CHAPTER VIII
CASTING THE BAIT
Loving and perishing: these have tallied from eternity. Love and deathwalk hand-in-hand. The will to love means also to be ready for death.
Gabrielle Heyburn recognised this truth. She had the will to love, andshe had the resolve to perish--perish by her own hand--rather than allowher secret to be exposed. Those who knew her--a young, athletic,merry-faced, open-air girl on the verge of budding womanhood, sotrue-hearted, frank, and free--little dreamed of the terrible nature ofthat secret within her young heart.
She held aloof from her lover as much as she dared. True, Walter came toGlencardine nearly every day, but she managed to avoid him wheneverpossible. Why? Because she knew her own weakness; she feared beingcompelled by his stronger nature, and by the true affection in which sheheld him, to confess. They walked together in the cool, shady glenbeside the rippling burn, climbed the neighbouring hills, played tennis,or else she lay in the hammock at the edge of the lawn while he loungedat her side smoking cigarettes. She did all this because she wascompelled.
Her most enjoyable hours were the quiet ones spent at Her father's side.Alone in the library, she read to him, in French, those curious businessdocuments which came so often by registered post. They were so strangelyworded that, not knowing their true import, she failed to understandthem. All were neatly typed, without any heading to the paper. Sometimesa printed address in the Boulevard des Capucines, Paris, would appear onletters accompanying the enclosures. But all were very formal, and toGabrielle extremely puzzling.
Sir Henry always took the greatest precaution that no one should obtainsight of these confidential reports or overhear them read by hisdaughter. Before she sat down to read, she always shot the small brassbolt on the door to prevent Hill or any other intruder from entering.More than once the Baronet's wife had wanted to come in while thereading was in progress, whereupon Sir Henry always excused himself,saying that he locked his door against his guests when he wished to bealone, an explanation which her ladyship accepted.
These strangely worded reports in French always puzzled the Baronet'sdaughter. Sometimes she became seized by a vague suspicion that herfather was carrying on some business which was not altogetherhonourable. Why should he enjoin such secrecy? Why should he cause herto write and despatch with her own hand such curiously worded telegrams,addressed always to the registered address: "METEFOROS, PARIS"?
Those neatly typed pages which she read could be always construed in twoor three senses. But only her father knew the actual meaning which thewriter intended to convey. For hours she would often be engaged inreading them. Sometimes, too, telegrams in cipher arrived, and she wouldthen obtain the little, dark-blue covered book from the safe, and by itsaid decipher the messages from the French capital.
Questions, curious questions, were frequently asked by the anonymoussender of the reports; and to these her father replied by means of hisprivate code. She had become during the past year quite an experttypist, and therefore to her the Baronet entrusted the replies, alwaysimpressing upon her the need of absolute secrecy, even from her mother.
"My affairs," he often declared, "concern nobody but myself. I trust inyou, Gabrielle dear, to guard my secrets from prying eyes. I know thatyou yourself must often be puzzled, but that is only natural."
Unfamiliar as the girl was with business in any form, she had during thepast year arrived at the conclusion, after much debate within herself,that this source of her father's income was a distinctly mysterious one.The estates were, of course, large, and he employed agents to managethem; but they could not produce that huge income which she knew hepossessed, for had she not more than once seen the amount of his balanceat his banker's as well as the large sum he had on deposit? The sourceof his colossal wealth was a mystery, but was no doubt connected withhis curious and constant communications with Paris.
At rare intervals a grey-faced, grey-bearded, and rather stoutFrenchman--a certain Monsieur Goslin--called, and on such occasions wascloseted for a long time alone with Sir Henry, evidently discussing someimportant affair in secret. To her ladyship, as well as to Gabrielle,the Frenchman was most courteous, but refused the pressing invitationsto remain the night. He always arrived by the morning train from Perth,and left for the south the same night, the express being stopped for himby signal at Auchterarder station. The mysterious visitor puzzledGabrielle considerably. Her father entrusted him with secrets which hewithheld from her, and this often caused her both surprise andannoyance. Like every other girl, she was of course full of curiosity.
Towards her Flockart became daily more friendly. On two occasions, afterbreakfast, he had invited her to spend an hour or two fishing for troutin the burn, which was unexpectedly in spate, and they had thus beensome time in each other's company.
She, however, regarded him with distinct distrust. He was undeniablygood-looking, nonchalant, and a thorough-going man of the world. But hisintimate friendship with Lady Heyburn prevented her from regarding himas a true friend. Towards her he was ever most courteous, and paid hermany little compliments. He tied her flies, he fitted her rod, and ifher line became entangled in the trees he always put matters right. Not,however, that she could not do it all herself. In her strong, highfishing-boots, her short skirts hemmed with leather, her burberry, andher dark-blue tam-o'-shanter set jauntily on her chestnut hair, she veryoften fished alone, and made quite respectable baskets. To wade into theburn and disentangle her line from beneath a stone was to her quite asmall occurrence, for she would never let either Stewart or any of theunder-keepers accompany her.
