The House of Whispers | Page 3

all. My frock came from town the day before yesterday. Elise
declares it suits me admirably, and she's very hard to please, you know.
It's white, trimmed with tiny roses."
"A perfect dream, I expect," remarked the blind man, smiling. "I wish I
could see you in it, dear. I often wonder what you are like, now that
you've grown to be a woman."
"I'm like what I always have been, dad, I suppose," she laughed.
"Yes, yes," he sighed, in pretence of being troubled. "Wilful as always.
And--and," he faltered a moment later, "I often hear your dear dead
mother's voice in yours." Then he was silent, and by the deep lines in
his brow she knew that he was thinking.
Outside, in the high elms beyond the level, well-kept lawn, with its
grey old sundial, the homecoming rooks were cawing prior to settling
down for the night. No other sound broke the stillness of that quiet
sunset hour save the solemn ticking of the long, old-fashioned clock at
the farther end of the big, book-lined room, with its wide fireplace,
great overmantel of carved stone with emblazoned arms, and its three
long windows of old stained glass which gave it a somewhat
ecclesiastical aspect.
"Tell me, child," repeated Sir Henry at length, "what was it that upset
you just now?"
"Nothing, dad--unless--well, perhaps it's the heat. I felt rather unwell
when I went out for my ride this morning," she answered with a frantic
attempt at excuse.
The blind man was well aware that her reply was but a subterfuge.
Little, however, did he dream the cause. Little did he know that a dark

shadow had fallen upon the young girl's life--a shadow of evil.
"Gabrielle," he said in a low, intense voice, "why aren't you open and
frank with me as you once used to be? Remember that you, my
daughter, are my only friend!"
Slim, dainty, and small-waisted, with a sweet, dimpled face, and blue
eyes large and clear like a child's, a white throat, a well-poised head,
and light-chestnut hair dressed low with a large black bow, she
presented the picture of happy, careless youth, her features soft and
refined, her half-bare arms well moulded, and hands delicate and white.
She wore only one ornament--upon her left hand was a small
signet-ring with her monogram engraved, a gift from one of her
governesses when a child, and now worn upon the little finger.
That face was strikingly beautiful, it had been remarked more than once
in London; but any admiration only called forth the covert sneers of
Lady Heyburn.
"Why don't you tell me?" urged the blind man. "Why don't you tell me
the truth?" he protested.
Her countenance changed when she heard his words. In her blue eyes
was a look of abject fear. Her left hand was tightly clenched and her
mouth set hard, as though in resolution.
"I really don't know what you mean, dad," she responded with a hollow
laugh. "You have such strange fancies nowadays."
"Strange fancies, child!" echoed the afflicted man, lifting his grey,
expressionless face to hers. "A blind man has always vague, suspicious,
and black forebodings engendered by the darkness and loneliness of his
life. I am no exception," he sighed. "I think ever of the
might-have-beens."
"No, dear," exclaimed the girl, bending until her lips touched his white
brow softly. "Forget it all, dear old dad. Surely your days here, with me,
quiet and healthful in this beautiful Perthshire, are better, better by far,

than if you had been a politician up in London, ever struggling, ever
speaking, and ever bearing the long hours at the House and the eternal
stress of Parliamentary life?"
"Yes, yes," he said, just a trifle impatiently. "It is not that. I don't regret
that I had to retire, except--well, except for your sake perhaps, dear."
"For my sake! How?"
"Because, had I been a member of this Cabinet--which some of my
friends predicted--you would have had the chance of a good marriage.
But buried as you are down here instead, what chances have you?"
"I want no chance, dad," replied the girl. "I shall never marry."
A painful thought crossed the old man's mind, being mirrored upon his
brow by the deep lines which puckered there for a few brief moments.
"Well," he exclaimed, smiling, "that's surely no reason why you should
not go to the ball at Connachan to-night."
"I have my duty to perform, dad; my duty is to remain with you," she
said decisively. "You know you have quite a lot to do, and when your
mother has gone we'll spend an hour or two here at work."
"I hear that Walter Murie is at home again at Connachan. Hill told me
this morning," remarked her father.
"So I