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 wantmyheart, 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 hernoli-me-tangereattitude 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.
I was decidedly disappointed by the inopportune arrival of Mr. Walter Monk. His daughter was just about to tell me much that I greatly desired to know, and his abrupt entrance had prevented her from speaking freely. It was most provoking, as I might not easily find her again in a confidential mood. However, as things were, it only remained to accept the situation philosophically, so I dismissed the lost opportunity with a shrug and turned to examine the new-comer. Already he was embracing the girl, whom he rather effectedly called "daughterling." I summed up his character from his use of that exotic word.
Mr. Monk presented himself, as a dapper, small-sized man, with a clean-shaven face, smooth grey hair parted accurately in the middle of his small head, and a pince-nez, which usually concealed two shallow brown eyes. On removing an expensive travelling-coat, lined with sable, he appeared in an admirably-cut tweed suit, with smart brown shoes, dark-blue socks, and a silk scarf of the same hue knotted neatly under an immaculately white collar. He struck me as a lap-dog man: a dandy, apetit-mâitre, too precisely dressed, too finicky--that's the exact word--in his manner: too effeminate in his way of speaking. There was a suggestion of Miss Destiny's mincing ways in his whole attitude. How such a doll-like piece of humanity came to have so tall and stately a daughter was a question I could not answer, until it struck me that Gertrude might take after her deceased mother. Then I wondered afresh how such a woman could have married such a manikin.
"I am glad to see you, dear," said Gertrude, kissing him in such a motherly way, "but I did not hear the bell."
"I let myself in by using my latch-key," replied Mr. Monk, disengaging himself from an embrace which somewhat disarranged his careful attire, "and this gentleman, Gerty dear?"
"Mr. Vance--Mr. Cyrus Vance, the dramatist."
"How are you, Mr. Vance. I think," Mr. Monk put his finger reflectively to his forehead, "I think I have heard the name."
"I doubt it," was my reply, for the disparaging insolence of the little man somewhat amused me, "my fame has not travelled very far towards the West."
"Oh, I am sure it deserves to," said Mr. Monk politely. "Gerty, dear, can you give me a cup of coffee."
"Dinner will be ready soon, father."
"I do not want any, daughterling, as I dined in town. Rather early, to be sure, but the food was better than I could get here. Coffee, my love, coffee, and a cigarette, if you will permit smoking in your drawing-room."
This unnecessary politeness was a further revelation of Mr. Monk's character. Under the mask of courtesy, he secured his selfish ends, and imposed upon everyone by a heartless good breeding, which passed for amiability. I judged that in looks and manner and dress and inclinations he resembled Harold Skimpole, Esquire, and was quite as homeward-bound as that gentleman. I could have kicked myself for accepting a cigarette from a man of so mean a nature. But then he was Gertrude's father, after all, and it was necessary to secure his good will if I desired to marry her. She seemed to be fond of him, and treated him with playful love. Filial affections evidently warped her judgment, a state of things of which I am sure Mr. Monk took every advantage.
While Gertrude ran for the coffee, he lighted my cigarette--which he had just handed me--insisted that I should be seated, and then took possession of the best chair, which he selected with unerring judgment. "I was not aware that my daughter knew you, Mr. Vance," he said, gracefully examining his manicured nails. "Have we acquaintances in common?"
"Miss Destiny," I rejoined, laconically.
"My sister-in-law. Strange, since she is quite a home-bird--so attached to her modest little nest. Where did you meet her may I ask?"
"At Mootley, when Anne Caldershaw was murdered."
The cigarette fell from Mr. Monk's white fingers, and he shuddered. "Oh pray don't speak of that horrid thing," he cried, holding up a protesting hand, "it as cost me many sleepless nights. So old and valued a servant, as Anne was. I shall never get over it: never. I was in London and when I read the news in the papers, I nearly fainted, really I did, I assure you."
"Don't speak of it, papa, if it annoys you," said Gertrude, coming behind his chair to kiss the top of his head.
"No, my dear, I won't." He picked up the cigarette and waved his hand. "I banish the disagreeable vision. To a man of refinement, these crimes suggest painful thoughts, such as make one grow old. It is my aim in life, Mr. Vance," he added, turning to me, "to avoid the unpleasant. Beauty is my desire--beauty and peace. I cannot bear the poor and the sordid: I shrink from the great unwashed. Very estimable people, no doubt, but," he shuddered in his mincing way, "let them keep out of my sight."
"You are not a philanthropist, Mr. Monk?"
"Certainly not. Why should I trouble about the poor. They are quite happy in their own disagreeable way, and to meddle with them only makes them discontented. Yes, Mr. Vance"--he stopped suddenly and again applied the reflective forefinger. "Ah, yes, I remember now. I saw your name as one of the witnesses at the absurd inquest. That was why it sounded familiar."
"Why do you call the inquest absurd, papa?" asked Gertrude, handing him a cup of coffee, for while he was speaking it had been brought into the room.
"Such unnecessary trouble over a common woman," murmured Mr. Monk gracefully; "with a glass eye too--an incomplete woman. And so very ugly. Her one redeeming feature was that she could cook, though with my late brother she had small opportunity of exercising that great art. But let us change the subject, my child, lest horrid dreams should come to us all from contemplating the crimson theme of murder. You are staying here, Mr. Vance?" he asked, dropping his grandiloquent manner, and speaking alertly.
"At The Robin Redbreast."
"For some time?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "It depends upon my fancy."
"I should not think Burwain had many attractions for a young man," said Mr. Monk, still alert, and decidedly inquisitive.
"Oh, I am not very young, sir, and after the turmoil of London, a change of scene to this restful place is agreeable."
