CHAPTER XXXII
OUTSIDE THE WINDOW
Late on the following afternoon Gabrielle was seated at theold-fashioned piano in her aunt's tiny drawing-room, her fingers runningidly over the keys, her thoughts wandering back to the excitingadventure of the previous morning. Her aunt was out visiting some oldpeople in connection with the village clothing club, therefore she satgloomily amusing herself at the piano, and thinking--ever thinking.
She had been playing almost mechanically Berger's "Amoureuse" valse andsome dreamy music from _The Merry Widow_, when she suddenly stopped andsat back with her eyes fixed out of the window upon the cottagesopposite.
Why was Mr. Hamilton in that neighbourhood? He had given her no furtherinformation concerning himself. He seemed to be disinclined to talkabout his recent movements. He had sprung from nowhere just at thecritical moment when she was in such deadly peril. Then, after theirclothes had been dried, they had walked together as far as the littlebridge at the entrance to Fotheringhay.
There he had stopped, bent gallantly over her hand, congratulated herupon her escape, and as their ways lay in opposite directions--she backto Woodnewton and he on to Oundle--they had parted. "I hope, MissHeyburn, that we may meet again one day," he had laughed cheerily as heraised his hat, "Good-bye." Then he had turned away, and had been lostto view round the bend of the road.
She was safe. That man whom she had known long ago under such strangecircumstances, whom she would probably never see again, had been herrescuer. Of this curious and romantic fact she was now thinking.
But where was Walter? Why had he not replied to her letter? Ah! that wasthe one thought which oppressed her always, sleeping and waking, day andnight. Why had he not written? Would he never write again?
She had at first consoled herself with the thought that he was probablyon the Continent, and that her letter had not been forwarded. But as thedays went on, and no reply came, the truth became more and more apparentthat her lover--the man whom she adored and worshipped--had put heraside, had accepted her at her own estimate as worthless.
A thousand times she had regretted the step she had taken in writingthat 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 hadloved so well. The world had, indeed, been cruel to her. Her enemies hadprofited by her inexperience, and she had fallen an unhappy victim of anunscrupulous blackguard. Yes, it was only too true. She did not try toconceal the ugly truth from herself. Yet she had been compelled to keepWalter in ignorance of the truth, for he loved her.
A hardness showed at the corners of her sweet lips, and the tears rolledslowly down her cheeks. Then, bestirring herself with an effort, herwhite fingers ran over the keys again, and in her sweet, musical voiceshe sang "L'Heure d'Aimer," that pretty _valse chantee_ so popular inParis:--
Voici l'heure d'aimer, l'heure des tendresses; Dis-moi les mots tres doux qui vont me griser, Ah! prends-moi dans tes bras, fais-moi des caresses; Je veux mourir pour revivre sous ton baiser. Emporte-moi dans un reve amoureux, Bien loin sur la terre inconnue, Pour que longtemps, meme en rouvrant les yeux, Ce reve continue.
Croyons, aimons, vivons un jour; C'est si bon, mais si court! Bonheur de vivre ici-bas diminue Dans un moment d'amour.
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 fewFrench or Italian songs. Italian she loved even better than French, andcould read Dante and Petrarch in the original, while she possessed anintimate knowledge of the poetry of Italy from the mediaeval writersdown to Carducci and D'Annunzio.
With a sigh, she glanced around the small room, with its old-fashionedfurniture, its antimacassars of the early Victorian era, its wax flowersunder their glass dome, and its gipsy-table covered with ahand-embroidered cloth. It was all so very dispiriting. The primness ofthe whatnot decorated with pieces of treasured china, the biggilt-framed overmantel, and the old punch-bowl filled with pot-pourri,all spoke mutely of the thin-nosed old spinster to whom the veriestspeck of dust was an abomination.
Sighing still again, the girl turned once more to the old-fashionedinstrument, with its faded crimson silk behind the walnut fretwork, and,playing the plaintive melody, sang an ancient serenade:
Di questo cor tu m'hai ferito il core A cento colpi, piu non val mentire. Pensa che non sopporto piu il dolore, E se segu cosi, vado a morire. Ti tengo nella mente a tutte l'ore, Se lavoro, se velio, o sto a dormre ... E mentre dormo ancora un sonno grato, Mi trovo tutto lacrime bagnato!
While she sang, there was a rap at the front-door, and, just as sheconcluded, the prim maid entered with a letter upon a salver.
In an instant her heart gave a bound. She recognised the handwriting. Itwas 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 hascaused 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 istrue. But you spurned it--under compulsion, you say! Why undercompulsion? Who is it who compels you to act against your will andagainst your better nature? I know that you love me as well and as trulyas 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 whatFlockart means by saying that I have spoken of you. I have not seen theman, nor do I wish to see him. Gabrielle, do not trust him. He is yourenemy, as he is mine. He has lied to you. As grim circumstance hasforced you to treat me cruelly, let us hope that smiling fortune will beours at last. The world is very small. I have just met my old friendEdgar Hamilton, who was at college with me, and who, I find, issecretary to some wealthy foreigner, a certain Baron de Hetzendorf. Ihave not seen him for years, and yet he turns up here, merry andprosperous, after struggling for a long time with adverse circumstances.
