CONCERNS GABRIELLE'S SECRET
Along the cloister they went to the great hall, where Walter's mother
advanced to greet her. Full of regrets at the girl's inability to attend
the dance, she handed her the missing bracelet, saying, "It is such a
curious and unusual one, dear, that we wondered to whom it belonged.
Brown found it when she was sweeping my boudoir this morning. Take it
home to your mother, and suggest that she has a stronger clasp put on
it."
The girl held the golden snake in her open hand. This was the first time
she had ever seen it. A fine example of old Italian workmanship, it was
made flexible, with its flat head covered with diamonds, and two bright
emeralds for the eyes. The mouth could be opened, and within was a small
cavity where a photo or any tiny object could be concealed. Where her
mother had picked it up she could not tell. But Lady Heyburn was always
purchasing quaint odds and ends, and, like most giddy women of her
class, was extraordinarily fond of fantastic jewellery and ornaments
such as other women did not possess.
Several members of the house-party at Connachan entered and chatted, all
being full of the success of the previous night's entertainment. Lady
Murie's husband had, it appeared, left that morning for Edinburgh to
attend a political committee.
A little later Walter succeeded in getting Gabrielle alone again in a
small, well-furnished room leading off the library--a room in which she
had passed many happy hours with him before he had gone abroad. He had
been in London reading for the Bar, but had spent a good deal of his
time up in Perthshire, or at least all he possibly could. At such times
they were inseparable; but after he had been "called"--there being no
necessity for him to practise, he being heir to the estates--he had gone
to India and Japan "to broaden his mind," as his father had explained.
"I wonder, Gabrielle," he said hesitatingly, holding her hand as they
stood at the open window--"I wonder if you will forgive me if I put a
question to you. I--I know I ought not to ask it," he stammered; "but it
is only because I love you so well, dearest, that I ask you to tell me
the truth."
"The truth!" echoed the girl, looking at him with some surprise, though
turning 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 to
know about him? You know all that I know. We were agreed long ago that
he is not a gentleman, weren't we?"
"Yes," he said. "Don't you recollect our talk at your house in London
two years ago, soon after you came back from school? Do you remember
what you then told me?"
She flushed slightly at the recollection. "I--I ought not to have said
that," she exclaimed hurriedly. "I was only a girl then, and I--well, I
didn't know."
"What you said has never passed my lips, dearest. Only, I ask you again
to-day to tell me honestly and frankly whether your opinion of him has
in any way changed. I mean whether you still believe what you then
said."
She was silent for a few moments. Her lips twitched nervously, and her
eyes 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 been
filled 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, still
holding her hand, and looking fixedly into those clear-blue, fathomless
eyes so very dear to him. "You know too well that I would never betray
you."
"But if he knew--if that man ever knew," she cried, "he would avenge
himself upon me! I know he would."
"But what have you to fear, little one?" he asked, surprised at the
sudden change in her.
"You know how my mother hates me, how they all detest me--all except
dear old dad, who is so terribly helpless, misled, defrauded, and
tricked--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, as
she had ever been, or was she playing him false?
Little did the girl dream of the extent of her lover's knowledge of
certain facts which she was hiding from the world, vainly believing them
to be her own secret. Little did she dream how very near she was to
disaster.
Walter Murie had, after a frivolous youth, developed at the age of
six-and-twenty into as sound, honest, and upright a young man as could
be found beyond the Border. As full of high spirits as of high
principles, he was in every way worthy the name of the gallant family
whose name he bore, a Murie of Connachan, both for physical strength and
scrupulous honesty; while his affection for Gabrielle Heyburn was that
deep, all-absorbing devotion which makes men sacrifice themselves for
the women they love. He was not very demonstrative. He never wore his
heart upon his sleeve, but deep within him was that true affection which
caused him to worship her as his idol. To him she was peerless among
women, and her beauty was unequalled. Her piquant mischievousness amused
him. As a girl, she had always been fond of tantalising him, and did so
now. Yet he knew her fine character; how deeply devoted she was to her
afflicted father, and how full of discomfort was her dull life, now that
she had exchanged her school for the same roof which covered Sir Henry's
second wife. Indeed, this latter event was the common talk of all who
knew the family. They sighed and pitied poor Sir Henry. It was all very
sad, they said; but there their sympathy ended. During Walter's absence
abroad something had occurred. What that something was he had not yet
determined. Gabrielle was not exactly the same towards him as she used
to be. His keen sensitiveness told him this instinctively, and, indeed,
he had made a discovery that, though he did not admit it now, had
staggered him.
