THROUGH THE MISTS
Sir Henry refused to speak with his daughter when, on the following
morning, she stole in and laid her hand softly upon his arm. He ordered
her, in a tone quite unusual, to leave the library. Through the morning
hours she had lain awake trying to make a resolve. But, alas! she dared
not tell the truth; she was in deadly fear of Flockart's reprisals.
That morning, at nine o'clock, Lady Heyburn and Flockart had held
hurried consultation in secret, at which he had explained to her what
had occurred.
"Excellent!" she had remarked briefly. "But we must now have a care, my
dear friend. Mind the girl does not throw all prudence to the winds and
turn upon us."
"Bah!" he laughed, "I don't fear that for a single second." And he left
the room again, to salute her in the breakfast-room a quarter of an hour
later as though they had not met before that day.
Gabrielle, on leaving her father, went out for a long walk alone, away
over the heather-clad hills. For hours she went on--Jock, her Aberdeen
terrier, toddling at her side, in her hand a stout ash-stick--regardless
of the muddy roads or the wet weather. It was grey, damp, and dismal,
one of those days which in the Highlands are often so very cheerless and
dispiriting. Yet on, and still on, she went, her mind full of the events
of the previous night; full, also, of the dread secret which prevented
her from exposing her father's false friend. In order to save her
father, should she sacrifice herself--sacrifice her own life? That was
the one problem before her.
She saw nothing; she heeded nothing. Hunger or fatigue troubled her not.
Indeed, she took no notice of where her footsteps led her. Beyond Crieff
she wandered, along the river-bank a short distance, ascending a hill,
where a wild and wonderful view spread before her. There she sat down
upon a big boulder to rest.
Her hair blown by the chill wind, she sat staring straight before her,
thinking--ever thinking. She had not seen Lady Heyburn that day. She had
seen no one.
At six o'clock that morning she had written a long letter to Walter
Murie. She had not mentioned the midnight incident, but she had, with
many expressions of regret, pointed out the futility of any further
affection between them. She had not attempted to excuse herself. She
merely told him that she considered herself unworthy of his love, and
because of that, and that alone, she had decided to break off their
engagement.
A dozen times she had reread the letter after she had completed it.
Surely it was the letter of a heart-broken and desperate woman. Would he
take it in the spirit in which it was meant, she wondered. She loved
him--ah, loved him better than any one else in all the world! But she
now saw that it was useless to masquerade any longer. The blow had
fallen, and it had crushed her. She was powerless to resist, powerless
to deny the false charge against her, powerless to tell the truth.
That letter, which she knew must come as a cruel blow to Walter, she had
given to the postman with her own hands, and it was now on its way
south. As she sat on the summit of that heather-clad hill she was
wondering what effect her written words would have upon him. He had
loved her so devotedly ever since they had been children together! Well
she knew how strong was his passion for her, how his life was at her
disposal. She knew that on reading those despairing lines of hers he
would be staggered. She recalled the dear face of her soul-mate, his hot
kisses, his soft terms of endearment, and alone there, with none to
witness her bitter grief, she burst into a flood of tears.
The sad greyness of the landscape was in keeping with her own great
sorrow. She had lost all that was dear to her; and, young as she was,
with hardly any experience of the world and its ways, she was already
the victim of grim circumstance, broken by the grief of a self-renounced
love gnawing at her true heart.
The knowledge that Lady Heyburn and Flockart would exult over her
downfall and exile to that tiny house in a sleepy little
Northamptonshire village did not trouble her. Her enemies had triumphed.
She had played the game and lost, just as she might have lost at
billiards or at bridge, for she was a thorough sportswoman. She only
grieved because she saw the grave peril of her dear father, and because
she now foresaw the utter hopelessness of her own happiness.
It was better, she reflected, far better, that she should go into the
dull and dreary exile of an English village, with the unexciting
companionship of Aunt Emily, an ascetic spinster of the mid-Victorian
era, and make pretence of pique with Walter, than to reveal to him the
shameful truth. He would at least in those circumstances retain of her a
recollection fond and tender. He would not despise nor hate her, as he
most certainly would do if he knew the real astounding facts.
How long she remained there, high up, with the chill winds of autumn
tossing her silky, light-brown hair, she knew not. Rainclouds were
gathering, and the rugged hill before her was now hidden behind a bank
of mist. Time had crept on without her heeding it, for what did time now
matter to her? What, indeed, did anything matter? Her young life, though
she was still in her teens, had ended; or, at least, as far as she was
concerned it had. Was she not calmly and coolly contemplating telling
the truth and putting an end to her existence after saving her father's
honour?
Her sad, tearful eyes gazed slowly about her as she suddenly awakened to
the fact that she was far--very far--from home. She had been dazed,
unconscious of everything, because of the heavy burden of grief within
her heart. But now she looked forth upon the small, grey loch, with its
dark fringe of trees, the grey and purple hills beyond, the grey sky,
and the grey, filmy mists that hung everywhere. The world was, indeed,
sad and gloomy, and even Jock sat looking up at his young mistress as
though regarding her grief in wonder.
Now and then distant shots came from across the hills. They were
shooting over the Drummond estate, she knew, for she had had an
invitation to join their luncheon-party that day. Lady Heyburn and
Flockart had no doubt gone.
That, she told herself, was her last day in the Highlands, that
picturesque, breezy country she loved so well. It was her last day amid
those familiar places where she and Walter had so often wandered
together, and where he had told her of his passionate devotion. Well,
perhaps it was best, after all. Down south she would not be reminded of
him every moment and at every turn. No, she sighed within herself as she
rose to descend the hill, she must steel herself against her own sad
reflections. She must learn how to forget.
