GERTRUDE'S FATHER
Hitherto I have explained everything in detail, from the time I
adventured out to seek romance and found tragedy instead. Now I must
be more or less exact, as it is well nigh impossible to set down
everything. For an indefinite period I lodged at The Robin Redbreast,
and met Miss Monk frequently here, there, and everywhere. The moth had
come to the candle, and was hovering round the flame with dangerous
pertinacity. Not that the lady accepted me straight away, for the most
romantic of women have their practical side. Miss Monk, at first
acquaintance, apparently liked me: but I puzzled her, and she
questioned Mrs. Gilfin about me, so as to be sure of her ground. A
very necessary precaution in the face of circumstances.
"You seem to have made quite an impression on that sweet young lady,
Master Cyrus," said the landlady, a day or so after I had visited Miss
Destiny, "she met me by chance last night and asked me to tell her all
about you."
"I hope you gave me a good character," said I anxiously, and very
pleased to think that my interest in Diana of the Ephesians was
reciprocated.
"I told her that you were always the best of boys Master Cyrus, and
that fond of my custards, as I had always to give you one every day
when you was little and sweet-toothed."
I reddened. "Oh, nonsense! Miss Monk doesn't wish to hear tales of my
childish greed, Cuckoo."
"She wished to hear everything," said Mrs. Gilfin, phlegmatically,
"being wonderfully took up with your pleasant ways. And I don't blame
her," said the ex-cook, beaming through her spectacles, "seeing as
you're a gentleman grown, Master Cyrus, and handsomer than I ever
thought you'd become. Not that Miss Gertrude cares for good looks
without good birth, and good manners, or she'd have run off with
Joseph ages ago."
"Is he back?" I asked, starting, for I had to reckon with the
gardener.
"Oh, yes, he's back," grunted Mrs. Gilfin, disgusted, "and always
hanging about that house picking weeds. So he says, but it's to look
at what he'll never get, as I'll tell him some fine day. Such sauce!"
"He hasn't had the insolence to speak to Miss Monk on the subject of
his confounded feelings?" I asked, anxiously, for there was no denying
that the man's aggressive good looks constituted him a dangerous
rival.
"Not he, and if he did she'd soon send him to the right about with a
flea in his ear. Good looks ain't good manners, Master Cyrus, say what
you will."
"Well," I laughed. "I hope you told her that I was the best-mannered
and most good-natured man in the universe, Cuckoo."
"I told the truth, you may be sure, Master Cyrus," rebuked Mrs.
Gilfin, "saying you was that honorable and clever and thoughtful and
kindhearted, as I'd trust you with my very own heart to do what you
liked with. Not that you want _my_ heart, bless you," ended Mrs.
Gilfin, beaming again and becoming one vast substantial smile like
Mrs. Fezziwig in "The Christmas Carol."
"You want Miss Gertrude's."
"Good heavens, Cuckoo! you didn't tell her that I hope?"
"Not in so many words, Master Cyrus. But bless you," added Mrs. Gilfin
significantly, "women in these matters ain't fools, sir."
I was rather perturbed over this, as it was not impossible that the
maidenly modesty of Gertrude might take offence, if she guessed my
undeclared sentiments. And in any case, the slightest hint of such an
attitude might embarrass our conversation. By this time, it was
useless to deny that I was fathoms deep in love. I suppose I had
brooded so long over the beauty of the pictured face, that when the
original proved to be even more attractive, the egg of love was
promptly hatched into the actual chick From the moment my eyes met
those of Gertrude, and soul read soul, I adored her with a headstrong
passion, which I should have scouted in another man. If ever there was
an impulsive being who aptly illustrated Marlow's dictum, as to love
at first sight, I was that uncommon individual. For I take it that
sudden passions of this unthinking sort, are unusual in an age, when
lovers--a most unsuitable name for such cautious creatures--wish to
inspect the lady's check-book before proposing.
But I need not have worried my mind over any possible embarrassment on
Miss Monk's part. She was more composed than I was when we next met;
and that was in the village store, whither I had gone to procure some
stationery. It was necessary to write Cannington and advise him of my
actual whereabouts, if only to keep him out of the way. I did not wish
him to come down and spoil my wooing, as an inconvenient third.
