CHAPTER VI
CONCERNS GABRIELLE'S SECRET
Along the cloister they went to the great hall, where Walter's motheradvanced to greet her. Full of regrets at the girl's inability to attendthe dance, she handed her the missing bracelet, saying, "It is such acurious and unusual one, dear, that we wondered to whom it belonged.Brown found it when she was sweeping my boudoir this morning. Take ithome to your mother, and suggest that she has a stronger clasp put onit."
The girl held the golden snake in her open hand. This was the first timeshe had ever seen it. A fine example of old Italian workmanship, it wasmade flexible, with its flat head covered with diamonds, and two brightemeralds for the eyes. The mouth could be opened, and within was a smallcavity where a photo or any tiny object could be concealed. Where hermother had picked it up she could not tell. But Lady Heyburn was alwayspurchasing quaint odds and ends, and, like most giddy women of herclass, was extraordinarily fond of fantastic jewellery and ornamentssuch as other women did not possess.
Several members of the house-party at Connachan entered and chatted, allbeing full of the success of the previous night's entertainment. LadyMurie's husband had, it appeared, left that morning for Edinburgh toattend a political committee.
A little later Walter succeeded in getting Gabrielle alone again in asmall, well-furnished room leading off the library--a room in which shehad passed many happy hours with him before he had gone abroad. He hadbeen in London reading for the Bar, but had spent a good deal of histime up in Perthshire, or at least all he possibly could. At such timesthey were inseparable; but after he had been "called"--there being nonecessity for him to practise, he being heir to the estates--he had goneto India and Japan "to broaden his mind," as his father had explained.
"I wonder, Gabrielle," he said hesitatingly, holding her hand as theystood at the open window--"I wonder if you will forgive me if I put aquestion to you. I--I know I ought not to ask it," he stammered; "but itis only because I love you so well, dearest, that I ask you to tell methe truth."
"The truth!" echoed the girl, looking at him with some surprise, thoughturning just a trifle paler, he thought. "The truth about what?"
"About that man James Flockart," was his low, distinct reply.
"About him! Why, my dear Walter," she laughed, "whatever do you want toknow about him? You know all that I know. We were agreed long ago thathe is not a gentleman, weren't we?"
"Yes," he said. "Don't you recollect our talk at your house in Londontwo years ago, soon after you came back from school? Do you rememberwhat you then told me?"
She flushed slightly at the recollection. "I--I ought not to have saidthat," she exclaimed hurriedly. "I was only a girl then, and I--well, Ididn't know."
"What you said has never passed my lips, dearest. Only, I ask you againto-day to tell me honestly and frankly whether your opinion of him hasin any way changed. I mean whether you still believe what you thensaid."
She was silent for a few moments. Her lips twitched nervously, and hereyes stared blankly out of the window. "No, I repeat what--I--said--then," she answered in a strange hoarse voice.
"And only you yourself suspect the truth?"
"You are the only person to whom I have mentioned it, and I have beenfilled with regret ever since. I had no right to make the allegation,Walter. I should have kept my secret to myself."
"There was surely no harm in telling me, dearest," he exclaimed, stillholding her hand, and looking fixedly into those clear-blue, fathomlesseyes so very dear to him. "You know too well that I would never betrayyou."
"But if he knew--if that man ever knew," she cried, "he would avengehimself upon me! I know he would."
"But what have you to fear, little one?" he asked, surprised at thesudden change in her.
"You know how my mother hates me, how they all detest me--all exceptdear old dad, who is so terribly helpless, misled, defrauded, andtricked--as he daily is--by those about him."
"I know, darling," said the young man. "I know it all only too well.Trust in me;" and, bending, he kissed her softly upon the lips.
What was the real, the actual truth, he wondered. Was she still his, asshe had ever been, or was she playing him false?
Little did the girl dream of the extent of her lover's knowledge ofcertain facts which she was hiding from the world, vainly believing themto be her own secret. Little did she dream how very near she was todisaster.
Walter Murie had, after a frivolous youth, developed at the age ofsix-and-twenty into as sound, honest, and upright a young man as couldbe found beyond the Border. As full of high spirits as of highprinciples, he was in every way worthy the name of the gallant familywhose name he bore, a Murie of Connachan, both for physical strength andscrupulous honesty; while his affection for Gabrielle Heyburn was thatdeep, all-absorbing devotion which makes men sacrifice themselves forthe women they love. He was not very demonstrative. He never wore hisheart upon his sleeve, but deep within him was that true affection whichcaused him to worship her as his idol. To him she was peerless amongwomen, and her beauty was unequalled. Her piquant mischievousness amusedhim. As a girl, she had always been fond of tantalising him, and did sonow. Yet he knew her fine character; how deeply devoted she was to herafflicted father, and how full of discomfort was her dull life, now thatshe had exchanged her school for the same roof which covered Sir Henry'ssecond wife. Indeed, this latter event was the common talk of all whoknew the family. They sighed and pitied poor Sir Henry. It was all verysad, they said; but there their sympathy ended. During Walter's absenceabroad something had occurred. What that something was he had not yetdetermined. Gabrielle was not exactly the same towards him as she usedto be. His keen sensitiveness told him this instinctively, and, indeed,he had made a discovery that, though he did not admit it now, hadstaggered him.
