THE MURIES OF CONNACHAN
Elise, Lady Heyburn's French maid, discovered next morning that an
antique snake-bracelet was missing, a loss which occasioned great
consternation in the household.
Breakfast was late, and at table, when the loss was mentioned, Gabrielle
offered to drive over to Connachan in the car and make inquiry and
search. The general opinion was that it had been dropped in one of the
rooms, and was probably still lying there undiscovered.
The girl's offer was accepted, and half an hour later the smaller of the
two Glencardine cars--the "sixteen" Fiat--was brought round to the door
by Stokes, the smart chauffeur. Young Gellatly, fresh down from Oxford,
begged to be allowed to go with her, and his escort was accepted.
Then, in motor-cap and champagne-coloured dust-veil, Gabrielle mounted
at the wheel, with the young fellow at her side and Stokes in the back,
and drove away down the long avenue to the high-road.
The car was her delight. Never so happy was she as when, wrapped in her
leather-lined motor-coat, she drove the "sixteen." The six-cylinder
"sixty" was too powerful for her, but with the "sixteen" she ran
half-over Scotland, and was quite a common object on the Perth to
Stirling road. Possessed of nerve and full of self-confidence, she could
negotiate traffic in Edinburgh or Glasgow, and on one occasion had
driven her father the whole way from Glencardine up to London, a
distance of four hundred and fifty miles. Her fingers pressed the button
of the electric horn as they descended the sharp incline to the
lodge-gates; and, turning into the open road, she was soon speeding
along through Auchterarder village, skirted Tullibardine Wood, down
through Braco, and along by the Knaik Water and St. Patrick's Well into
Glen Artney, passing under the dark shadow of Dundurn, until there came
into view the broad waters of Loch Earn.
The morning was bright and cloudless, and at such a pace they went that
a perfect wall of dust stood behind them.
From the margin of the loch the ground rose for a couple of miles until
it reached a plateau upon which stood the fine, imposing Priory, the
ancestral seat of the Muries of Connachan. The aspect as they drove up
was very imposing. The winding road was closely planted with trees for a
large portion of its course, and the stately front of the western
entrance, with its massive stone portico and crenulated cornice, burst
unexpectedly upon them.
From that point of view one seemed to have reached the gable-end of a
princely edifice, crowned with Gothic belfries; yet on looking round it
was seen that the approach by which the doorway had been reached was
lined on one side with buildings hidden behind the clustering foliage;
and through the archway on the left one caught a glimpse of the
ivy-covered clock-tower and spacious stable-yard and garage extending
northwards for a considerable distance.
Gabrielle ran the car round to the south side of the house, where in the
foreground were the well-kept parks of Connachan, the smooth-shaven lawn
fringed with symmetrically planted trees, and the fertile fields
extending away to the very brink of the loch.
The original fortalice of the Muries, half a mile distant, was, like
Glencardine, a ruin. The present Priory, notwithstanding its
old-fashioned towers and lancet windows, was a comparatively modern
structure, and the ivy which partially covered some of the windows could
claim no great antiquity; yet the general effect of the architectural
grouping was most pleasing, and might well deceive the visitor or
tourist into the supposition that it belonged to a very remote period.
It was, as a matter of fact, the work of Atkinson, who in the first
years of the nineteenth century built Scone, Abbotsford, and Taymouth
Castle.
With loud warning blasts upon the horn, Gabrielle Heyburn pulled up; but
ere she could descend, Walter Murie, a good-looking, dark-haired young
man in grey flannels, and hatless, was outside, hailing her with
delight.
"Hallo, Gabrielle!" he cried cheerily, taking her hand, "what brings you
over this morning, especially when we were told last night that you were
so very ill?"
"The illness has passed," exclaimed young Gellatly, shaking his friend's
hand. "And we're now in search of a lost bracelet--one of Lady
Heyburn's."
"Why, my mother was just going to wire! One of the maids found it in the
boudoir this morning, but we didn't know to whom it belonged. Come
inside. There are a lot of people staying over from last night." Then,
turning to Gabrielle, he added, "By Jove! what dust there must be on the
road! You're absolutely covered."
"Well," she laughed lightly, "it won't hurt me, I suppose. I'm not
afraid of it."
Stokes took charge of the car and shut off the petrol, while the three
went inside, passing into a long, cool cloister, down which was arranged
the splendid collection of antiques discovered or acquired by Malcolm
Murie, the well-known antiquary, who had spent many years in Italy, and
died in 1794. In cases ranged down each side of the long cloister, with
its antique carved chairs, armour, and statuary, were rare Etruscan and
Roman terra-cottas, one containing relics from the tomb of a warrior,
which included a sword-hilt adorned with gold and a portion of a golden
crown formed of lilies _in relievo_ of pure gold laid upon a mould of
bronze; another case was full of bronze ornaments unearthed near Albano,
and still another contained rare Abyssinian curios. The collection was
renowned among antiquaries, and was often visited by Sir Henry, who
would be brought there in the car by Gabrielle, and spend hours alone
fingering the objects in the various cases.