"What will he say?" she murmured aloud as she went down, with Jock
frisking and barking before her. "What will he think of me when he gets
my letter? He will believe me fickle; he will believe that I have
another lover. That is certain. Well, I must allow him to believe it. We
have parted, and we must now, alas! remain apart for ever. Probably he
will seek from my father the truth concerning my disappearance from
Glencardine. Dad will tell him, no doubt. And then--then, what will he
believe? He--he will know that I am unworthy to be his wife. Yet--yet is
it not cruel that I dare not speak the truth and clear myself of this
foul charge of betraying my own dear father? Was ever a girl placed in
such a position as myself, I wonder. Has any girl ever loved a man
better than I love Walter?" Her white lips were set hard, and her fine
eyes became again bedimmed by tears.
It commenced to rain, that fine drizzle so often experienced north of
the Tweed. But she heeded not. She was used to it. To get wet through
was, to her, quite a frequent occurrence when out fishing. Though there
was no path, she knew her way; and, walking through the wet heather, she
came after half-an-hour out upon a muddy byroad which led her into the
town of Crieff, whence her return was easy; though it was already dusk,
and the dressing-bell had gone, before she re-entered the house by the
servants' door and slipped unobserved up to her own room.
Elise found her seated in her blue gown before the welcome fire-log, her
chin upon her breast. Her excuse was that she felt unwell; therefore one
of the maids brought her some dinner on a tray.
Upon the mantelshelf were many photographs, some of them snap-shots of
her schoolfellows and souvenirs of holidays, the odds and ends of
portraits and scenes which every girl unconsciously collects.
Among them, in a plain silver frame, was the picture of Walter Murie
taken in New York only a few weeks before. Upon the frame was engraved,
"Gabrielle, from Walter." She took it in her hand, and stood for a long
time motionless. Never again, alas! would she look upon that face so
dear to her. Her young heart was already broken, because she was held
fettered and powerless.
At last she put down the portrait, and, sinking into her chair, sat
crying bitterly. Now that she was outcast by her father, to whom she had
been always such a close, devoted friend, her life was an absolute
blank. At one blow she had lost both lover and father. Already Elise had
told her that she had received instructions to pack her trunks. The
thin-nosed Frenchwoman was apparently much puzzled at the order which
Lady Heyburn had given her, and had asked the girl whom she intended to
visit. The maid had asked what dresses she would require; but Gabrielle
replied that she might pack what she liked for a long visit. The girl
could hear Elise moving about, shaking out skirts, in the adjoining
room, and making preparations for her departure on the morrow.
Despondent, hopeless, grief-stricken, she sat before the fire for a long
time. She had locked the door and switched off the light, for it
irritated her. She loved the uncertain light of dancing flames, and sat
huddled there in her big chair for the last time.
She was reflecting upon her own brief life. Scarcely out of the
schoolroom, she had lived most of her days up in that dear old place
where every inch of the big estate was so familiar to her. She
remembered all those happy days at school, first in England, and then in
France, with the kind-faced Sisters in their spotless head-dresses, and
the quiet, happy life of the convent. The calm, grave face of Sister
Marguerite looked down upon her from the mantelshelf as if sympathising
with her pretty pupil in those troubles that had so early come to her.
She raised her eyes, and saw the portrait. Its sight aroused within her
a new thought and fresh recollection. Had not Sister Marguerite always
taught her to beseech the Almighty's aid when in doubt or when in
trouble? Those grave, solemn words of the Mother Superior rang in her
ears, and she fell upon her knees beside her narrow bed in the alcove,
and with murmuring lips prayed for divine support and assistance. She
raised her sweet, troubled face to heaven and made confession to her
Maker.
Then, after a long silence, she struggled again to her feet, more cool
and more collected. She took up Walter's portrait, and, kissing it, put
it away carefully in a drawer. Some of her little treasures she gathered
together and placed with it, preparatory to departure, for she would on
the morrow leave Glencardine perhaps for ever.
The stable-clock had struck ten. To where she stood came the strident
sounds of the mechanical piano-player, for some of the gay party were
waltzing in the hall. Their merry shouts and laughter were discordant to
her ears. What cared any of those friends of her step-mother if she were
in disgrace and an outcast?
Drawing aside the curtain, she saw that the night was bright and
starlit. She preferred the air out in the park to the sounds of gaiety
within that house which was no longer to be her home. Therefore she
slipped on a skirt and blouse, and, throwing her golf-cape across her
shoulders and a shawl over her head, she crept past the room wherein
Elise was packing her belongings, and down the back-stairs to the lawn.
The sound of the laughter of the men and women of the shooting-party
aroused a poignant bitterness within her. As she passed across the drive
she saw a light in the library, where, no doubt, her father was sitting
in his loneliness, feeling and examining his collection of
seal-impressions.
She turned, and, walking straight on, struck the gravelled path which
took her to the castle ruins.
Not until the black, ponderous walls rose before her did she awaken to a
consciousness of her whereabouts. Then, entering the ruined courtyard,
she halted and listened. All was dark. Above, the stars twinkled
brightly, and in the ivy the night-birds stirred the leaves. Holding her
breath, she strained her ears. Yes, she was not deceived! There were
sounds distinct and undeniable. She was fascinated, listening again to
those shadow-voices that were always precursory of death--the fatal
Whispers.