CONTAINS CURIOUS CONFIDENCES
A week had gone by. Stewart, the lean, thin-faced head-keeper, who spoke
with such a strong accent that guests from the South often failed to
understand him, and who never seemed to sleep, so vigilant was he over
the Glencardine shootings, had reported the purchase of a couple of new
pointers.
Therefore, one morning Lady Heyburn and her constant cavalier, Flockart,
had walked across to the kennels close to the castle to inspect them.
At the end of the big, old-fashioned stable-yard, with grey stone
outbuildings ranged down either side, and the ancient mounting-block a
conspicuous object, were ranged the modern iron kennels full of pointers
and spaniels. In that big, old, paved quadrangle, the cobbles of which
were nowadays stained by the oil of noisy motor-cars, many a Graham of
Glencardine had mounted to ride into Stirling or Edinburgh, or to drive
in his coach to far-off London. The stables were now empty, but the
garage adjoining, whence came the odour of petrol, contained the two
Glencardine cars, besides three others belonging to members of that
merry, irresponsible house-party.
The inspection of the pointers was a mere excuse on her ladyship's part
to be alone with Flockart.
She wished to speak with him, and with that object suggested that they
should take the by-road which, crossing one of the main roads through
the estate, led through a leafy wood away to a railway level-crossing
half a mile off. The road was unfrequented, and they were not likely to
meet any of the guests, for some were away fishing, others had motored
into Stirling, and at least three had walked down into Auchterarder to
take a telegram for their blind host.
"Well, my dear Jimmy," asked the well-preserved, fair-haired woman in
short brown skirt and fresh white cotton blouse and sun-hat, "what have
you discovered?"
"Very little," replied the easy-going man, who wore a suit of rough
heather-tweed and a round cloth fishing-hat. "My information is
unfortunately very meagre. You have watched carefully. Well, what have
you found out?"
"That she's just as much in love with him as before--the little fool!"
"And I suppose he's just as devoted to her as ever--eh?"
"Of course. Since you've been away these last few days he's been over
here from Connachan, on one pretext or another, every day. Of course
I've been compelled to ask him to lunch, for I can't afford to quarrel
with his people, although I hate the whole lot of them. His mother gives
herself such airs, and his father is the most terrible old bore in the
whole country."
"But the match would be an advantageous one--wouldn't it?" suggested the
man strolling at her side, and he stopped to light a cigarette which he
took from a golden case.
"Advantageous! Of course it would! But we can't afford to allow it, my
dear Jimmy. Think what such an alliance would mean to us!"
"To you, you mean."
"To you also. An ugly revelation might result, remember. Therefore it
must not be allowed. While Walter was abroad all was pretty plain
sailing. Lots of the letters she wrote him I secured from the post-box,
read them, and afterwards burned them. But now he's back there is a
distinct peril. He's a cute young fellow, remember."
Flockart smiled. "We must discover a means by which to part them," he
said slowly but decisively. "I quite agree with you that to allow the
matter to go any further would be to court disaster. We have a good many
enemies, you and I, Winnie--many who would only be too pleased and eager
to rake up that unfortunate episode. And I, for one, have no desire to
figure in a criminal dock."
"Nor have I," she declared quickly.
"But if I went there you would certainly accompany me," he said, looking
straight at her.
"What!" she gasped in quick dismay. "You would tell the truth and--and
denounce me?"
"I would not; but no doubt there are others who would," was his answer.
For a few moments her arched brows were knit, and she remained silent.
Her reflections were uneasy ones. She and the man at her side, who for
years had been her confidant and friend, were both in imminent peril of
exposure. Their relations had always been purely platonic; therefore she
was not afraid of any allegation against her honour. What her enemies
had said were lies--all of them. Her fear lay in quite a different
direction.
Her poor, blind, helpless husband was in ignorance of that terrible
chapter of her own life--a chapter which she had believed to be closed
for ever, and yet which was, by means of a chain of unexpected
circumstances, in imminent danger of being reopened.
"Well," she inquired at last in a blank voice, "and who are those others
who, you believe, would be prepared to denounce me?"
"Certain persons who envy you your position, and who, perhaps, think
that you do not treat poor old Sir Henry quite properly."
"But I do treat him properly!" she declared vehemently. "If he prefers
the society of that chit of a girl of his to mine, how can I possibly
help it? Besides, people surely must know that, to me, the society of a
blind old man is not exactly conducive to gaiety. I would only like to
put those women who malign me into my place for a single year. Perhaps
they would become even more reckless of the _convenances_ than I am!"
"My dear Winnie," he said, "what's the use of discussing such an old and
threadbare theme? Things are not always what they seem, as the man with
a squint said when he thought he saw two sovereigns where there was but
one. The point before us is the girl's future."
"It lies in your hands," was her sharp reply.
"No; in yours. I have promised to look after Walter Murie."
"But how can I act?" she asked. "The little hussy cares nothing for
me--only sees me at table, and spends the whole of her day with her
father."
"Act as I suggested last week," was his rejoinder. "If you did that the
old man would turn her out of the place, and the rest would be easy
enough."
"But----"
"Ah!" he laughed derisively, "I see you've some sympathy with the girl
after all. Very well, take the consequences. It is she who will be your
deadliest enemy, remember; she who, if the disaster falls, will give
evidence against you. Therefore, you'd best act now, ere it's too late.
Unless, of course, you are in fear of her."
"I don't fear her!" cried the woman, her eyes flashing defiance. "Why do
you taunt me like this? You haven't told me yet what took place on the
night of the ball."
