CHAPTER XVI
SHOWS A GIRL'S BONDAGE
Walter Murie had chosen politics as a profession long ago, even when hewas an undergraduate. He had already eaten his dinners in London, andhad been called to the Bar as the first step towards a political career.He had a relative in the Foreign Office, while his uncle had held anUnder-Secretaryship in the late Government. Therefore he had influence,and hoped by its aid to secure some safe seat. Already he had studiedboth home and foreign affairs very closely, and had on two occasionswritten articles in the _Times_ upon that most vexed and difficultquestion, the pacification of Macedonia. He was a very fair speaker,too, and on several occasions he had seconded resolutions and made quiteclever speeches at political gatherings in his own county, Perthshire.Indeed, politics was his hobby; and, with money at his command andinfluence in high quarters, there was no reason why he should not withinthe next few years gain a seat in the House. With Sir Henry Heyburn heoften had long and serious chats. The brilliant politician, whose careerhad so suddenly and tragically been cut short, gave him much goodadvice, pointing out the special questions he should study in order tobecome an authority. This is the age of specialising, and in politics itis just as essential to be a specialist as it is in the medical, legal,or any other profession.
In a few days the young man was returning to his dingy chambers in theTemple, to pore again over those mouldy tomes of law; therefore almostdaily he ran over to Glencardine to chat with the blind Baronet, and tohave quiet walks with the sweet girl who looked so dainty in her freshwhite frocks, and whose warm kisses were so soft and caressing.
Surely no pair, even in the bygone days of knight and dame, the days ofreal romance, were more devoted to each other. With satisfaction he sawthat Gabrielle's apparent indifference had now worn off. It had been butthe mask of a woman's whim, and as such he treated it.
One afternoon, after tea out on the lawn, they were walking together bythe bypath to the lodge in order to meet Lady Heyburn, who had gone intothe village to visit a bedridden old lady. Hand-in-hand they werestrolling, for on the morrow he was going south, and would probably beabsent for some months.
The girl had allowed herself to remain in her lover's arms in one longkiss of perfect ecstasy. Then, with a sigh of regret, she had held hishand and gone forward again without a word. When Walter had left, thesun of her young life would have set, for after all it was not exactlyexciting to be the eyes and ears of a man who was blind. And there wasalways at her side that man whom she hated, and who, she knew, was herbitterest foe--James Flockart.
Of late her father seemed to have taken him strangely into hisconfidence. Why, she could not tell. A sudden change of front on theBaronet's part was unusual; but as she watched with sinking heart shecould not conceal from herself the fact that Flockart now exercisedconsiderable influence over her father--an influence which in somematters had already proved to be greater than her own.
It was of this man Walter spoke. "I have a regret, dearest--nay, morethan a regret, a fear--in leaving you here alone," he exclaimed in alow, distinct voice, gazing into the blue, fathomless depths of thoseeyes so very dear to him.
"A fear! Why?" she asked in some surprise, returning his look.
"Because of that man--your mother's friend," he said. "Recently I haveheard some curious tales concerning him. I really wonder why Sir Henrystill retains him as his guest."
"Why need we speak of him?" she exclaimed quickly, for the subject wasdistasteful.
"Because I wish you to be forewarned," he said in a serious voice. "Thatman is no fitting companion for you. His past is too well known to acertain circle."
"His past!" she echoed. "What have you discovered concerning him?"
Her companion did not answer for a few moments. How could he tell herall that he had heard? His desire was to warn her, yet he could notrelate to her the allegations made by certain persons against Flockart.
"Gabrielle," he said, "all that I have heard tends to show that hisfriendship for you and for your father is false; therefore avoidhim--beware of him."
"I--I know," she faltered, lowering her eyes. "I've felt that was thecase all along, yet I----"
"Yet what?" he asked.
"I mean I want you to promise me one thing, Walter," she said quickly."You love me, do you not?"
"Love you, my own darling! How can you ask such a question? You surelyknow that I do!"
"Then, if you really love me, you will make me a promise."
"Of what?"
"Only one thing--one little thing," she said in a low, earnest voice,looking straight into his eyes. "If--if that man ever makes anallegation against me, you won't believe him?"
"An allegation! Why, darling, what allegation could such a man ever makeagainst you?"
"He is my enemy," she remarked simply.
"I know that. But what charge could he bring against you? Why, if evenhe dared to utter a single word against you, I--I'd wring the ruffian'sneck!"
"But if he did, Walter, you wouldn't believe him, would you?"
"Of course I wouldn't."
"Not--not if the charge he made against me was a terrible one--a--adisgraceful one?" she asked in a strained voice after a brief andpainful pause.
"Why, dearest!" he cried, "what is the matter? You are really notyourself to-day. You seem to be filled with a graver apprehension eventhan I am. What does it mean? Tell me."
"It means, Walter, that that man is Lady Heyburn's friend; hence he ismy enemy."
"And what need you fear when you have me as your friend?"
"I do not fear if you will still remain my friend--always--in face ofany allegation he makes."
"I love you, darling. Surely that's sufficient guarantee of myfriendship?"
"Yes," she responded, raising her white, troubled face to his while hebent and kissed her again on the lips. "I know that I am yours, my ownwell-beloved; and, as yours, I will not fear."
"That's right!" he exclaimed, endeavouring to smile. "Cheer up. I don'tlike to see you on this last day down-hearted and apprehensive likethis."
"I am not so without cause."
"Then, what is the cause?" he demanded. "Surely you can reposeconfidence in me?"
Again she was silent. Above them the wind stirred the leaves, andthrough the high bracken a rabbit scuttled at their feet. They werealone, and she stood again locked in her lover's fond embrace.
"You have told me yourself that man Flockart is my enemy," she said in alow voice.
"But what action of his can you fear? Surely you should be forearmedagainst any evil he may be plotting. Tell me the truth, and I will gomyself to your father and denounce the fellow before his face!"
"Ah, no!" she cried, full of quick apprehension. "Never think of doingthat, Walter!"
"Why? Am I not your friend?"
"Such a course would only bring his wrath down upon my head. He wouldretaliate quickly, and I alone would suffer."
"But, my dear Gabrielle," he exclaimed, "you really speak in enigmas.Whatever can you fear from a man who is known to be a blackguard--whom Icould now, at this very moment, expose in such a manner that he wouldnever dare to set foot in Perthshire again?"
"Such a course would be most injudicious, I assure you. His ruin wouldmean--it would mean--my--own!"
"I don't follow you."
"Ah, because you do not know my secret--you----"
"Your secret!" the young man gasped, staring at her, yet still holdingher trembling form in his strong arms. "Why, what do you mean? Whatsecret?"
"I--I cannot tell you!" she exclaimed in a hard, mechanical voice,looking straight before her.
"But you must," he protested.
"I--I asked you, Walter, to make me a promise," she said, her voicebroken by emotion--"a promise that, for the sake of the love you bearfor me, you will not believe that man, that you will disregard anyallegation against me."
"And I promise, on one condition, darling--that you tell me inconfidence what I, as your future husband, hav
e a just right toknow--the nature of this secret of yours."
"Ah, no!" she cried, unable longer to restrain her tears, and buryingher pale, beautiful face upon his arm. "I--I was foolish to have spokenof it," she sobbed brokenly: "I ought to have kept it to myself. Itis--it's the one thing that I can never reveal to you--to you of allmen!"
The House of Whispers Page 16