FOLLOWS FLOCKART'S FORTUNES
One evening, a few days later, Gabrielle, seated beside her father at
his big writing-table, had concluded reading some reports, and had
received those brief, laconic replies which the blind man was in the
habit of giving, when she suddenly asked, "I believe, dad, that you have
a quantity of the Glencardine papers, haven't you? If I remember aright,
when you bought the castle you made possession of these papers a
stipulation."
"Yes, dear, I did," was his answer. "I thought it a shame that the
papers of such a historic family should be dispersed at Sotheby's, as
they no doubt would have been. So I purchased them."
"You've never let me see them," she said. "As you know, you've taught me
so much antiquarian knowledge that I'm becoming an enthusiast like
yourself."
"You can see them, dear, of course," was his reply. "They are in that
big ebony cabinet at the end of the room yonder--about two hundred
charters, letters, and documents, dating from 1314 down to 1695."
"I'll go through them to-morrow," she said. "I suppose they throw a good
deal of light upon the history of the Grahams and the actions of the
great Lord Glencardine?"
"Yes; but I fear you'll find them very difficult to read," he remarked.
"Not being able to see them for myself, alas! I had to send them to
London to be deciphered."
"And you still have the translations?"
"Unfortunately, no, dear. Professor Petre at Oxford, who is preparing
his great work on Glencardine, begged me to let him see them, and he
still has them."
"Well," she laughed, "I must therefore content myself with the
originals, eh? Do they throw any further light upon the secret agreement
in 1644 between the great Marquess of Glencardine, whose home was here,
and King Charles?"
"Really, Gabrielle," laughed the old antiquary, "for a girl, your
recollection of abstruse historical points is wonderful."
"Not at all. There was a mystery, I remember, and mysteries always
attract me."
"Well," he replied after a few moments' hesitation, "I fear you will not
find the solution of that point, or of any other really important point,
contained in any of the papers. The most interesting records they
contain are some relating to Alexander Senescallus (Stewart), the fourth
son of Robert II., who was granted in 1379 a Castle of Garth. He was a
reprobate, and known as the Wolf of Badenoch. On his father's accession
in 1371, he was granted the charters of Badenoch, with the Castle of
Lochindorb and of Strathavon; and at a slightly later date he was
granted the lands of Tempar, Lassintulach, Tulachcroske, and Gort
(Garth). As you know, many traditions regarding him still survive; but
one fact contained in yonder papers is always interesting, for it shows
that he was confined in the dungeon of the old keep of Glencardine until
Robert III. released him. There are also a quantity of interesting facts
regarding 'Red Neil,' or Neil Stewart of Fothergill, who was Laird of
Garth, which will some day be of value to future historians of
Scotland."
"Is there anything concerning the mysterious fate of Cardinal Setoun
within Glencardine?" asked the girl, unable to curb her curiosity.
"No," he replied in a manner which was almost snappish. "That's a mere
tradition, my dear--simply a tale invented by the country-folk. It seems
to have been imagined in order to associate it with the mysterious
Whispers which some superstitious people claim to have heard. No old
castle is complete nowadays without its ghost, so we have for our share
the Lady of Glencardine and the Whispers," he laughed.
"But I thought it was a matter of authenticated history that the
Cardinal was actually enticed here, and disappeared!" exclaimed the
girl. "I should have thought that the Glencardine papers would have
referred to it," she added, recollecting what Walter had told her.
"Well, they don't; so why worry your head, dear, over a mere fable? I
have already gone very carefully into all the facts that are proved, and
have come to the conclusion that the story of the torture of his
Eminence is a fairy-tale, and that the supernatural Whispers have only
been heard in imagination."
She was silent. She recollected that sound of murmuring voices. It was
certainly not imagination.
"But you'll let me have the key of the cabinet, won't you, dad?" she
asked, glancing across to where stood a beautiful old Florentine cabinet
of ebony inlaid with ivory, and reaching almost to the ceiling.
"Certainly, Gabrielle dear," was the reply of the expressionless man.
"It is upstairs in my room. You shall have it to-morrow."
And then he lapsed again into silence, reflecting whether it were not
best to secure certain parchment records from those drawers before his
daughter investigated them. There was a small roll of yellow parchment,
tied with modern tape, which he was half-inclined to conceal from her
curious gaze. Truth to tell, they constituted a record of the torture
and death of Cardinal Setoun much in the same manner as Walter Murie had
described to her. If she read that strange chronicle she might, he
feared, be impelled to watch and endeavour to hear the fatal Whispers.