"Nothing. The mystery is just as complete as ever."
"She defied you--eh?"
Her companion nodded.
"Then how do you now intend to act?"
"That's just the question I was about to put to you," he said. "There is
a distinct peril--one which becomes graver every moment that the girl
and young Murie are together. How are we to avert it?"
"By parting them."
"Then act as I suggested the other day. It's the only way, Winnie,
depend upon it--the only way to secure our own safety."
"And what would the world say of me, her stepmother, if it were known
that I had done such a thing?"
"You've never yet cared for what the world said. Why should you care
now? Besides, it never will be known. I should be the only person in the
secret, and for my own sake it isn't likely that I'd give you away. Is
it? You've trusted me before," he added; "why not again?"
"It would break my husband's heart," she declared in a low, intense
voice. "Remember, he is devoted to her. He would never recover from the
shock."
"And yet the other night after the ball you said you were prepared to
carry out the suggestion, in order to save yourself," he remarked with a
covert sneer.
"Perhaps I was piqued that she should defy my suggestion that she should
go to the ball."
"No, you were not. You never intended her to go. That you know."
When he spoke to her this man never minced matters. The woman was held
by him in a strange thraldom which surprised many people; yet to all it
was a mystery. The world knew nothing of the fact that James Flockart
was without a penny, and that he lived--and lived well, too--upon the
charity of Lady Heyburn. Two thousand pounds were placed, in secret,
every year to his credit from her ladyship's private account at
Coutts's, besides which he received odd cheques from her whenever his
needs required. To his friends he posed as an easy-going man-about-town,
in possession of an income not large, but sufficient to supply him with
both comforts and luxuries. He usually spent the London season in his
cosy chambers in Half-Moon Street; the winter at Monte Carlo or at
Cairo; the summer at Aix, Vichy, or Marienbad; and the autumn in a
series of visits to houses in Scotland.
He was not exactly a ladies' man. Courtly, refined, and a splendid
linguist, as he was, the girls always voted him great fun; but from the
elder ones, and from married women especially, he somehow held himself
aloof. His one woman-friend, as everybody knew, was the flighty,
go-ahead Lady Heyburn.
Of the country-house party he was usually the life and soul. No man
could invent so many practical jokes or carry them on with such
refinement of humour as he. Therefore, if the hostess wished to impart
merriment among her guests, she sought out and sent a pressing
invitation to "Jimmy" Flockart. A first-class shot, an excellent
tennis-player, a good golfer, and quite a good hand at putting a stone
in curling, he was an all-round sportsman who was sure to be highly
popular with his fellow-guests. Hence up in the north his advent was
always welcomed with loud approbation.
To those who knew him, and knew him well, this confidential conversation
with the woman whose platonic friendship he had enjoyed through so many
years would certainly have caused greatest surprise. That he was a
schemer was entirely undreamed of. That he was attracted by "Winnie
Heyburn" was declared to be only natural, in view of the age and
affliction of her own husband. Cases such as hers are often regarded
with a very lenient eye.
They had reached the level-crossing where, beside the line of the
Caledonian Railway, stands the mail-apparatus by which the down-mail for
Euston picks up the local bag without stopping, while the up-mail drops
its letters and parcels into the big, strong net. For a few moments they
halted to watch the dining-car express for Euston pass with a roar and a
crash as she dashed down the incline towards Crieff Junction.
Then, as they turned again towards the house, he suddenly exclaimed,
"Look here, Winnie. We've got to face the music now. Every day increases
our peril. If you are actually afraid to act as I suggest, then tell me
frankly and I'll know what to do. I tell you quite openly that I have
neither desire nor intention to be put into a hole by this confounded
girl. She has defied me; therefore she must take the consequences."
"How do you know that your action the other night has not aroused her
suspicions?"
"Ah! there you are quite right. It may have done so. If it has, then our
peril has very considerably increased. That's just my argument."
"But we'll have Walter to reckon with in any case. He loves her."
"Bah! Leave the boy to me. I'll soon show him that the girl's not worth
a second thought," replied Flockart with nonchalant air. "All you have
to do is to act as I suggested the other night. Then leave the rest to
me."
"And suppose it were discovered?" asked the woman, whose face had grown
considerably paler.
"Well, suppose the worst happened, and it were discovered?" he asked,
raising his brows slightly. "Should we be any worse off than would be
the case if this girl took it into her head to expose us--if the facts
which she could prove placed us side by side in an assize-court?"
The woman--clever, scheming, ambitious--was silent. The question
admitted of no reply. She recognised her own peril. The picture of
herself arraigned before a judge, with that man beside her, rose before
her imagination, and she became terrified. That slim, pale-faced girl,
her husband's child, stood between her and her own honour, her own
safety. Once the girl was removed, she would have no further fear, no
apprehension, no hideous forebodings concerning the imminent future. She
saw it all as she walked along that moss-grown forest-road, her eyes
fixed straight before her. The tempter at her side had urged her to
commit a dastardly, an unpardonable crime. In that man's hands she was,
alas! as wax. He poured into her ear a vivid picture of what must
inevitably result should Gabrielle reveal the ugly truth, at the same
time calmly watching the effect of his words upon her. Upon her decision
depended his whole future as well as hers. What was Gabrielle's life to
hers, asked the man point-blank. That was the question which decided
her--decided her, after long and futile resistance, to promise to commit
the act which he had suggested. She gave the man her hand in pledge.
Then a slight smile of triumph played about his cruel nether lip, and
the pair retraced their steps towards the castle in silence.