CHAPTER XXV
SHOWS GABRIELLE IN EXILE
Midway between historic Fotheringhay and ancient Apethorpe, theancestral seat of the Earls of Westmorland, lay the long, straggling,and rather poverty-stricken village of Woodnewton. Like many otherNorthamptonshire 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 themmore or less in stages of decay. With the depreciation in agriculture,Woodnewton, once quite a prosperous little place, was now terriblyshabby and depressing.
As he entered the village, the first object that met the eye of thestranger was a barn with the roof half fallen away, and next it a ruinedhouse 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 cottagelarger and neater-looking than the rest. Its ugly exterior washalf-hidden by ivy, which had been cut away from the diamond-panedwindows; while, unlike its neighbours, its roof was tiled and its browndoor newly painted and highly varnished.
Old Miss Heyburn lived there, and had lived there for the pasthalf-century. The prim, grey-haired, and somewhat eccentric old lady wasa well-known figure to all on that country-side. Twice each Sunday, withher large-type Prayer-book in her hand, and her steel-rimmed spectacleson her thin nose, she walked to church, while she was one of theprincipal supporters of the village clothing-club and such-likeinstitutions inaugurated by the worthy rector.
Essentially an ascetic person, she was looked upon with fear by all thevillagers. Her manner was brusque, her speech sharp, and her criticismof neglectful mothers caustic and much to the point. Prim, always inblack bonnet and jet-trimmed cape of years gone by, both in summer andwinter, she took no heed of the vagaries of fashion, even when theyreached 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 lovelesslife like her own, and as soon as a girl cast an eye upon a likely swainshe was ignominiously dismissed.
That the sharp-tongued spinster possessed means was undoubted. It wasknown that she was sister of Sir Henry Heyburn of Caistor, inLincolnshire; and, on account of her social standing, she on rareoccasions was bidden to the omnium gatherings at some of the mansions inthe neighbourhood. She seldom accepted; but when she did it was only tosatisfy her curiosity and to criticise.
The household of two, the old lady and her exemplary maid, was assuredlya dull one. Meals were taken with punctual regularity amid a cleanlinessthat was almost painful. The tiny drawing-room, with its row ofwindow-plants, including a pot of strong-smelling musk, was hardly everentered. Not a speck of dust was allowed anywhere, for Miss Emily's eyewas sharp, and woe betide the maid if a mere suspicion of dirt werediscovered! Everything was kept locked up. One maid who resignedhurriedly, refusing to be criticised, afterwards declared that hermistress kept the paraffin under lock and key.
And into this uncomfortably prim and proper household little Gabriellehad suddenly been introduced. Her heart overburdened by grief, and fullof regret at being compelled to part from the father she so fondlyloved, she had accepted the inevitable, fully realising the dullgreyness of the life that lay before her. Surely her exile there was acruel and crushing one! The house seemed so tiny and so suffocatingafter the splendid halls and huge rooms at Glencardine, while her aunt'sconstant sarcasm about her father--whom she had not seen for eightyears--was particularly galling.
The woman treated the girl as a wayward child sent there for punishmentand correction. She showed her neither kindness nor consideration; for,truth to tell, it annoyed her to think that her brother should haveimposed 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 knewit, 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 andvitality as Gabrielle. Though she had written several times to herfather, he had sent her no reply. To her mother at San Remo she had alsowritten, 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 asthose in the possession of her aunt. She had tried needlework, problemsof patience, and the translation of a few chapters of an Italian novelinto English in order to occupy her time. But those hours when she wasalone in her little upstairs room with the sloping roof passed, alas! sovery slowly.
Upon her, ever oppressive, were thoughts of that bitter past. At onestaggering blow she had lost all that had made her young life worthliving--her father's esteem and her lover's love. She was innocent,entirely innocent, of the terrible allegations against her, and yet shewas so utterly defenceless!
Often she sat at her little window for hours watching the lethargy ofvillage life in the street below, that rural life in which the rectorand the schoolmaster were the principal figures. The dullness of it allwas maddening. Her aunt's mid-Victorian primness, her snappishnesstowards the trembling maid, and the thousand and one rules of her dailylife irritated her and jarred upon her nerves.
So, in order to kill time, and at the same time to study the antiquitiesof the neighbourhood--her father having taught her so much deepantiquarian knowledge--it had been her habit for three months past totake long walks for many miles across the country, accompanied by theblack collie Rover belonging to a young farmer who lived at the end ofthe village. The animal had one day attached itself to her while she wastaking a walk on the Apethorpe road; and now, by her feeding him dailyand making a pet of him, the girl and the dog had become inseparable. Bylong walks and short train-journeys she had, in three months, been ableto inspect most of the antiquities of Northamptonshire. Much of thehistory of the county was intensely interesting: the connection of oldFotheringhay with the ill-fated Mary Queen of Scots, the beauties ofPeterborough Cathedral, the splendid old Tudor house of Deene (the homeof the Earls of Cardigan), the legends of King John concerning King'sCliffe, the gaunt splendour of ruined Kirby, and the old-world charm ofApethorpe. All these, and many others, had great attraction for her. Sheread them up in books she ordered from London, and then visited the oldplaces with all the enthusiasm of a spectacled antiquary.
