BETRAYS THE BOND
The girl hurried on, her heart filled with wonder, her eyes brimming
with tears of indignation. The one thought occupying her whole mind was
whether Walter really wished to see her again. Had Flockart spoken the
truth? The serious face of the man she loved so well rose before her
blurred vision. She had been his--his very own--until she had sent off
that fateful letter.
In five minutes Flockart had again overtaken her. His attitude was
appealing. He urged her to at least see her lover again even if she
refused to write or return to her father.
"Why do you come here to taunt me like this?" she cried, turning upon
him angrily. "Once, because you were my mother's friend, I believed in
you. But you deceived me, and in consequence you hold me in your power.
Were it not for that I could have spoken to my father--have told him the
truth and cleared myself. He now believes that I have betrayed his
business secrets, while at the same time he considers you to be his
friend!"
"I am his friend, Gabrielle," the man declared.
"Why tell me such a lie?" she asked reproachfully. "Do you think I too
am blind?"
"Certainly not. I give you credit for being quite as clever and as
intelligent as you are dainty and charming. I----"
"Thank you!" she cried in indignation. "I require no compliments from
you."
"Lady Heyburn has expressed a wish to see you," he said. "She is still
in San Remo, and asked me to invite you to go down there for a few
weeks. Your aunt has written her, I think, complaining that you are not
very comfortable at Woodnewton."
"I have not complained. Why should Aunt Emily complain of me? You seem
to be the bearer of messages from the whole of my family, Mr. Flockart."
"I am here entirely in your own interests, my dear child," he declared
with that patronising air which so irritated her.
"Not entirely, I think," she said, smiling bitterly.
"I tell you, I much regret all that has happened, and----"
"You regret!" she cried fiercely. "Do you regret the end of that
woman--you know whom I mean?"
Beneath her straight glance he quivered. She had referred to a subject
which he fain would have buried for ever. This dainty neat-waisted girl
knew a terrible secret. Was it not only too true, as Lady Heyburn had
vaguely suggested a dozen times, that her mouth ought to be effectually
sealed?
He had sealed it once, as he thought. Her fear to explain to her father
the incident of the opening of the safe had given him confidence that no
word of the truth regarding the past would ever pass her lips. Yet he
saw that his own machinations were now likely to prove his undoing. The
web which, with her ladyship's assistance, he had woven about her was
now stretched to breaking-point. If it did yield, then the result must
be ruin--and worse. Therefore, he was straining every effort to again
reinstate her in her father's good graces and restore in her mind
something akin to confidence. But all his arguments, as he walked on at
her side in the gathering gloom, proved useless. She was in no mood to
listen to the man who had been her evil genius ever since her
school-days. As he was speaking she was wondering if she dared go to
Walter Murie and tell him everything. What would her lover think of her?
What indeed? He would only cast her aside as worthless. No. Far better
that he should remain in ignorance and retain only sad memories of their
brief happiness.
"I am going to Glencardine to-night," Flockart went on. "I shall join
the mail at Peterborough. What shall I tell your father?"
"Tell him the truth," was her reply. "That, I know, you will not do. So
why need we waste further words?"
"Do you actually refuse, then, to leave this dismal hole?" he demanded
impatiently.
"Yes, until I speak, and tell my father the plain and ghastly story."
"Rubbish!" he ejaculated. "You'll never do that--unless you wish to
stand beside me in a criminal dock."
"Well, rather that than be your cat's-paw longer, Mr. Flockart!" she
cried, her face flushing with indignation.
"Oh, oh!" he laughed, still quite imperturbed. "Come, come! This is
scarcely a wise reply, my dear little girl!"
"I wish you to leave me. You have insulted my intelligence enough this
evening, surely--you, who only a moment ago declared yourself my
friend!"
Slowly he selected a cigarette from his gold case, and, halting, lit it.
"Well, if you meet my well-meant efforts on your behalf with open
antagonism like this I can't make any further suggestion."
"No, please don't. Go up to Glencardine and do your worst for me. I am
now fully able to take care of myself," she exclaimed in defiance. "You
can also write to Lady Heyburn, and tell her that I am still, and that I
always will remain, my blind father's friend."
"But why don't you listen to reason, Gabrielle?" he implored her. "I
don't now seek to lessen or deny the wrongs I have done you in the past,
nor do I attempt to conceal from you my own position. My only object is
to bring you and Walter together again. Her ladyship knows the whole
circumstances, and deeply regrets them."