Why Flockart had so suddenly sought her society she failed to discern.Hitherto, though always extremely polite, he had treated her as a child,which she naturally resented. At length, however, he seemed to haverealised that she now possessed the average intelligence of a youngwoman.
He had never repeated those strange words he had uttered when, on thenight of the ball at Connachan, he returned in secret to the castle andbeckoned her out upon the lawn. He had, indeed, never referred to hiscurious action. Sometimes she wondered, so changed was his manner,whether he had actually forgotten the incident altogether. He had showedhimself in his true colours that night. Whatever suspicions she hadpreviously held were corroborated in that stroll across the lawn in thedark shadow. His tactics had altered, it seemed, and their objectivepuzzled her.
"It must be very dull for you here, Miss Heyburn," he remarked to herone bright morning as they were casting up-stream near one another. Theywere standing not far from a rustic bridge in a deep, leafy glen, wherethe sunshine penetrated here and there through the canopy of leaves,beneath which the burn pursued its sinuous course towards the Earn. Themusic of the rippling waters over the brown, moss-grown boulders mingledwith the rustle of the leaves above, as now and then the soft wind sweptup the narrow valley. They were treading a carpet of wild-flowers, andthe air was full of the delicious perfume of the summer day. "You mustbe very dull, living here so much, and going up to town so very seldom,"he said.
"Oh dear no!" she laughed. "You are quite mistaken. I really enjoy acountry life. It's so jolly after the confinement and rigorous rules ofschool. One is free up here. I can wear my old clothes, and go cycling,fishing, shooting, curling; in fact, I'm my own mistress. That Ishouldn't be if I lived in London, and had to make calls, walk in thePark, go shopping, sit out concerts, and all that sort of thing."
"But though you're out, you never go anywhere. Surely that's unusual forone so active and--well"--he hesitated--"I wonder whether I might bepermitted to say so--so good-looking as you are, Gabrielle."
"Ah!" replied the girl, protesting, but blushing at the same time,"you're poking fun at me, Mr. Flockart. All I can reply is, first, thatI'm not good-looking; and, secondly, I'm not in the least dull--perhapsI should be if I hadn't my father's affairs to attend to."
"They seem to take up a lot of your time," he said with pretendedindifference, but, to his annoyance, landed a salmon parr at the samemomen
t.
"We work together most evenings," was her reply.
The question which he then put as he threw the parr back into the burnstruck her as curious. It was evident that he was endeavouring to learnfrom her the nature of her father's correspondence. But she was shrewdenough to parry all his ingenious cross-questioning. Her father'ssecrets were her own.
"Some ill-natured people gossip about Sir Henry," he remarked presently,as he made another long cast up-stream and allowed the flies to becarried down to within a few yards from where he stood. "They say thathis source of income is mysterious, and that it is not altogether openand above-board."
"What!" she exclaimed, looking at him quickly. "And who, pray, Mr.Flockart, makes this allegation against my father?"
"Oh, I really don't know who started the gossip. The source of suchtales is always difficult to discover. Some enemy, no doubt. Every manin this world of ours has enemies."
"What do you mean by the source of dad's income not being an honourableone?"
The man shrugged his shoulders. "I really don't know," he declared. "Ionly repeat what I've heard once or twice up in London."
"Tell me exactly what they say," demanded the girl, with quick interest.
Her companion hesitated for a few seconds. "Well, whatever has beensaid, I've always denied; for, as you know, I am a friend of both LadyHeyburn and of your father."
The girl's nostrils dilated slightly. Friend! Why, was not this man herfather's false friend? Was he not behind every sinister action of LadyHeyburn's, and had not she herself, with her own ears, one day at ParkStreet, four years ago, overheard her ladyship express a dastardlydesire in the words, "Oh, Henry is such a dreadful old bore, and soutterly useless, that it's a shame a woman like myself should be tied upto him. Fortunately for me, he already has one foot in the grave.Otherwise I couldn't tolerate this life at all!" Those cruel words ofher stepmother's, spoken to this man who was at that moment hercompanion, recurred to her. She recollected, too, Flockart's reply.
This hollow pretence of friendship angered her. She knew that the manwas her father's enemy, and that he had united with the clever, schemingwoman in some ingenious conspiracy against the poor, helpless man.
Therefore she turned, and, facing him boldly, said, "I wish, Mr.Flockart, that you would please understand that I have no intention todiscuss my father or his affairs. The latter concern himself alone. Hedoes not even speak of them to his wife; therefore why should strangersevince any interest in them?"
"Because there are rumours--rumours of a mystery; and mysteries arealways interesting and attractive," was his answer.
"True," she said meaningly. "Just as rumours concerning certain of myfather's guests possess an unusual interest for him, Mr. Flockart.Though my father may be blind, his hearing is still excellent. And he isaware of much more than you think."
The man glanced at her for an instant, and his face darkened. The girl'sominous words filled him with vague apprehension. Was it possible thatthe blind man had any suspicion of what was intended? He held hisbreath, and made another vicious cast far up the rippling stream.