Strange though it was, yet those sounds were a subject which caused him
daily apprehension. Though he never referred to them save to ridicule
every suggestion of their existence, or to attribute the weird noises to
the wind, yet never a day passed but he sat calmly reflecting. That one
matter which his daughter knew above all others caused him the most
serious thought and apprehension--a fear which had become doubly
increased since she had referred to the curious and apparently
inexplicable phenomenon. He, a refined, educated man of brilliant
attainments, scouted the idea of any supernatural agency. To those who
had made mention of the Whispers--among them his friend Murie, the Laird
of Connachan; Lord Strathavon, from whom he had purchased the estate;
and several of the neighbouring landowners--he had always expressed a
hope that one day he might be fortunate enough to hear the whispered
counsel of the Evil One, and so decide for himself its true cause. He
pretended always to treat the affair with humorous incredulity, yet at
heart he was sorely troubled.
If his young wife's remarkable friendship with the man Flockart often
caused him bitter thoughts, then the mysterious Whispers and the
fatality so strangely connected with them were equally a source of
constant inquietude.
A few days later Flockart, with clever cunning, seemed to alter his
ingenious tactics completely, for suddenly he had commenced to bestir
himself in Sir Henry's interests. One morning after breakfast, taking
the Baronet by the arm, he led him for a stroll along the drive, down to
the lodge-gates, and back, for the purpose, as he explained, of speaking
with him in confidence.
At first the blind man was full of curiosity as to the reason of this
unusual action, as those deprived of sight usually are.
"I know, Sir Henry," Flockart said presently, and not without
hesitation, "that certain ill-disposed people have endeavoured to place
an entirely wrong construction upon your wife's friendship towards me.
For that reason I have decided to leave Glencardine, both for her sake
and for yours."
"But, my dear fellow," exclaimed the blind man, "why do you suggest such
a thing?"
"Because your wife's enemies have their mouths full of scandalous lies,"
he replied. "I tell you frankly, Sir Henry, that my friendship with her
ladyship is a purely platonic one. We were children together, at home in
Bedford, and ever since our schooldays I have remained her friend."
"I know that," remarked the old man quietly. "My wife told me that when
you dined with us on several occasions at Park Street. I have never
objected to the friendship existing between you, Flockart; for, though I
have never seen you, I have always believed you to be a man of honour."
"I feel very much gratified at those words, Sir Henry," he said in a
deep, earnest voice, glancing at the grey, dark-spectacled face of the
fragile man whose arm he was holding. "Indeed, I've always hoped that
you would repose sufficient confidence in me to know that I am not such
a blackguard as to take any advantage of your cruel affliction."
The blind Baronet sighed. "Ah, my dear Flockart! all men are not
honourable like yourself. There are many ready to take advantage of my
lack of eyesight. I have experienced it, alas! in business as well as in
my private life."
The dark-faced man was silent. He was playing an ingenious, if
dangerous, game. The Baronet had referred to business--his mysterious
business, the secret of which he was now trying his best to solve.
"Yes," he said at length, "I suppose the standard of honesty in business
is nowadays just about as low as it can possibly be, eh? Well, I've
never been in business myself, so I don't know. In the one or two small
financial deals in which I've had a share, I've usually been 'frozen
out' in the end."
"Ah, Flockart," sighed the Laird of Glencardine, "you are unfortunately
quite correct. The so-called smart business man is the one who robs his
neighbour without committing the sin of being found out."
This remark caused the other a twinge of conscience. Did he intend to
convey any hidden meaning? He was full of cunning and cleverness.
"Well," Flockart exclaimed, "I'm truly gratified to think that I retain
your confidence, Sir Henry. If I have in the past been able to be of any
little service to Lady Heyburn, I assure you I am only too delighted.
Yet I think that in the face of gossip which some of your neighbours
here are trying to spread--gossip started, I very much fear, by Miss
Gabrielle--my absence from Glencardine will be of distinct advantage to
all concerned. I do not, my dear Sir Henry, desire for one single moment
to embarrass you, or to place her ladyship in any false position. I----"
"But, my dear fellow, you've become quite an institution with us!"
exclaimed Sir Henry in dismay. "We should all be lost without you. Why,
as you know, you've done me so many kindnesses that I can never
sufficiently repay you. I don't forget how, through your advice, I've
been able to effect quite a number of economies at Caistor, and how
often you assist my wife in various ways in her social duties."
