sang "L'Heure d'Aimer," that pretty valse chantée so popular in Paris:—

The Hour of Love! How full of burning love and sentiment! She stopped, reflecting on the meaning of those words.

She was not like the average miss who, parrot-like, knows only a few French or Italian songs. Italian she loved even better than French, and could read Dante and Petrarch in the original, while she possessed an intimate knowledge of the poetry of Italy from the mediaeval writers down to Carducci and D'Annunzio.

With a sigh, she glanced around the small room, with its old-fashioned furniture, its antimacassars of the early Victorian era, its wax flowers under their glass dome, and its gipsy-table covered with a hand-embroidered cloth. It was all so very dispiriting. The primness of the whatnot decorated with pieces of treasured china, the big gilt-framed overmantel, and the old punch-bowl filled with pot-pourri, all spoke mutely of the thin-nosed old spinster to whom the veriest speck of dust was an abomination.

Sighing still again, the girl turned once more to the old-fashioned instrument, with its faded crimson silk behind the walnut fretwork, and, playing the plaintive melody, sang an ancient serenade:

While she sang, there was a rap at the front-door, and, just as she concluded, the prim maid entered with a letter upon a salver.

In an instant her heart gave a bound. She recognised the handwriting. It was Walter's.

The moment the girl had left the room she tore open the envelope, and, holding her breath, read what was written within.

The words were:

"DEAREST HEART,—Your letter came to me after several wanderings. It has caused me to think and to wonder if, after all, I may be mistaken—if, after all, I have misjudged you, darling. I gave you my heart, it is true. But you spurned it—under compulsion, you say! Why under compulsion? Who is it who compels you to act against your will and against your better nature? I know that you love me as well and as truly as I love you yourself. I long to see you with just as great a longing. You are mine—mine, my own—and being mine, you must tell me the truth.

"I forgive you, forgive you everything. But I cannot understand what Flockart means by saying that I have spoken of you. I have not seen the man, nor do I wish to see him. Gabrielle, do not trust him. He is your enemy, as he is mine. He has lied to you. As grim circumstance has forced you to treat me cruelly, let us hope that smiling fortune will be ours at last. The world is very small. I have just met my old friend Edgar Hamilton, who was at college with me, and who, I find, is secretary to some wealthy foreigner, a certain Baron de Hetzendorf. I have not seen him for years, and yet he turns up here, merry and prosperous, after struggling for a long time with adverse circumstances.

"But, Gabrielle, your letter has puzzled and alarmed me. The more I think of it, the more mystifying it all becomes. I must see you, and you must tell me the truth—the whole truth. We love each other, dear heart, and no one shall force you to lie again to me as you did in that letter you wrote from Glencardine. You wish to see me, darling. You shall—and you shall tell me the truth. My dear love, au revoir—until we meet, which I hope may be almost as soon as you receive this letter.—My love, my sweetheart, I am your own WALTER."

She sat staring at the letter. He demanded an explanation. He intended to come there and demand it! And the explanation was one which she dared not give. Rather that she took her own life than tell him the ghastly circumstances.

He had met an old chum named Hamilton. Was this the Mr. Hamilton who had snatched her from that deadly peril? The name of Hetzendorf sounded to be Austrian or German. How strange if Mr. Hamilton her rescuer were the same man who had been years ago her lover's college friend!

She passed her white hand across her brow, trying to collect her senses.

She had longed—ah, with such an intense longing!—for a response to that letter of hers, and here at last it had come. But what a response! He intended her to make confession. He demanded to know the actual truth. What could she do? How should she act?

Holding the letter in her hand, she glanced around the little room in utter despair.

He loved her. His words of reassurance brought her great comfort. But he wished to know the truth. He suspected something. By her own action in writing those letters she had aroused suspicion against herself. She regretted, yet what was the use of regret? Her own passionate words had revealed to him something which he had not suspected. And he was coming down there, to Woodnewton, to demand the truth! He might even then be on his way!

If he asked her point-blank, what could she reply? She dare not tell him the truth. There were now but two roads open—either death by her own hand or to lie to him.

Could she tell him an untruth? No. She loved him, therefore she could not resort to false declarations and deceit. Better—far better—would it be that she took her own life. Better, she thought, if Mr. Hamilton had not plunged into the river after her. If her life had ended, Walter Murie would at least have been spared the bitter knowledge of a disgraceful truth. Her face grew pale and her mouth hardened at the thought.

She loved him with all the fierce passion of her young heart. He was her hero, her idol. Before her tear-dimmed eyes his dear, serious face rose, a sweet memory of what had been. Tender remembrances of his fond kisses still lingered with her. She recollected how around her waist his strong arm would steal, and how slowly and yet irresistibly he would draw her in his arms in silent ecstasy.

Alas! that was all past and over. They loved each other, but she was now face to face with what she had so long dreaded—face to face with the inevitable. She must either confess the truth, and by so doing turn his love to hatred, or else remain silent and face the end.

She reread the letter still seated at the piano, her elbows resting inertly upon the keys. Then she lifted her pale face again to the window, gazing out blankly upon the village street, so dull, so silent, so uninteresting. The thought of Mr. Hamilton—the man who held a secret of hers, and who only a few hours before had rescued her from the peril in which Felix Krail had placed her—again recurred to her. Was it not remarkable that he, Walter's old friend, should come down into that neighbourhood? There was some motive in his visit! What could it be? He had spoken of Hungary, a country which had always possessed for her a strange fascination. Was it not quite likely that, being Walter's friend, Hamilton on his return to London would relate the exciting incident of the river? Had he seen Krail? And, if so, did he know him?

Those two points caused her the greatest apprehension. Suppose he had recognised Krail! Suppose he had overheard that man's demands, and her defiant refusal, he would surely tell Walter!