SOMETHING CONCERNING JAMES FLOCKART
In the spreading dawn the house party had returned from Connachan and
had ascended to their rooms, weary with the night's revelry, the men
with shirt-fronts crumpled and ties awry, the women with hair
disordered, and in some cases with flimsy skirts torn in the mazes of
the dance. Yet all were merry and full of satisfaction at what one young
man from town had declared to be "an awfully ripping evening." All
retired at once--all save the hostess and one of her male guests, the
man who had entered the library by stealth earlier in the evening and
had called Gabrielle outside.
Lady Heyburn and her visitor, James Flockart, had managed to slip away
from the others, and now stood together in the library, into which the
grey light of dawn was at that moment slowly creeping.
He drew up one of the blinds to admit the light; and there, away over
the hills beyond, the glen showed the red flush that heralded the sun's
coming. Then, returning to where stood the young and attractive woman in
pale pink chiffon, with diamonds on her neck and a star in her fair
hair, he looked her straight in the face and asked, "Well, and what have
you decided?"
She raised her eyes to his, but made no reply. She was hesitating.
The gems upon her were heirlooms of the Heyburn family, and in that grey
light looked cold and glassy. The powder and the slight touch of carmine
upon her cheeks, which at night had served to heighten her beauty, now
gave her an appearance of painted artificiality. She was undeniably a
pretty woman, and surely required no artificial aids to beauty. About
thirty-three, yet she looked five years younger; while her husband was
twenty years senior to herself. She still retained a figure so girlish
that most people took her for Gabrielle's elder sister, while in the
matter of dress she was admitted in society to be one of the leaders of
fashion. Her hair was of that rare copper-gold tint, her features
regular, with a slightly protruding chin, soft eyes, and cheeks perfect
in their contour. Society knew her as a gay, reckless, giddy woman, who,
regardless of the terrible affliction which had fallen upon the
brilliant man who was her husband, surrounded herself with a circle of
friends of the same type as herself, and who thoroughly enjoyed her life
regardless of any gossip or of the malignant statements by women who
envied her.
Men were fond of "Winnie Heyburn," as they called her, and always voted
her "good fun." They pitied poor Sir Henry; but, after all, he was
blind, and preferred his hobbies of collecting old seals and dusty
parchment manuscripts to dances, bridge-parties, theatres, aero shows at
Ranelagh, and suppers at the Carlton or Savoy.
Like most wealthy women of her type, she had a wide circle of male
friends. Younger men declared her to be "a real pal," and with some of
the older beaux she would flirt and be amused by their flattering
speeches.
Gabrielle's mother, the second daughter of Lord Buckhurst, had been dead
several years when the brilliant politician met his second wife at a
garden-party at Dollis Hill. She was daughter of a man named Lambert, a
paper manufacturer, who acted as political agent in the town of Bedford;
and she was, therefore, essentially a country cousin. Her beauty was,
however, remarked everywhere. The Baronet was struck by her, and within
three months they were married at St. George's, Hanover Square, the
world congratulating her upon a very excellent match. From the very
first, however, the difference in the ages of husband and wife proved a
barrier. Ere the honeymoon was over she found that her husband, tied by
his political engagements and by his eternal duties at the House, was
unable to accompany her out of an evening; hence from the very first
they had drifted apart, until, eight months later, the terrible
affliction of blindness fell upon him.
For a time this drew her back to him. She was his constant and dutiful
companion everywhere, leading him hither and thither, and attending to
his wants; but very soon the tie bored her, and the attractions of
society once again proved too great. Hence for the past nine
years--Gabrielle being at school, first at Eastbourne and afterwards at
Amiens--she had amused herself and left her husband to his dry-as-dust
hobbies and the loneliness of his black and sunless world.
The man who had just put that curious question to her was perhaps her
closest friend. To her he owed everything, though the world was in
ignorance of the fact. That they were friends everybody knew. Indeed,
they had been friends years ago in Bedford, before her marriage, for
James was the only son of the Reverend Henry Flockart, vicar of one of
the parishes in the town. People living in Bedford recollected that the
parson's son had turned out rather badly, and had gone to America. But a
year or two after that the quiet-mannered old clergyman had died, the
living had been given to a successor, and Bedford knew the name of
Flockart no more. After Winifred's marriage, however, London society--or
rather a gay section of it--became acquainted with James Flockart, who
lived at ease in his pretty bachelor-rooms in Half-Moon Street, and who
soon gathered about him a large circle of male acquaintances. Sir Henry
knew him, and raised no objection to his wife's friendship towards him.
They had been boy and girl together; therefore what more natural than
that they should be friends in later life?
In her schooldays Gabrielle knew practically nothing of this man; but
now she had returned to be her father's companion she had met him, and
had bitter cause to hate both him and Lady Heyburn. It was her own
secret. She kept it to herself. She hid the truth from her father--from
every one. She watched closely and in patience. One day she would speak
and tell the truth. Until then, she resolved to keep to herself all that
she knew.