"My dear Sir Henry," he laughed, "you know I'm always ready to serve
either of you whenever it lies in my power. Only--well, I feel that I'm
in your wife's company far too much, both here and in Lincolnshire.
People are talking. Therefore, I have decided to leave her, and my
decision is irrevocable."
"Let them talk. If I do not object, you surely need not."
"But for your wife's sake?"
"I know--I know how cruel are people's tongues, Flockart," remarked the
old man.
"Yes; and the gossip was unfortunately started by Gabrielle. It was
surely very unwise of her."
"Ah!" sighed the other, "it is the old story. Every girl becomes jealous
of her step-mother. And she's only a child, after all," he added
apologetically.
"Well, much as I esteem her, and much as I admire her, I feel, Sir
Henry, that she had no right to bring discord into your house. I hope
you will permit me to say this, with all due deference to the fact that
she's your daughter. But I consider her conduct in this matter has been
very unfriendly."
Again the Baronet was silent, and his companion saw that he was
reflecting deeply. "How do you know that the scandal was started by
her?" he asked presently, in a low, rather strained voice.
"Young Paterson told me so. It appears that when she was staying with
them over at Tullyallan she told his mother all sorts of absurd stories.
And Mrs. Paterson who, as you know, is a terrible gossip--told the Reads
of Logie and the Redcastles, and in a few days these fictions, with all
sorts of embroidery, were spread half over Scotland. Why, my friend
Lindsay, the member for Berwick, heard some whispers the other day in
the Carlton Club! So, in consequence of that, Sir Henry, I'm resolved,
much against my will and inclination, I assure you, to end my friendship
with your wife."
"All this pains me more than I can tell you," declared the old man. "The
more so, too, that Gabrielle should have allowed her jealousy to lead
her to make such false charges."
"Yes. In order not to pain you. I have hesitated to tell you this for
several weeks. But I really thought that you ought at least to know the
truth, and who originated the scandal. And so I have ventured to-day to
speak openly, and to announce my departure," said the wily Flockart. He
was putting to the test the strength of his position in that household.
He had an ulterior motive, one that was ingenious and subtle.
"But you are not really going?" exclaimed the other. "You told me the
other day something about my factor Macdonald, and your suspicions of
certain irregularities."
"My dear Sir Henry, it will be far better for us both if I leave. To
remain will only be to lend further colour to these scandalous rumours.
I have decided to leave your house."
"You believe that Macdonald is dishonest, eh?" inquired the afflicted
man quickly.
"Yes, I'm certain of it. Remember, Sir Henry, that when one is dealing
with a man who is blind, it is sometimes a great temptation to be
dishonest."
"I know, I know," sighed the other deeply. They were at a bend in the
drive where the big trees met overhead, forming a leafy tunnel. The
ascent was a trifle steep, and the Baronet had paused for a few seconds,
leaning heavily upon the arm of his friend.
"Oh, pardon me!" exclaimed Flockart suddenly, releasing his arm. "Your
watch-chain is hanging down. Let me put it right for you." And for a few
seconds he fumbled at the chain, at the same time holding something in
the palm of his left hand. "There, that's right," he said a few minutes
later. "You caught it somewhere, I expect."
"On one of the knobs of my writing-table perhaps," said the other.
"Thanks. I sometimes inadvertently pull it out of my pocket."
A faint smile of triumph passed across the dark, handsome face of the
man, who again took his arm, as at the same time he replaced something
in his own jacket-pocket. He had in that instant secured what he wanted.
"You were saying with much truth, my dear Flockart, that in dealing with
a man who cannot see there is occasionally a temptation towards
dishonesty. Well, this very day I intend to have a long chat with my
wife, but before I do so will you promise me one thing?"
"And what is that?" asked the man, not without some apprehension.
"That you will remain here, disregard the gossip that you may have
heard, and continue to assist me in my helplessness in making full and
searching inquiry into Macdonald's alleged defalcations."
The man reflected for a few seconds, with knit brows. His quick wits
were instantly at work, for he saw with the utmost satisfaction that he
had been entirely successful in disarming all suspicion; therefore his
next move must be the defeat of that man's devoted defender, Gabrielle,
the one person who stood between his own penniless self and fortune.
"I really cannot at this moment make any promise, Sir Henry," he
remarked at last. "I have decided to go."
"But defer your decision for the present. There is surely no immediate
hurry for your departure! First let me consult my wife," urged the
Baronet, putting out his hand and groping for that of Flockart, which he
pressed warmly as proof of his continued esteem. "Let me talk to
Winifred. She shall decide whether you go or whether you shall stay."