The House of Whispers | Page 2

natural causes. In fact, it was a mystery, and one that had never been
solved. The first oculists of Europe had peered into and tested his eyes,
but all to no purpose. The sight had gone for ever.
Therefore, full of bitter regrets at being thus compelled to renounce the
stress and storm of political life which he loved so well, Sir Henry
Heyburn had gone into strict retirement at Glencardine, his beautiful
old Perthshire home, visiting London but very seldom.
He was essentially a man of mystery. Even in the days of his universal
popularity the source of his vast wealth was unknown. His father, the
tenth Baronet, had been sadly impoverished by the depreciation of
agricultural property in Lincolnshire, and had ended his days in the
genteel quietude of the Albany. But Sir Henry, without betraying to the
world his methods, had in fifteen years amassed a fortune which people

guessed must be considerably over a million sterling.
From a life of strenuous activity he had, in one single hour, been
doomed to one of loneliness and inactivity. His friends sympathised, as
indeed the whole British public had done; but in a month the tragic
affair and its attendant mysterious gossip had been forgotten, as in truth
had the very name of Sir Henry Heyburn, whom the Prime Minister,
though his political opponent, had one night designated in the House as
"one of the most brilliant and talented young men who has ever sat
upon the Opposition benches."
In his declining years the life of this man was a pitiful tragedy, his
filmy eyes sightless, his thin white fingers ever eager and nervous, his
hours full of deep thought and silent immobility. To him, what was the
benefit of that beautiful Perthshire castle which he had purchased from
Lord Strathavon a year before his compulsory retirement? What was
the use of the old ancestral manor near Caistor in Lincolnshire, or the
town-house in Park Street, the snug hunting-box at Melton, or the
beautiful palm-shaded, flower-embowered villa overlooking the blue
southern sea at San Remo? He remembered them all. He had misty
visions of their splendour and their luxury; but since his blindness he
had seldom, if ever, entered them. That big library up in Scotland in
which he now sat was the room he preferred; and with his daughter
Gabrielle to bear him company, to smooth his brow with her soft hand,
to chatter and to gossip, he wished for no other companion. His life was
of the past, a meteor that had flashed and had vanished for ever.
"Tell me, child, what is troubling you?" he was asking in a calm, kind
voice, as he still held the girl's hand in his. The sweet scent of the roses
from the garden beyond filled the room.
A smart footman in livery opened the door at that moment, asking,
"Stokes has just returned with the car from Perth, Sir Henry, and asks if
you want him further at present."
"No," replied his blind master. "Has he brought back her ladyship?"
"Yes, Sir Henry," replied the man. "I believe he is taking her to the ball

over at Connachan to-night."
"Oh, yes, of course. How foolish I am! I quite forgot," said the Baronet
with a slight sigh. "Very well, Hill."
And the clean-shaven young man, with his bright buttons bearing the
chevron gules betwixt three boars' heads erased _sable_, of the
Heyburns, bowed and withdrew.
"I had quite forgotten the ball at Connachan, dear," exclaimed her
father, stretching out his thin white hand in search of hers again. "Of
course you are going?"
"No, dad; I'm staying at home with you."
"Staying at home!" echoed Sir Henry. "Why, my dear Gabrielle, the
first year you're out, and missing the best ball in the county! Certainly
not. I'm all right. I shan't be lonely. A little box came this morning from
the Professor, didn't it?"
"Yes, dad."
"Then I shall be able to spend the evening very well alone. The
Professor has sent me what he promised the other day."
"I've decided not to go," was the girl's firm reply.
"I fear, dear, your mother will be very annoyed if you refuse," he
remarked.
"I shall risk that, dear old dad, and stay with you to-night. Please allow
me," she added persuasively, taking his hand in hers and bending till
her red lips touched his white brow. "You have quite a lot to do,
remember. A big packet of papers came from Paris this morning. I must
read them over to you."
"But your mother, my dear! Your absence will be commented upon.
People will gossip, you know."

"There is but one person I care for, dad--yourself," laughed the girl
lightly.
"Perhaps you're disappointed over a new frock or something, eh?"
"Not at