"But, Gabrielle, your letter has puzzled and alarmed me. The more Ithink of it, the more mystifying it all becomes. I must see you, and youmust 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 letteryou wrote from Glencardine. You wish to see me, darling. You shall--andyou 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 intendedto come there and demand it! And the explanation was one which she darednot give. Rather that she took her own life than tell him the ghastlycircumstances.
He had met an old chum named Hamilton. Was this the Mr. Hamilton who hadsnatched her from that deadly peril? The name of Hetzendorf sounded tobe Austrian or German. How strange if Mr. Hamilton her rescuer were thesame 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 tothat 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 actualtruth. What could she do? How should she act?
Holding the letter in her hand, she glanced around the little room inutter despair.
He loved her. His words of reassurance brought her great comfort. But hewished to know the truth. He suspected something. By her own action inwriting those letters she had aroused suspicion against herself. Sheregretted, yet what was the use of regret? Her own passionate words hadrevealed to him something which he had not suspected. And he was comingdown there, to Woodnewton, to demand the truth! He mig
ht even then be onhis way!
If he asked her point-blank, what could she reply? She dare not tell himthe truth. There were now but two roads open--either death by her ownhand or to lie to him.
Could she tell him an untruth? No. She loved him, therefore she couldnot resort to false declarations and deceit. Better--far better--wouldit be that she took her own life. Better, she thought, if Mr. Hamiltonhad not plunged into the river after her. If her life had ended, WalterMurie would at least have been spared the bitter knowledge of adisgraceful truth. Her face grew pale and her mouth hardened at thethought.
She loved him with all the fierce passion of her young heart. He was herhero, her idol. Before her tear-dimmed eyes his dear, serious face rose,a sweet memory of what had been. Tender remembrances of his fond kissesstill lingered with her. She recollected how around her waist his strongarm would steal, and how slowly and yet irresistibly he would draw herin his arms in silent ecstasy.
Alas! that was all past and over. They loved each other, but she was nowface to face with what she had so long dreaded--face to face with theinevitable. She must either confess the truth, and by so doing turn hislove to hatred, or else remain silent and face the end.
She reread the letter still seated at the piano, her elbows restinginertly upon the keys. Then she lifted her pale face again to thewindow, gazing out blankly upon the village street, so dull, so silent,so uninteresting. The thought of Mr. Hamilton--the man who held a secretof hers, and who only a few hours before had rescued her from the perilin which Felix Krail had placed her--again recurred to her. Was it notremarkable that he, Walter's old friend, should come down into thatneighbourhood? There was some motive in his visit! What could it be? Hehad spoken of Hungary, a country which had always possessed for her astrange fascination. Was it not quite likely that, being Walter'sfriend, Hamilton on his return to London would relate the excitingincident of the river? Had he seen Krail? And, if so, did he know him?
Those two points caused her the greatest apprehension. Suppose he hadrecognised Krail! Suppose he had overheard that man's demands, and herdefiant refusal, he would surely tell Walter!
She bit her lip, and her white fingers clenched themselves indesperation.
Why should all this misfortune fall upon her, to wreck her young life?Other girls were gay, careless, and happy. They visited and motored andflirted and danced, and went to theatres in town and to suppersafterwards at the Carlton or Savoy, and had what they termed "a rippinggood time." But to her poor little self all pleasure was debarred. Onlythe grim shadows of life were hers.
Her mind had become filled with despair. Why had this great calamitybefallen her? Why had she, by her own action in writing to her lover,placed herself in that terrible position from which there was noescape--save by death?
The recollection of the Whispers--those fatal Whispers ofGlencardine--flashed through her distressed mind. Was it actually true,as the countryfolk declared, that death overtook all those who overheardthe counsels of the Evil One? It really seemed as though there actuallywas more in the weird belief than she had acknowledged. Her father hadscouted the idea, yet old Stewart, who had personally known instances,had declared that evil and disaster fell inevitably upon any one whochanced to hear those voices of the night.
The recollection of that moonlight hour among the ruins, and thedistinct voices whispering, caused a shudder to run through her. She hadheard them with her own ears, and ever since that moment nothing butcatastrophe upon catastrophe had fallen upon her.
Yes, she had heard the Whispers, and she could not escape their evilinfluence any more than those other unfortunate persons to whom deathhad come so unexpectedly and swiftly.
A shadow passed the window, causing her to start. The figure was that ofa man. She rose from the piano with a cry, and stood erect, motionless,statuesque.