Every day, no matter what the weather, she might be seen, in her thickboots, burberry, and tam o'shanter, trudging along the roads or acrossthe fields accompanied by the faithful collie. The winter had been acomparatively mild one, with excessive rain. But no downpour troubledher. She liked the rain to beat into her face, for the dismal,monotonous cheerlessness of the brown fields, bare trees, and muddyroads was in keeping with the tragedy of her own young life.
She knew that her aunt Emily disliked her. The covert sneers, thecaustic criticisms, and the go-to-meeting attitude of the old ladyirritated the girl beyond measure. She was not wanted in that painfullyprim 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 ofdoors. Alone she had traversed the whole county, seeking permission toglance at the interior of any old house or building that promisedarchaeological interest, and by that means making some curiousfriendships.
Many people regarded the pretty young girl who made a study of oldchurches and old houses as somewhat eccentric. Local antiquaries,however, stared at her in wonder when they found that she was possessedof knowledge far more profound than theirs, and that she could decipherold documents and read Latin inscriptions with ease.
She made few friends, preferring solitude and reflection to visiting andgossiping. Hers was, indeed, a pathetic little figure, and thecountryfolk used to stare at her in surprise and sigh as she passedthrough the various little hamlets and villages so regularly, the blackcollie bounding before her.
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Quickly she had become known as "Miss Heyburn's niece," and the reporthaving spread that she was "a bit eccentric, poor thing," people soonceased to wonder, and began to regard that pale, sad face with sympathy.The whole country-side was wondering why such a pretty young lady hadgone to live in the deadly dullness of Woodnewton, and what was thecause of that great sorrow written upon her countenance.
Her daily burden of bitter reflection was, indeed, hard to bear. Her onethought, as she walked those miles of lonely rural byways, so bare andcheerless, was of Walter--her Walter--the man who, she knew, would havewillingly given his very life for hers. She had met her just punishment,and was now endeavouring to bear it bravely. She had renounced his lovefor ever.
One afternoon, dark and rainy, in the gloom of early March, she wassitting at the old-fashioned and rather tuneless piano in the damp,unused "best room," which was devoid of fire for economic reasons. Heraunt was seated in the window busily crocheting, while she, with herwhite fingers running across the keys, raised her sweet contralto voicein that old-world Florentine song that for centuries has been sung bythe populace in the streets of the city by the Arno:
In questa notte in sogno l'ho veduto Era vestito tutto di braccato, Le piume sul berretto di velluto Ed una spada d'oro aveva allato.
E poi m'ha detto con un bel sorriso; Io no, non posso star da te diviso, Da te diviso non ci posso stare E torno per mai pin non ti lasciare.
Miss Heyburn sighed, and looked up from her work. "Can't you singsomething in English, Gabrielle? It would be much better," she remarkedin a snappy tone.
The girl's mouth hardened slightly at the corners, and she closed thepiano without replying.
"I don't mean you to stop," exclaimed the ascetic old lady. "I onlythink that girls, instead of learning foreign songs, should be able tosing English ones properly. Won't you sing another?"
"No," replied the girl, rising. "The rain has ceased, so I shall go formy 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 ofKing's Cliffe.
It was always the same. If she indulged herself in singing one or otherof those ancient love-songs of the hot-blooded Tuscan peasants her auntalways scolded. Nothing she did was right, for the simple reason thatshe was an unwelcome visitor.
She was alone. Rover was conducting sheep to Stamford market, as was hisduty every week; therefore in the fading daylight she went along,immersed in her own sad thoughts. Her walk at that hour was entirelyaimless. She had only gone forth because of the irritation she felt ather aunt's constant complaints. So entirely engrossed was she by her owndespair that she had not noticed the figure of a man who, catching sightof her at the end of Woodnewton village, had held back until she hadgone a considerable distance, and had then sauntered leisurely in thedirection she had taken.
The man kept her in view, but did not approach her. The high, redmail-cart passed, and the driver touched his hat respectfully to her.The man who collected the evening mail from all the villages betweenDeene and Peterborough met her almost every evening, and had long agoinquired and learnt who she was.
For nearly two miles she walked onward, until, close by the junction ofthe road which comes down the hill from Nassington, the man who had beenfollowing hastened up and overtook her.
She heard herself addressed by name, and, turning quickly, found herselfface to face with James Flockart.