CHAPTER X
DECLARES A WOMAN'S LOVE
At nine o'clock that night Gabrielle left her father, and ascended toher own pretty room, with its light chintz-covered furniture, itswell-filled bamboo bookcases, its little writing-table, and its narrowbed in the alcove. It was a nest of rest and cosy comfort.
Exchanging her tweed dress, she put on an easy dressing-gown of paleblue cashmere, drew up an armchair, and, arranging her electricreading-lamp, sat down to a new novel she intended to finish.
Presently Elise came to her; but, looking up, she said she did not wishto be disturbed, and again coiled herself up in the chair, endeavouringto concentrate her thoughts upon her book. But all to no purpose. Everand anon she would lift her big eyes from the printed page, sigh, andstare fixedly at the rose-coloured trellis pattern of the wall-paperopposite. Upon her there had fallen a feeling of vague apprehension suchas she had never before experienced, a feeling that something was aboutto happen.
Lady Heyburn was, she knew, greatly annoyed that she had not made herappearance at dinner or in the drawing-room afterwards. Generally, whenthere were guests from the neighbourhood, she was compelled to sing oneor other of her Italian songs. Her refusal to come to dinner would, sheknew, cause her ladyship much chagrin, for it showed plainly to theguests that her authority over her step-daughter was entirely at an end.
Just as the stable-clock chimed half-past ten there came a light tap atthe door. It was Hill, who, on receiving permission to enter, said, "Ifyou please, miss, Mr. Murie has just asked me to give you this"; and hehanded her an envelope.
Tearing it open eagerly, she found a visiting-card, upon which somewords were scribbled in pencil. For a moment after reading them shepaused. Then she said, "Tell Mr. Murie it will be all right."
"Very well, miss," the man replied, and, bowing, closed the door.
For a few moments she stood motionless in the centre of the room, herlover's card still in her hand. Then she walked to the open window, andlooked out into the hot, oppressive night. The moon was hidden behinddark clouds, and the stillness was precursory of the thunderstorm whichfor the past hour or so had threatened. Across the room she paced slowlyseveral times, a deep, anxious expression upon her pale countenance;then slowly she slipped off her gown and put on a dark stuff dress.
Until the clock had struck eleven she waited. Then, assuming hertam-o'-shanter and twisting a silk scarf about her neck, she crept alongthe corridor and down the wide oak stairs. Lights were still burning;but without detection she slipped out by the main door, and, crossingthe broad drive, took the winding path into the woods.
The guests had all left, and the servants were closing the house for thenight. Scarce had she gone a hundred yards when a dark figure inovercoat and a golf-cap loomed up before her, and she found Walter ather side.
"Why, dearest!" he exclaimed, taking her hand and bending till hepressed it to his lips, "I began to fear you wouldn't come. Why haven'tI seen you to-night?"
"Because--well, because I had a bad headache," was her lame reply. "Iknew that if I went in to dinner mother would want me to sing, and Ireally didn't feel up to it. I hope, however, you haven't been bored toomuch."
"You know I have!" he said quickly in a low, earnest voice. "I came herepurposely to see you, and you were invisible. I've run the car down thefarm-road on the other side of the park, and left it there. The materwent home in the carriage nearly an hour ago. She's afraid to go in thecar when I drive."
Slowly they strolled together along the dark path, he with her arm heldtenderly under his own.
"Think, darling," he said, "I haven't seen you for four whole days! Whyis it? Yesterday I went to the usual spot at the end of the glen, andwaited nearly two hours; but you did not come, although you promised me,you know. Why are you so indifferent, dearest?" he asked in a plaintivetone. "I can't really make you out of late."
"I'm not indifferent at all, Walter," she declared. "My father has verymuch to attend to just now, and I'm compelled to assist him, as you arewell aware. He's so utterly helpless."
"Oh, but you might spare me just half-an-hour sometimes," he said in aslight tone of reproach.
"I do. Why, we surely see each other very often!"