Besides, as a feather-headed boy, he might be indiscreet with regard
to the Mootley murder, and I wished to supply all information on that
matter, by word of mouth. It was the sole excuse, which I had for
seeking the society of my goddess, and I did not wish it to be staled
by other people's repetitions.
While I was purchasing blotting-paper, ink and pens and stationery
from a genial old woman in a mob-cap, Miss Monk entered the shop. She
was dressed as she had been when I last saw her, but this time carried
a dog-whip in place of a sunshade. Gamboling round her was a large
ungainly Newfoundland year-old puppy, who answered to the odd name of
Puddles. At least that was his pet name, as Miss Monk afterwards told
me that he was registered as Ion, after the hero of Judge Talfourd's
famous play. Puddles lounged against me with exuberant friendliness,
and had to be corrected with the whip. When the commotion subsided,
his mistress found time to speak and apologize, looking handsomer than
ever, with the color of exercise in her cheeks.
"You mustn't mind the dog," she said gravely, "he won't bite you."
"I hope not," I replied with equal gravity, "I am extremely timid, you
know."
She smiled at this. "I think I would trust you in a moment of danger,
Mr. Vance. But to be friends with me, you must be friends with
Puddles."
"I quite understand. Love me, love my dog."
"I didn't say anything about love," she laughed, her color deepening.
"But in any case, you have put the cart before the horse. Love my dog
and love me, you should say."
"Certainly! Puddles!" I dropped on one knee, and held out a caressing
hand, "try and love me--as a beginning."
"A beginning to what?" asked Miss Monk, smiling and crimson.
"Puddles knows, Puddles understands: see, he gives me his paw. Good
dog." I shook the huge paw, patted the huge head, and rose to be
conventional. "It is a beautiful day, isn't it, Miss Monk."
"Of course, and the horse is the noblest of all animals," she replied
with up-lifted eyebrows. "I thought you were more original, Mr.
Vance."
"I assure you that is a mistake. I am that harmless, and necessary
person, the repeater of platitudes."
She shuddered. "Don't repeat them to me, please, I hate copy-book
phrases."
"Yet what good sense they contain. Your remark about the horse is one,
and is absolutely true."
"So true," she mocked, "as to make the statement unnecessary." She
turned to purchase a bag of dog-biscuits. "Are we fighting a verbal
duel, Mr. Vance?"
"It would seem so, Miss Monk, but the buttons are on our foils."
With the bag in her arms, she wheeled nervously. "Why do you say
that?" and there was apprehension in her dark eyes.
"I speak for the sake of speaking."
"No," her anxious eyes searched my face, "you are not that kind of
man. If you----" she stopped and bit her lip, and with a curt nod
walked rapidly out of the shop followed by Puddles. I did not attempt
to follow, as I saw that my cryptic speech had interested her, and
wished to give her time to think over my personality. While I remained
in her thoughts, there was every hope that she would seek me again.
Better that she should be afraid of me, than indifferent to me.
And as I sauntered back to The Robin Redbreast, I felt convinced that
she was afraid of me: my dark sayings had made her afraid. At our
first meeting under the tin roof of Miss Destiny's hovel, I had seen
the fear in her eyes, and at this second meeting I saw it again, more
apparent. But, what could she be afraid of in connection with me?
There was only one common-sense answer: Gertrude Monk was the lady who
had stolen my motor-car, and who had--but no; I could not bring myself
to believe the worst, even in the face of the obvious certainty that
she was concealing something, which had to do with the weird
circumstances at Mootley. She would explain when the time came, and
that would be when she was sufficiently well acquainted with me to
regard Mrs. Gilfin's eulogy as justified. Then--well I would wait
until then, for in the pursuit of the impossible, I was developing a
fine quality of patience.
During the next few days, I occasionally met Miss Destiny and her
servant in the village. They went shopping together, and the little
old lady beat down the prices of everyone, however cheap the goods she
wanted might originally be. I believe she enjoyed the squabble, and
certainly her tongue clacked from morning to night in the endeavor to
get her own sordid way. She was a miser, pure and simple, and had
contracted the disease--for that it was--from the late Gabriel Monk.