Sir George Murie and Sir Henry Heyburn were close friends; therefore it
was but natural that Walter, the heir to the Connachan estate, and
Gabrielle should often be thrown into each other's company, or perhaps
that the young man--who for the past twelve months had been absent on a
tour round the world--should have loved her ever since the days when she
wore short skirts and her hair down her back. He had been sorely puzzled
why she had not at the last moment come to the ball. She had promised
that she would be with them, and yet she had made the rather lame excuse
of a headache.
Truth to tell, Walter Murie had during the past week been greatly
puzzled at her demeanour of indifference. Seven days ago he had arrived
in London from New York, but found no letter from her awaiting him at
the club, as he had expected. The last he had received in Detroit a
month before, and it was strangely cold, and quite unusual. Two days ago
he had arrived home, and in secret she had met him down at the end of
the glen at Glencardine. At her wish, their first meeting had been
clandestine. Why?
Both their families knew of their mutual affection. Therefore, why
should she now make a secret of their meeting after twelve months'
separation? He was puzzled at her note, and he was further puzzled at
her attitude towards him. She was cold and unresponsive. When he held
her in his arms and kissed her soft lips, she only once returned his
passionate caress, and then as though it were a duty forced upon her.
She had, however, promised to come to the ball. That promise she had
deliberately broken.
Though he could not understand her, he made pretence of unconcern. He
regretted that she had not felt well last night--that was all.
At the end of the cloister young Gellatly found one of Lady Murie's
guests, a girl named Violet Priest, with whom he had danced a good deal
on the previous night, and at once attached himself to her, leaving
Walter with the sweet-faced, slim-waisted object of his affections.
The moment they were alone in the long cloister he asked her quickly,
"Tell me, Gabrielle, the real reason why you did not come last night. I
had looked forward very much to seeing you. But I was disappointed
--sadly disappointed."
"I am very sorry," she laughed, with assumed nonchalance; "but I had to
assist my father with some business papers."
"Your mother told everyone that you do not care for dancing," he said.
"That is untrue, Walter. I love dancing."
"I knew it was untrue, dearest," he said, standing before her. "But why
does Lady Heyburn go out of her way to throw cold water upon you and all
your works?"
"How should I know?" asked the girl, with a slight shrug. "Perhaps it is
because my father places more confidence in me than in her."
"And his confidence is surely not misplaced," he said. "I tell you
frankly that I don't like Lady Heyburn."
"She pretends to like you."
"Pretends!" he echoed. "Yes, it's all pretence. But," he added, "do tell
me the real reason of your absence last night, Gabrielle. It has worried
me."
"Why worry, my dear Walter? Is it really worth troubling over? I'm only
a girl, and, as such, am allowed vagaries of nerves--and all that. I
simply didn't want to come, that's all."
"Why?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I hate the crowd we have staying in our
house. They are all mother's friends; and mother's friends are never
mine, you know."
He looked at her slim figure, so charming in its daintiness. "What a
dear little philosopher you've grown to be in a single year!" he
declared. "We shall have you quoting Friedrich Nietzsche next."
"Well," she laughed, "if you would like me to quote him I can do so. I
read _Zarathustra_ secretly at school. One of the girls got a copy from
Germany. Do you remember what Zarathustra says: 'Verily, ye could wear
no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own faces,' Who could
recognise you?"
"I hope that's not meant to be personal," he laughed, gazing at the
girl's beautiful countenance and great, luminous eyes.
"You may take it as you like," she declared with a delightfully
mischievous smile. "I only quoted it to show you that I have read
Nietzsche, and recollect his many truths."
"You certainly do seem to have a gay house-party at Glencardine," he
remarked, changing the subject. "I noticed Jimmy Flockart there as
usual."
"Yes. He's one of mother's greatest friends. She makes good use of him
in every way. Up in town they are inseparable, it seems. They knew each
other, I believe, when they were boy and girl."
"So I've heard," replied the young man thoughtfully, leaning against a
big glass case containing a collection of _lares_ and _penates_--images
of Jupiter, Hercules, Mercury, &c., used as household gods. "I expected
that he would be dancing attendance upon her during the whole of the
evening; but, curiously enough, soon after his arrival he suddenly
disappeared, and was not seen again until nearly two o'clock." Then,
looking straight in the girl's fathomless eye, he added, "Do you know,
Gabrielle, I don't like that fellow. Beware of him."
"Neither do I. But your warning is quite unnecessary, I assure you. He
doesn't interest me in the least."
Walter Murie was silent for a moment, silent as though in doubt. A
shadow crossed his well-cut features, but only for a single second. Then
he smiled again upon the fair-faced, soft-spoken girl whom he loved so
honestly and so well, the woman who was all in all to him. How could he
doubt her--she who only a year ago had, out yonder in the park, given
him her pledge of affection, and sealed it with her hot, passionate
kisses? Remembrance of those sweet caresses still lingered with him. But
he doubted her. Yes, he could not conceal from himself certain very ugly
facts--facts within his own knowledge. Yet was not his own poignant
jealousy misleading him? Was not her refusal to attend the ball perhaps
due to some sudden pique or unpleasantness with her giddy stepmother?
Was it? He only longed to be able to believe that it might be so. Alas!
however, he had discovered the shadow of a strange and disagreeable
truth.