"Not often enough for me, Gabrielle," he declared, halting in thedarkness and raising her soft little hand to his eager lips. "You knowwell enough how fondly I love you, how--"
"I know," she said in a sad, blank tone. Her own heart beat fast at hispassionate words.
"Then why do you treat me like this?" he asked. "Is it because I haveannoyed you, that you perhaps think I am not keeping faith with you? Iknow I was absent a long time, but it was really not my own fault. Mypeople made me go round the world. I didn't want to, I assure you. I'dfar rather have been up here at Connachan all the time, and near you, myown well-beloved."
"I believe you would, Walter," she answered, turning towards him withher hand upon his shoulder. "But I do wish you wouldn't reproach me formy undemonstrativeness each time we meet. It saddens me."
"I know I ought not to reproach you," he hastened to assure her. "I haveno right to do so; but somehow you have of late grown so sphinx-likethat you are not the Gabrielle I used to know."
"Why not?" And she laughed, a strange, hollow laugh. "Explain yourself."
"In the days gone by, before I went abroad, you were not so particularabout our meetings being clandestine. You did not care who saw us orwhat people might say."
"I was a girl then. I have now learnt wisdom, and the truth of themodern religion which holds that the only sin is that of being foundout."
"But why are you so secret in all your actions?" he demanded. "Whom doyou fear?"
"Fear!" she echoed, starting and staring in his direction. "Why, I fearnobody! What--what makes you think that?"
"Because it has lately struck me that you meet me in secretbecause--well, because you are afraid of someone, or do not wish us tobe seen."
"Why, how very foolish!" she laughed. "Don't my father and mother bothknow that we love each other? Besides, I am surely my own mistress. Iwould never marry a man I don't love," she added in a tone of quietdefiance.
"And am I to take it that you really do love me, after all?" he inquiredvery earnestly.
"Why, of course," she replied without hesitation, again placing her armabout his neck and kissing him. "How foolish of you to ask such aquestion, Walter! When will you be convinced that the answer I gave youlong ago was the actual truth?"
"Men who love as fervently as I do are apt to be somewhat foolish," hedeclared.
"Then don't be foolish any longer," she urged in a matter-of-fact voice,lifting her lips to his and kissing him. "You know I love you, Walter;therefore you should also know that it I avoid you in public I have somegood reason for doing so."
"A reason!" he cried. "What reason? Tell me."
She shook her head. "That is my own affair," she responded. "I repeatagain that my affection for you is undiminished, if such repetitionreally pleases you, as it seems to do."
"Of course it pleases me, dearest," he declared. "No words are sweeterto my ears than the declaration of your love. My only regret is that,now I am at home again, I do not see so much of you, sweetheart, as Ihad anticipated."
"Walter," she exclaimed in a slow, changed voice, after a brief silence,"there is a reason. Please do not ask me to tell you--because--well,because I can't." And, drawing a long breath, she added, "All I beg ofyou is to remain patient and trust in me. I love you; and I love noother man. Surely that should be, for you, all-sufficient. I am yours,and yours only."
In an instant he had folded her slight, dainty form in his arms. Theyoung man was satisfied, perfectly satisfied.
They strolled on together through the wood, and out across the opencorn-fields. The moon had come forth again, the storm-clouds had passed,and the night was perfect. Though she was trying against her will tohold aloof from Walter Murie, yet she loved him with all her heart andsoul. Many letters she had address
ed to him in his travels had remainedunanswered. This had, in a measure, piqued her. But she was in ignorancethat much of his correspondence and hers had fallen into the hands ofher ladyship and been destroyed.
As they walked on, talking as lovers will, she was thinking deeply, andfull of regret that she dared not tell the truth to this man who, lovingher so fondly, would, she knew, be prepared to make any sacrifice forher sake. Suppose he knew the truth! Whatever sacrifice he made would,alas! not alter facts. If she confessed, he would only hate her. Ah, thetragedy of it all! Therefore she held her silence; she dared not speaklest she might lose his love. She had no friend in whom she couldconfide. From her own father, even, she was compelled to hide the actualfacts. They were too terrible. What would he think if the bitter truthwere exposed?