Everyone hated Miss Destiny, for in addition to being avaricious, she
had a desperately evil tongue, and dealt with one and all from the
point of view of a misanthrope. That is, she never said a good word of
anyone, but babbled out many bad ones, so that she set people by the
ears constantly. She might have abused me, for all I knew, but if she
did, her demeanor to my face was extremely pleasant. When we met, she
always hinted roguishly at my love for her niece, and chaffed me about
the same. At times I wondered if she discussed my presence at Burwain
with Gertrude. I thought not, as my meetings with the goddess were
always marked by a perfectly unembarrassed manner on her part.
Moreover, aunt and niece did not get on well together, and only
exchanged formal visits. Miss Destiny--as I gathered from Mrs.
Gilfin's ready tongue--had never forgiven Gertrude for inheriting the
missing fortune, and always expressed herself pleased that it could
not be found.
Although I had been over a fortnight at Burwain, Mr. Walter Monk was
still absent from the old Jacobean mansion, and Gertrude lived there
with one servant in nun-like seclusion. She read a great deal, and
played the piano and attended to Puddles--a great stand-by against
loneliness. Joseph also was frequently about the garden, but I don't
think she ever gave him a word--on Mrs. Gilfin's authority I can say
this--unless it had to do with his duties. But he hung round the place
like a stray dog, satisfied if he could catch only a glimpse of
Gertrude, and was in the seventh heaven if she addressed a word to
him. Miss Destiny spoke to me of the gardener's infatuation, which was
apparent to everyone.
"You have met Joseph?" she asked me one day in her mincing manner.
"At Mootley, when he was setting his aunt's house in order," I
informed her genially. I was always genial with Miss Destiny, as for
my own purposes I wished to keep on good terms with her.
"Ah, yes. He inherited Anne's savings. Quite a nice little sum, I
believe. And the lease of the shop also," added Miss Destiny musingly,
"Gertrude might do worse."
"What do you mean?" I asked sharply, and, I fear, angrily.
The little old lady raised her twinkling sharp eyes to my annoyed
face. "I forgot," she said impishly, "you are the other one."
"The other what, Miss Destiny?"
"Lover--the second Prince Charming; though I think," she remarked in a
very spiteful tone, "that the first Prince is the handsomer."
I went straight to the point. "Miss Destiny, I don't for one moment
suppose that you would like to see Miss Monk become Striver's wife."
"Why not. He has looks, if not birth; and money, if not position."
"The thing's absurd. A lady marry a gardener."
"Other ladies have done so and have been happy," she persisted.
"Besides Gertrude may not be able to help herself."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing and everything," she replied enigmatically. "Mr. Striver is
in possession of all Anne's private papers," she hesitated.
"Well? well? well?" I said impatiently.
"Ask Gertrude," she snapped out.
"Ask what?"
Miss Destiny winced, and her black eyes twinkled again. "Ask her to be
your wife, Mr. Vance, else you will find her Mrs. Striver before six
months are ended. Now don't ask questions here," she pointed to her
flat bosom, "ask them of Gertrude. Again I say, Joseph has Anne
Caldershaw's private papers."
"Well?" I was more bewildered than ever.
"That is all," said Miss Destiny, and dropping one of her
old-fashioned curtseys, she trotted off, laughing malignantly like a
wicked fairy.
What the terrible old woman meant I could not imagine, but I
determined to take her advice and ask questions in the right quarter.
I had now been some time at Burwain, and, as yet, had learned nothing
likely to throw light on the darkness of the Mootley murder. Striver
evidently had made up his mind to stay where he was as gardener at The
Lodge, and although we never spoke, he always eyed me savagely when I
paid a visit to the mansion. It is true that Gertrude did not invite
me into the house, and always saw me in the garden; but that I should
dare to come and worship at his private shrine was quite enough to
make Striver desperately angry.
And in his working clothes the fellow looked handsomer than ever. I
really wondered that Gertrude did not fall in love with him, as he was
by way of being a rustic Apollo, and was possessed of some education.
