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House of Whispers

<h3 id="id00774" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XV</h3> <h5 id="id00775">FOLLOWS FLOCKART'S FORTUNES</h5> 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." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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