The man at her side, tall, brave, strong--a lover whom she knew manygirls coveted--believed that he was to marry her. But, she told herselfwithin her grief-stricken heart, such a thing could never be. A barrierstood between them, invisible, yet nevertheless one that might for everdebar their mutual happiness.
An involuntary sigh escaped her, and he inquired the reason. She excusedherself by saying that it was owing to the exertion of walking over therough path. Therefore they halted, and, with the bright summer moonbeamsfalling upon her beautiful countenance, he kissed her passionately uponthe lips again and yet again.
They remained together for over an hour, moving along slowly, heedlessof where their footsteps led them; heedless, too, of being seen by anyof the keepers who, at night, usually patrolled the estate. Their walk,however, lay at the farther end of the glen, in the coverts remote fromthe house and nearer the high-road; therefore there was but littledanger of being observed.
Many were the pledges of affection they exchanged before parting. OnWalter's part they were fervent and passionate, but on the part of hisidol they were, alas! only the pretence of a happiness which she fearedcould never be permanent.
Presently they retraced their steps to the edge of the wood beyond whichlay the house. They found the path, and there, at her request, he lefther. It was not wise that he should approach the house at that hour, sheurged.
So, after a long and fervent leave-taking, he held her in a lastembrace, and then, raising his cap, and saying, "Good-night, my darling,my own well-beloved!" he turned away and went at a swinging pace downthe farm-road where he had left his car with lights extinguished.
She watched him disappear. Then, sighing, she turned into the dark,winding path beneath the trees, the end of which came out upon the driveclose to the house.
Half-way down, however, with sudden resolve, she took a narrower path tothe left, and was soon on the outskirts of the wood and out again in thebright moonlight.
The night was so glorious that she had resolved to stroll alone, tothink and devise some plan for the future. Before her, silhouetted highagainst the steely sky, rose the two great, black, ivy-clad towers ofthe ancient castle. The grim, crumbling walls stood dark and frowningamid the fairy-like scene, while from far below came up the faintrippling of the Ruthven Water. A great owl flapped lazily from the ivyas she approached those historic old walls which in bygone days had heldwithin them some of Scotland's greatest men. She had explored and knewevery nook and cranny in those extensive ruins. With Walter'sassistance, she had once made a perilous ascent to the top of thehighest of the two square towers, and had often clambered along thebroken walls of the keep or descended into those strange littlesubterranean chambers, now half-choked with earth and rubbish, whichtradition declared were the dungeons in which prisoners in the old dayshad been put to the rack, seared with red-hot irons, or submitted toother horrible tortures.
Her feet falling noiselessly, she entered the grass-grown courtyard,where stood the ancient spreading yew, the "dule-tree," under which theGlencardine charters had been signed and justice administered. Other bigtrees had sprung from seedlings since the place had fallen into ruin;and, having entered, she paused amidst its weird, impressive silence.Those high, ponderous walls about her spoke mutely of strength andimpregnability. Those grass-grown mounds hid ruined walls and brokenfoundations. What tales of wild lawlessness and reckless bloodshed theyall could tell!
Many of the strange stories she had heard concerning the oldplace--stories told by the people in the neighbourhood--were recalled asshe stood there gazing wonderingly about her. Many romantic legends had,indeed, been handed down in Perthshire from generation to generationconcerning old Glencardine and its lawless masters, and for her they hadalways possessed a strange fascination, for had she not inherited theantiquarian tastes of her father, and had she not read many works uponfolklore and such-like subjects.
Suddenly, while standing in the deep shadow, gazing thoughtfully up atthose high towers which, though ruined, still guarded the end of theglen, a strange thing occurred--something which startled her, causingher to halt breathless, petrified, rooted to the spot. She staredstraight before her. Something uncanny was happening there, somethingthat was, indeed, beyond human credence, and quite inexplicable.