He stood there at the open window chatting with her, but what he said hehad no idea. His one thought--the one question which now possessedhim--was whether she still loved him, or whether the discovery he hadmade was the actual and painful truth. Tall and good-looking,clean-shaven, and essentially easy-going, he stood before her with hisdark eyes fixed upon her--eyes full of devotion, for was she not hisidol?
She was telling him of a garden-party which her mother had arranged forthe following Thursday, and pressing him to attend it.
"I'm afraid I may have to be in London that day, dearest," he responded."But if I may I'll come over to-morrow and play tennis. Will you be athome in the afternoon?"
"No," she declared promptly, with a mischievous laugh, "I shan't. Ishall be in the glen by the first bridge at four o'clock, and shall waitfor you there."
"Very well, I'll be there," he laughed. "But why should we meet insecret like this, when everybody knows of our engagement?"
"Well, because I have a reason," she replied in a strained voice--"astrong reason."
"You've grown suddenly shy, afraid of chaff, it seems."
"My mother is, I fear, not altogether well disposed towards you,Walter," was her quick response. "Dad is very fond of you, as you wellknow; but Lady Heyburn has other views for me, I think."
"And is that the only reason you wish to meet me in secret?" he asked.
She hesitated, became slightly confused, and quickly turned theconversation into a different channel, a fact which caused him increaseddoubt and reflection.
Yes, something certainly had occurred. That was vividly apparent. A gulflay between them.
Again he looked straight into her beautiful face, and fell to wondering.What could it all mean? So true had she been to him, so sweet hertemperament, so high all her ideals, that he could not bring himself tobelieve ill of her. He tried to fight down those increasing doubts. Hetried to put aside the naked truth which had arisen before him since hisreturn to England. He loved her. Yes, he loved her, and would think noill of her until he had proof, actual and indisputable.
As far as the eligibility of Walter Murie was concerned there was noquestion. Even Lady Heyburn could not deny it whe
n she discussed thematter over the tea-cups with her intimate friends.
The family of the Muries of Connachan claimed a respectable antiquity.The original surname of the family was De Balinhard, assumed from anestate of that name in the county of Forfar. Sir Jocelynus deBaldendard, or Balinhard, who witnessed several charters between 1204and 1225, is the first recorded of the name, but there is no documentaryproof of descent before that time; and, indeed, most of the familypapers having been burned in 1452, little remains of the early historybeyond the names and succession of the possessors of Balinhard fromabout 1250 till 1350, which are stated in a charter of David II. nowpreserved in the British Museum. This charter records the grant made byWilliam de Maule to John de Balinhard, _filio et heredi quondam Joannisfilii Christini filii Joannis de Balinhard_, of the lands of Murie, inthe county of Perthshire, and from that period, about 1350, the familyhas borne the name of De Murie instead of De Balinhard. In 1409 Duthacde Murie obtained a charter of the Castle of Connachan, possession ofwhich has been held by the family uninterruptedly ever since, except forabout thirty years, when the lands were under forfeiture on account ofthe Rebellion of 1715.
Near Crieff Junction station the lands of Glencardine and Connachanmarch together; therefore both Sir Henry Heyburn and his friend, SirGeorge Murie, had looked upon an alliance between the two houses asquite within the bounds of probability.
If the truth were told, Gabrielle had never looked upon any other mansave Walter with the slightest thought of affection. She loved him withthe whole strength of her being. During that twelve long months ofabsence he had been daily in her thoughts, and his constant letters shehad read and re-read dozens of times. She had, since she left school,met many eligible young men at houses to which her mother had grudginglytaken her--young men who had been nice to her, flattered her, andflirted with her. But she had treated them all with coquettish disdain,for in the world there was but one man who was her lover and herhero--her old friend Walter Murie.
At this moment, as they were together in that cosy, well-furnished room,she became seized by a twinge of conscience. She knew quite well thatshe was not treating him as she ought. She had not been at allenthusiastic at his return, and she had inquired but little about hiswanderings. Indeed, she had treated him with a studied indifference, asthough his life concerned her but little. And yet if he only knew thetruth, she thought; if he could only see that that cool, unresponsiveattitude was forced upon her by circumstances; if he could only know howquickly her heart throbbed when he was present, and how dull and lonelyall became when he was absent!
She loved him. Ah, yes! as truly and devotedly as he loved her. Butbetween them there had fallen a dark, grim shadow--one which, at allhazards and by every subterfuge, she must endeavour to hide. She lovedhim, and could, therefore, never bear to hear his bitter reproaches orto witness his grief. He worshipped her. Would that he did not, shethought. She must hide her secret from him as she was hiding it from allthe world.
He was speaking. She answered him calmly yet mechanically. He wonderedwhat strange thoughts were concealed beneath those clear, wide-open,child-like eyes which he was trying in vain to fathom. What would hehave thought had he known the terrible truth: that she had calmly, andafter long reflection, resolved to court death--death by her ownhand--rather than face the exposure with which she had that previousnight been threatened.