He stood there at the open window chatting with her, but what he said he
had no idea. His one thought--the one question which now possessed
him--was whether she still loved him, or whether the discovery he had
made was the actual and painful truth. Tall and good-looking,
clean-shaven, and essentially easy-going, he stood before her with his
dark eyes fixed upon her--eyes full of devotion, for was she not his
idol?
She was telling him of a garden-party which her mother had arranged for
the 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 at
home in the afternoon?"
"No," she declared promptly, with a mischievous laugh, "I shan't. I
shall be in the glen by the first bridge at four o'clock, and shall wait
for you there."
"Very well, I'll be there," he laughed. "But why should we meet in
secret like this, when everybody knows of our engagement?"
"Well, because I have a reason," she replied in a strained voice--"a
strong 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 well
know; 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 the
conversation into a different channel, a fact which caused him increased
doubt and reflection.
Yes, something certainly had occurred. That was vividly apparent. A gulf
lay 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 her
temperament, so high all her ideals, that he could not bring himself to
believe ill of her. He tried to fight down those increasing doubts. He
tried to put aside the naked truth which had arisen before him since his
return to England. He loved her. Yes, he loved her, and would think no
ill of her until he had proof, actual and indisputable.
As far as the eligibility of Walter Murie was concerned there was no
question. Even Lady Heyburn could not deny it when she discussed the
matter 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 an
estate of that name in the county of Forfar. Sir Jocelynus de
Baldendard, or Balinhard, who witnessed several charters between 1204
and 1225, is the first recorded of the name, but there is no documentary
proof of descent before that time; and, indeed, most of the family
papers having been burned in 1452, little remains of the early history
beyond the names and succession of the possessors of Balinhard from
about 1250 till 1350, which are stated in a charter of David II. now
preserved in the British Museum. This charter records the grant made by
William de Maule to John de Balinhard, _filio et heredi quondam Joannis
filii Christini filii Joannis de Balinhard_, of the lands of Murie, in
the county of Perthshire, and from that period, about 1350, the family
has borne the name of De Murie instead of De Balinhard. In 1409 Duthac
de Murie obtained a charter of the Castle of Connachan, possession of
which has been held by the family uninterruptedly ever since, except for
about thirty years, when the lands were under forfeiture on account of
the Rebellion of 1715.
Near Crieff Junction station the lands of Glencardine and Connachan
march together; therefore both Sir Henry Heyburn and his friend, Sir
George Murie, had looked upon an alliance between the two houses as
quite within the bounds of probability.
If the truth were told, Gabrielle had never looked upon any other man
save Walter with the slightest thought of affection. She loved him with
the whole strength of her being. During that twelve long months of
absence he had been daily in her thoughts, and his constant letters she
had 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 grudgingly
taken her--young men who had been nice to her, flattered her, and
flirted 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 her
hero--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 that
she was not treating him as she ought. She had not been at all
enthusiastic at his return, and she had inquired but little about his
wanderings. Indeed, she had treated him with a studied indifference, as
though his life concerned her but little. And yet if he only knew the
truth, she thought; if he could only see that that cool, unresponsive
attitude was forced upon her by circumstances; if he could only know how
quickly her heart throbbed when he was present, and how dull and lonely
all became when he was absent!
She loved him. Ah, yes! as truly and devotedly as he loved her. But
between them there had fallen a dark, grim shadow--one which, at all
hazards and by every subterfuge, she must endeavour to hide. She loved
him, and could, therefore, never bear to hear his bitter reproaches or
to witness his grief. He worshipped her. Would that he did not, she
thought. She must hide her secret from him as she was hiding it from all
the world.
He was speaking. She answered him calmly yet mechanically. He wondered
what strange thoughts were concealed beneath those clear, wide-open,
child-like eyes which he was trying in vain to fathom. What would he
have thought had he known the terrible truth: that she had calmly, and
after long reflection, resolved to court death--death by her own
hand--rather than face the exposure with which she had that previous
night been threatened.