"Well?" asked the man with the soft-pleated shirt-front and white
waistcoat smeared with cigarette-ash. "What have you decided?" he asked
again.
"I've decided nothing," was her blank answer.
"But you must. Don't be a silly fool," he urged. "You've surely had time
to think over it?"
"No, I haven't."
"The girl knows nothing. So what have you to fear?" he endeavoured to
assure her.
Lady Heyburn shrugged her shoulders. "How can you prove that she knows
nothing?"
"Oh, she has eyes for nobody but the old man," he laughed. "To-night is
an example. Why, she wouldn't come to Connachan, even though she knew
that Walter was there. She preferred to spend the evening here with her
father."
"She's a little fool, of course, Jimmy," replied the woman in pink; "but
perhaps it was as well that she didn't come. I hate to have to chaperon
the chit. It makes me look so horribly old."
"I wish to goodness the girl was out of the way!" he declared. "She's
sharper than we think, and, by Jove! if ever she did know what was in
progress it would be all up for both of us--wouldn't it? Phew! think of
it!"
"If I thought she had the slightest suspicion," declared her ladyship
with a sudden hardness of her lips, "I'd--I'd close her mouth very
quickly."
"And for ever, eh?" he asked meaningly.
"Yes, for ever."
"Bah!" he laughed. "You'd be afraid to do that, my dear Winnie," added
the man, lowering his voice. "Your husband is blind, it's true; but
there are other people in the world who are not. Recollect, Gabrielle is
now nineteen, and she has her eyes open. She's the eyes and ears of Sir
Henry. Not the slightest thing occurs in this household but it is told
to him at once. His indifference to all is only a clever pretence."
"What!" she gasped quickly; "do you think he suspects?"
"Pray, what can he suspect?" asked the man very calmly, both hands in
his trouser-pockets, as he leaned back against the table in front of
her.
"He can only suspect things which his daughter knows," she said.
"But what does she know? What can she know?" he asked.
"How can we tell? I have watched, but can detect nothing. I am, however,
suspicious, because she did not come to Connachan with us to-night."
"Why?"
"Walter Murie may know something, and may have told her."
"If so, then to close her lips would be useless. It would only bring a
heavier responsibility upon us--and----" But he hesitated, without
finishing his sentence. His meaning was apparent from the wry face she
pulled at his remark. He did not tell her how he had, while she had been
dancing and flirting that night, made his way back to the castle, or how
he had compelled Gabrielle to go forth and speak with him. His action
had been a bold one, yet its result had confirmed certain vague
suspicions he had held.
Well he knew that the girl hated him heartily, and that she was in
possession of a certain secret of his--one which might easily result in
his downfall. He feared to tell the truth to this woman before him, for
if he did so she would certainly withdraw from all association with him
in order to save herself.
The key to the whole situation was held by that slim, sweet-faced girl,
so devoted to her afflicted father. He was not quite certain as to the
actual extent of her knowledge, and was as yet undecided as to what
attitude he should adopt towards her. He stood between the Baronet's
wife and his daughter, and hesitated in which direction to follow.
What did she really know, he wondered. Had she overheard any of that
serious conversation between Lady Heyburn and himself while they walked
together in the glen on the previous evening? Such a _contretemps_ was
surely impossible, for he remembered they had taken every precaution
lest even Stewart, the head gamekeeper, might be about in order to stop
trespassers, who, attracted by the beauties of Glencardine, tried to
penetrate and explore them, and by so doing disturbed the game.
"And if the girl really knows?" he asked of the woman who stood there
motionless, gazing out across the lawn fixedly towards the dawn.
"If she knows, James," she said in a hard, decisive tone, "then we must
act together, quickly and fearlessly. We must carry out that--that plan
you proposed a year ago!"
"You are quite fearless, then," he asked, looking straight into her fine
eyes.
"Fearless? Of course I am," she answered unflinchingly. "We must get rid
of her."
"Providing we can do so without any suspicion falling upon us."
"You seem to have become quite white-livered," she exclaimed to him with
a harsh, derisive laugh. "You were not so a year ago--in the other
affair."
His brows contracted as he reflected upon all it meant to him. The girl
knew something; therefore, to seal her lips was imperative for their own
safety. She was their enemy.
"You are mistaken," he answered in a low calm voice. "I am just as
determined--just as fearless--as I was then."
"And you will do it?" she asked.
"If it is your wish," he replied simply.
"Good! Give me your hand. We are agreed. It shall be done."
And the man took the slim white hand the woman held out to him, and a
moment later they ascended the great oak staircase to their respective
rooms.
The pair were in accord. The future contained for Gabrielle
Heyburn--asleep and all unconscious of the dastardly conspiracy--only
that which must be hideous, tragic, fatal.