SHOWS A GIRL'S BONDAGE
Walter Murie had chosen politics as a profession long ago, even when he
was an undergraduate. He had already eaten his dinners in London, and
had been called to the Bar as the first step towards a political career.
He had a relative in the Foreign Office, while his uncle had held an
Under-Secretaryship in the late Government. Therefore he had influence,
and hoped by its aid to secure some safe seat. Already he had studied
both home and foreign affairs very closely, and had on two occasions
written articles in the _Times_ upon that most vexed and difficult
question, the pacification of Macedonia. He was a very fair speaker,
too, and on several occasions he had seconded resolutions and made quite
clever speeches at political gatherings in his own county, Perthshire.
Indeed, politics was his hobby; and, with money at his command and
influence in high quarters, there was no reason why he should not within
the next few years gain a seat in the House. With Sir Henry Heyburn he
often had long and serious chats. The brilliant politician, whose career
had so suddenly and tragically been cut short, gave him much good
advice, pointing out the special questions he should study in order to
become an authority. This is the age of specialising, and in politics it
is just as essential to be a specialist as it is in the medical, legal,
or any other profession.
In a few days the young man was returning to his dingy chambers in the
Temple, to pore again over those mouldy tomes of law; therefore almost
daily he ran over to Glencardine to chat with the blind Baronet, and to
have quiet walks with the sweet girl who looked so dainty in her fresh
white frocks, and whose warm kisses were so soft and caressing.
Surely no pair, even in the bygone days of knight and dame, the days of
real romance, were more devoted to each other. With satisfaction he saw
that Gabrielle's apparent indifference had now worn off. It had been but
the mask of a woman's whim, and as such he treated it.
One afternoon, after tea out on the lawn, they were walking together by
the bypath to the lodge in order to meet Lady Heyburn, who had gone into
the village to visit a bedridden old lady. Hand-in-hand they were
strolling, for on the morrow he was going south, and would probably be
absent for some months.
The girl had allowed herself to remain in her lover's arms in one long
kiss of perfect ecstasy. Then, with a sigh of regret, she had held his
hand and gone forward again without a word. When Walter had left, the
sun of her young life would have set, for after all it was not exactly
exciting to be the eyes and ears of a man who was blind. And there was
always at her side that man whom she hated, and who, she knew, was her
bitterest foe--James Flockart.
Of late her father seemed to have taken him strangely into his
confidence. Why, she could not tell. A sudden change of front on the
Baronet's part was unusual; but as she watched with sinking heart she
could not conceal from herself the fact that Flockart now exercised
considerable influence over her father--an influence which in some
matters had already proved to be greater than her own.
It was of this man Walter spoke. "I have a regret, dearest--nay, more
than a regret, a fear--in leaving you here alone," he exclaimed in a
low, distinct voice, gazing into the blue, fathomless depths of those
eyes so very dear to him.
"A fear! Why?" she asked in some surprise, returning his look.
"Because of that man--your mother's friend," he said. "Recently I have
heard some curious tales concerning him. I really wonder why Sir Henry
still retains him as his guest."
"Why need we speak of him?" she exclaimed quickly, for the subject was
distasteful.
"Because I wish you to be forewarned," he said in a serious voice. "That
man is no fitting companion for you. His past is too well known to a
certain circle."
"His past!" she echoed. "What have you discovered concerning him?"
Her companion did not answer for a few moments. How could he tell her
all that he had heard? His desire was to warn her, yet he could not
relate to her the allegations made by certain persons against Flockart.
"Gabrielle," he said, "all that I have heard tends to show that his
friendship for you and for your father is false; therefore avoid
him--beware of him."
"I--I know," she faltered, lowering her eyes. "I've felt that was the
case all along, yet I----"
"Yet what?" he asked.
"I mean I want you to promise me one thing, Walter," she said quickly.
"You love me, do you not?"
"Love you, my own darling! How can you ask such a question? You surely
know that I do!"
"Then, if you really love me, you will make me a promise."
"Of what?"
"Only one thing--one little thing," she said in a low, earnest voice,
looking straight into his eyes. "If--if that man ever makes an
allegation against me, you won't believe him?"
"An allegation! Why, darling, what allegation could such a man ever make
against you?"
"He is my enemy," she remarked simply.
"I know that. But what charge could he bring against you? Why, if even
he dared to utter a single word against you, I--I'd wring the ruffian's
neck!"
"But if he did, Walter, you wouldn't believe him, would you?"
"Of course I wouldn't."
"Not--not if the charge he made against me was a terrible one--a--a
disgraceful one?" she asked in a strained voice after a brief and
painful pause.
"Why, dearest!" he cried, "what is the matter? You are really not
yourself to-day. You seem to be filled with a graver apprehension even
than I am. What does it mean? Tell me."
"It means, Walter, that that man is Lady Heyburn's friend; hence he is
my enemy."
"And what need you fear when you have me as your friend?"
"I do not fear if you will still remain my friend--always--in face of
any allegation he makes."
"I love you, darling. Surely that's sufficient guarantee of my
friendship?"
"Yes," she responded, raising her white, troubled face to his while he
bent and kissed her again on the lips. "I know that I am yours, my own
well-beloved; and, as yours, I will not fear."
"That's right!" he exclaimed, endeavouring to smile. "Cheer up. I don't
like to see you on this last day down-hearted and apprehensive like
this."
"I am not so without cause."
"Then, what is the cause?" he demanded. "Surely you can repose
confidence in me?"
Again she was silent. Above them the wind stirred the leaves, and
through the high bracken a rabbit scuttled at their feet. They were
alone, and she stood again locked in her lover's fond embrace.
"You have told me yourself that man Flockart is my enemy," she said in a
low voice.
"But what action of his can you fear? Surely you should be forearmed
against any evil he may be plotting. Tell me the truth, and I will go
myself to your father and denounce the fellow before his face!"
"Ah, no!" she cried, full of quick apprehension. "Never think of doing
that, Walter!"
"Why? Am I not your friend?"
"Such a course would only bring his wrath down upon my head. He would
retaliate quickly, and I alone would suffer."
"But, my dear Gabrielle," he exclaimed, "you really speak in enigmas.
Whatever can you fear from a man who is known to be a blackguard--whom I
could now, at this very moment, expose in such a manner that he would
never dare to set foot in Perthshire again?"
"Such a course would be most injudicious, I assure you. His ruin would
mean--it would mean--my--own!"
"I don't follow you."
"Ah, because you do not know my secret--you----"
"Your secret!" the young man gasped, staring at her, yet still holding
her trembling form in his strong arms. "Why, what do you mean? What
secret?"
"I--I cannot tell you!" she exclaimed in a hard, mechanical voice,
looking straight before her.
"But you must," he protested.
"I--I asked you, Walter, to make me a promise," she said, her voice
broken by emotion--"a promise that, for the sake of the love you bear
for me, you will not believe that man, that you will disregard any
allegation against me."
"And I promise, on one condition, darling--that you tell me in
confidence what I, as your future husband, have a just right to
know--the nature of this secret of yours."
"Ah, no!" she cried, unable longer to restrain her tears, and burying
her pale, beautiful face upon his arm. "I--I was foolish to have spoken
of it," she sobbed brokenly: "I ought to have kept it to myself. It
is--it's the one thing that I can never reveal to you--to you of all
men!"