But she was always extremely cool to him, and scarcely displayed more
warmth towards me. A most inscrutable girl. I could not make her out,
for try as I would the secret of her _noli-me-tangere_ attitude
baffled and disconcerted me.
"My father is returning for a few days this evening," said Gertrude to
me when we met by chance on the village green.
"I should like to meet him," I said promptly.
"Why?" she demanded with her usual directness.
It was a difficult question to answer. "I admire his daughter," was my
lame reply. "Surely you can understand----"
"That you are talking nonsense," she interrupted quickly. "Yes I can,"
she stopped for a moment, then went on impetuously, "I wish you would
go away."
"I see no reason why I should," I remonstrated.
"I do. I do. You are not hot; you are not cold; you are neither fowl,
fish, nor good red-herring. Go away," and turning on her heel she
walked away so swiftly that I had no time to ask further questions.
What did she mean? I could not understand. Later I met with Miss
Destiny, and could understand the aunt no more than I understood the
niece. The first told me to go away in a most peremptory manner, while
the second hinted that because Joseph possessed Mrs. Caldershaw's
private papers, Gertrude was likely to become Mrs. Striver within six
months. It was really all very perplexing, and the sole way to end
such perplexity was to show Miss Monk her cloak and demand
explanations. But this I did not wish to do, until I was more certain
of my ground: until I understood her feelings towards myself better.
For by this time, what with Striver's persistence, her own dismissal
of myself, and Miss Destiny's strange hints, I was beginning to
believe that she favored my handsome, humble attentive rival.
"I sha'n't stand it any longer," I thought, turning my steps towards
the inn. "This very evening, I shall call and see her. We must have an
explanation straight away!" And this resolution I adhered to so firmly
that I found myself at the door of the Jacobean mansion one hour after
dinner--that is, seeing I dined early in the country--at seven
o'clock.
The grounds of The Lodge--thanks to Striver's love-lorn devotion--were
most beautifully kept. The flower-beds had no weeds, the lawns were
smoothly clipped and rolled, and the whole place had an orderly trim
look, which contrasted oddly with the tumbledown appearance of the
house itself. This, of mellow red brick, overgrown with ivy, stood on
a slight rise, and a wide terrace of stone with shallow steps
descending to the lawns, ran round three sides of it. Some Vandal had
put French windows into the drawing-room, and these looked quite out
of keeping with the old-world air of the mansion. It was a very
ancient house, and I verily believe that only the ivy held the
mouldering bricks together. The porch was large and chilly, and when I
pulled the bell, its jangling echoes, followed by the baying of
Puddles, added to the lonely impression produced by the place. Miss
Destiny called her niece "The Sleeping Beauty!" so this dismal
dwelling might well have been her palace. Only Mr. Striver's trim
garden looked modern and well-cared for: the house itself was a slight
improvement on the ruins of Carthage.
The one servant of the Lodge--a white-capped, sober, sedate old
creature called Trumble--came to the door, and seemed doubtful about
admitting me. The place was like a convent and evidently Trumble did
not wish any male to enter. But while I argued with her, Miss Monk
appeared, and intimated that I could come in. I would have thanked
her, but that her beauty took my breath away. Even in the dim light of
the hall lamp, she shone like a star; but it was not until we were in
the drawing-room that the full perfection of her loveliness burst upon
me. I stared like an oaf, or like the misnamed Cortez in Keats's
sonnet.
She was in a pale-blue evening dress, which displayed her beautiful
neck and arms to perfection. As in the photograph, she wore no
necklace, or bracelets, or rings, or brooches, or indeed ornaments of
any description. The dress also was plain and devoid of trimming, so
that it revealed fully the noble lines of her figure. As usual her
hair was bunched at the back of her shapely head in ancient Greek
fashion, and she more than ever reminded me of Diana. I did not look
at a mere picture this time, but at the flesh and blood divinity, who
had descended in gracious splendor from high Olympus. Though indeed,
her somewhat stern face did not look very gracious at the moment.