"Her regret will be the more poignant some day, I assure you."
"Then you really intend to act vindictively?"
"I shall act just as I think proper," she exclaimed, halting a moment
and facing him. "Please understand that though I have been forced in the
past to act as you have indicated, because I feared you--because I had
my reputation and my father's honour at stake--I hold you in terror no
longer, Mr. Flockart."
"Well, I'm glad you've told me that," he said, laughing as though he
treated her declaration with humour. "It's just as well, perhaps, that
we should now thoroughly understand each other. Yet if I were you I
wouldn't do anything rash. By telling the truth you'd be the only
sufferer, you know."
"The only sufferer! Why?"
"Well, you don't imagine I should be such a fool as to admit that what
you said was true, do you?"
She looked at him in surprise. It had never occurred to her that he,
with his innate unscrupulousness and cunning, might deny her
allegations, and might even be able to prove them false.
"The truth could not be denied," she said simply. "Recollect the cutting
from the Edinburgh paper."
"Truth is denied every day in courts of law," he retorted. "No. Before
you act foolishly, remember that, put to the test, your word would stand
alone against mine and those of other people.
"Why, the very story you would tell would be so utterly amazing and
startling that the world would declare you had invented it. Reflect upon
it for a moment, and you'll find, my dear girl, that silence is golden
in this, as in any other circumstance in life."
She raised her eyes to his, and met his gaze firmly. "So you defy me to
speak?" she cried. "You think that I will still remain in this accursed
bondage of yours?"
"I utter no threats, my dear child," replied Flockart. "I have never in
my life threatened you. I merely venture to point out certain
difficulties which you might have in substantiating any allegation which
you might make against me. For that reason, if for none other, is it not
better for us to be friends?"
"I am not the friend of my father's enemy!" she declared.
"You are quite heroic," he declared with a covert sneer. "If you really
are bent upon providing the halfpenny newspapers with a fresh sensation,
pray let me know in plenty of time, won't you?"
"I've had sufficient of your taunts," cried the girl, bursting into a
flood of hot tears. "Leave me. I--I'll say no further word to you."
"Except to forgive me," He added.
"Why should I?" she asked through her tears.
"Because, for your own sake--for the sake of your future--it will surely
be best," he pointed out. "You, no doubt, in ignorance of legal
procedure, believed that what you alleged would be accepted in a court
of justice. But reflect fully before you again threaten me. Dry your
eyes, or your aunt may suspect something wrong."
She did not reply. What he said impressed her, and he did not fail to
recognise that fact. He smiled within himself when he saw that he had
triumphed. Yet he had not gained his point.
She had dashed away her tears with the little wisp of lace, annoyed with
herself at betraying her indignation in that womanly way. She knew him,
alas! too well. She mistrusted him, for she was well aware of how
cleverly he had once conspired with Lady Heyburn, and with what
ingenuity she herself had been drawn into the disgraceful and amazing
affair.
True it was that her story, if told in a criminal court, would prove so
extraordinary that it would not be believed; true also that he would, of
course, deny it, and that his denial would be borne out by the woman
who, though her father's wife, was his worst enemy.
The man placed his hand on her shoulder, saying, "May we not be friends,
Gabrielle?"
She shook him off roughly, responding in the negative.
"But we are not enemies--I mean we will not be enemies as we have been,
shall we?" he urged.
To this she made no reply. She only quickened her pace, for the twilight
was fast deepening, and she wished to be back again at her aunt's house.
Why had that man followed her? Why, indeed, had he troubled to come
there? She could not discern his motive.
They walked together in silence. He was watching her face, reading it
like a book.
Then, when they neared the first thatched cottage at the entrance to the
village, he halted, asking, "May we not now become friends, Gabrielle?
Will you not listen, and take my advice? Or will you still remain buried
here?"
"I have nothing further to say, Mr. Flockart, than what I have already
said," was her defiant response. "I shall act as I think best."
"And you will dare to speak, and place yourself in a ridiculous
position, you mean?"
"I shall use my own judgment in defending my father from his enemies,"
was her cold response as, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, she
turned and left him, hurrying forward in the darkening twilight along
the village street to her aunt's home.
He, on his part, turned upon his heel with a muttered remark and set out
again to walk towards Nassington Station, whence, after nearly an hour's
wait in the village inn, he took train to Peterborough.
The girl had once again defied him.