Owing to my intention of calling, I had arrayed myself in a dress suit
for the occasion, although I did not usually prepare myself for dinner
in this way at The Robin Redbreast. But, manlike, I had a feeling of
vanity that I also was ultra-civilized. Had I come in tweeds I should
have been ashamed to face this gracious vision. And yet I am not a
vain man, though, as the somewhat unworthy sentiment flashed into my
mind, I thought what a conceited ass I was. And all because I loved a
woman and wished to appear at my best before her. Truly human nature
is strange and--as in the present personal instance--trifling.
"Well," asked Miss Monk, a slight smile breaking the severe curve of
her lips, as she saw how persistently I stared, "why have you called,
Mr. Vance?"
"Is it a crime?" I asked, somewhat annoyed.
"In my eyes it is, because I asked you to go away."
"Ah, I came here to seek for an explanation."
"I have none to give. Still, as you are here, you may as well sit
down. I cannot see you for more than half an hour, as my father is
returning."
I sat down on the chair she indicated, and she placed herself on the
opposite sofa which stretched diagonally before the fire. There were
three lamps with rosy shades in the large low-ceilinged room, and we
sat in a kind of Paphian twilight, eminently suited to a proposal.
What with the subdued light amidst which she glimmered like an
exquisite star, and my own tumultuous feelings, I wonder that I did
not take her in my arms, then and there to kiss her into consenting to
be my dear wife. But prudence came to my aid and I was spared the
necessity of a refusal, which certainly would have been forthcoming
had I acted as I felt inclined to do.
She was silent, and I was silent, and the only sound in the room was
the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the French clock on the
mantelpiece. Then, as Gertrude did not speak, I was forced to begin
the conversation, else my half-hour would be wasted.
"You puzzle me, Miss Monk," I said bluntly, and purposely said it, so
as to enchain her attention.
"Do I? Why?"
"Your aunt also puzzles me," I went on, ignoring her question.
"Why?" she asked again, and the uneasy troubled look came into her
eyes.
"She declares that you will become Mrs. Striver within six months----"
"Mr. Vance!" She rose impulsively, and looked highly indignant.
"Because," I continued remorselessly, and repeating Miss Destiny's
exact words, "Joseph has Anne Caldershaw's private papers."
Miss Monk turned white, gasped, and sank back nervously into her seat.
"My aunt is mad to say such a thing," she stammered.
"Possibly," said I dryly. "I have no very great idea of Miss Destiny's
sanity myself. But, it may be that you can explain the madness."
Gertrude looked round the room, as if in search of help, and placed
both hands on her breast as though to still the beating of her heart.
"I would explain--to a friend," she muttered, and her face was whiter
than the statue of Parian marble on the bracket by the fireplace.
"I am a friend, Miss Monk."
"A true friend?"
"Test me and find me so." I bent over her. "Can you not understand?"
She put out her hand and pushed me back slightly. "My friend--not
yet."
I retreated. "Friend--so cold a word."
"It is sufficient for the present," and then I saw that her whiteness
was drowned in a rising tide of crimson. I would have spoken, for a
sudden leap of my heart told me that her feelings were not so
indifferent as I had imagined them to be. But again she put over her
hand. "No, say nothing; let us remain friends until----"
"Until when?" I asked eagerly.
Pressing her hands between her knees she stared into the fire, then
spoke in a low steady voice. "I never had a friend, either man or
woman, and I have always wanted one. When you came I thought--it was
foolish on my part perhaps--but I thought that you might help me."
"I wish to help you in every way."
She went on without heeding my impetuous speech. "I doubted: one
always doubts a man. I asked Mrs. Gilfin about you. What she told me,
confirmed the impression I had gained from your looks. I felt certain
from many times we have met that Mrs. Gilfin spoke truly. You are a
man I can trust."
"Yes! yes! But am I a man you can love?"
"Let it remain as trust for the time being. I still had doubts, and
to-day I told you to go away."
"Why?"
"Because you said nothing, you did nothing. You were neither hot
nor--ah well, remember what I said to-day when we met. I could not
make a friend of anyone who was indifferent. But now, as I see you
mean to be my friend, I may trust you. I need sympathy: I need help: I
need"--she started to her feet and held up an anxious finger. "Hark!
hark! Not a word to him."
To him? I wondered what she meant, until the door opened and a man
walked delicately into the room.
"Here I am, daughterling," said the man gaily.