"Quite so, quite so," he nodded an assent, but his eyes behind the pince-nez were still watchful. "But after this Mootley tragedy I should have thought you would have sickened of the country. By the way," he stirred his coffee negligently, "is there any chance that the assassin will be found?"
"I can't say; I mean to try," said I grimly, and wondered why Mr. Monk harped on the crimson theme he so much disliked.
"Youmeant to try," he stared and sat up quickly. "Why, may I ask?"
"I have the vice of curiosity," was my answer. "And the circumstances of the case are so odd, that I wish to solve the mystery."
"I don't see where the mystery comes into the matter, Mr. Vance, if you will pardon my having a contrary opinion to yourself. The woman who ran off with your motor car,--I remember what you had to do with the matter quite well now,--stabbed Anne with a hat-pin. Where is your mystery there?"
"Dear papa," said Gertrude, who was perched on the arm of his chair, "don't talk about the matter, as I see it agitates you greatly."
I glanced at her when she said this, as it struck me that if she was the woman who had taken my car, she naturally would not like the matter to be spoken about. But she appeared to be perfectly calm, and her color did not change when our eyes met. Mr. Monk was far more discomposed than she was. "My dear," he said in answer to her remonstrance, "I must steel myself to hear all about our old servant--at least about Gabriel's old servant. Where, I ask again, is the mystery?"
"In the fact that Mrs. Caldershaw's glass eye was stolen," I asserted.
"Well," admitted Mr. Monk reluctantly, "that is a strange article to steal I agree. Do you know why it was stolen, Mr. Vance?"
"I have a theory."
"What is your theory?" he pursued eagerly.
"Your late brother left fifty thousand pounds to Miss Monk here," I explained, "and that money cannot be found. I believe that Mrs. Caldershaw in some way knew of the whereabouts of this fortune and indicated the hiding-place in some way by means of the glass eye. It was stolen by the person who desired to gain that fortune."
"Dear me." Mr. Monk sat up briskly, and then rose to his feet, "have you any grounds for this strange belief?"
"None that would satisfy you, Mr. Monk."
"What do you think, my child?"
"There may be something in the idea," admitted Gertrude cautiously, "it may be worth Mr. Vance's while to search the matter out. I admit that I should be glad if he could find the money."
If she was the woman who had taken the car, this speech was strangely daring, and while she made it, her eyes were fixed very straightly on mine. In fact, it was my eyes that fell first before hers. I must say that she puzzled me, in the face of what I knew, and more than ever I regretted the inopportune entrance of Mr. Monk, when she had been on the eve of making an explanation, which might have solved the mystery of her behavior.
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Monk, trotting up and down the room, "I should be glad of the money myself," and again I noted that in his selfishness he did not appear to remember that his daughter owned the missing fortune, "well, well, well, well, well, it is a strange theory, and--if you will pardon my saying so, Mr. Vance--somewhat incredible."
"Theories are usually more or less incredible," said I, dryly. "However, if the glass eye can be found, we may prove the improbable to be the possible."
"The glass eye: h'm, the glass eye of Anne Caldershaw," Mr. Monk halted near my chair, and placed me--so to speak--in the witness-box. He questioned me most precisely concerning my theory, weighed my replies, made suggestion of his own, and appealed several times to Gertrude, to learn what she thought about the matter. Finally he concluded that there might be something in the matter, although he confessed that he saw no chance of recovering the missing eye, which was the clue to the missing money. "Always presuming," was Mr. Monk's final remark, "that you are correct, there is no doubt that the fortune is missing, and that we--my daughter and I--would be glad to obtain it. But the chances of finding the key--if it be the key--to the mystery of the hiding-place are very, very remote. Never mind, go on."
"I have explained everything I know, Mr. Monk."
"I don't mean that, sir. What I mean is, that I desire you to go on with the search for the glass eye, and for the criminal who slaughtered Anne. How do you propose to proceed, may I ask?"
"I haven't the least idea," I replied, despondently.
"No matter; do not despair.Nil desperandumis a most excellent motto for the young and ambitious. It has been my motto through life--" This came excellently from a man, who had done nothing but indulge himself throughout his fifty years of existence. But he made the statement in a light and airy manner, then turned to his daughter: "My dear, don't you think that after this very criminal conversation, we might have a little music to soothe and charm our weary souls?"
Gertrude, whom the examination had made thoughtful, excused herself on the plea of fatigue, so Mr. Monk took possession of the piano himself. He played gracefully, if not convincingly, and sang little songs in a pleasant voice of no great power. I would much rather have chatted with Gertrude, who was now staring meditatively into the fire, but Mr. Monk demanded my entire attention. He was jealous of applause, and I was obliged to watch him sitting at the piano like an enlarged white rabbit. I thought privately that he was an infernal nuisance, but as the father of Gertrude, he had to be treated diplomatically.
"Come daughterling," said Monk, when he had exhausted his stock of amiable ditties, "you are looking tired. Go to bed, my child, and leave Mr. Vance and myself to cigarettes in the smoking-room."
"There is no fire in the smoking-room, papa," said Gertrude, rising.
"Order the servant to light one at once, my love."
"It is not worth while," expostulated his daughter, and then I heard her say something in low tones regarding the price of coals. But Mr. Monk would take no denial, and--as usual--proceeded to gratify his selfish inclinations. However, as it turned out when we sought the smoking-room, the fire was not laid, so Mr. Monk, after a few severe words about the criminal negligence of servants, relinquished his point. "And I regret to see that you are not so excellent a housekeeper as I should wish you to be, Gertrude," he finished with chill dignity. "However,--let it pass. And before leaving this room, Mr. Vance, pray examine it carefully."
This was easy, as on entering he had lighted two powerful lamps--or rather he had ordered Gertrude to light them with my assistance--so the room was seen to the greatest advantage in the mellow radiance.
"It is the oldest portion of this old house," explained Mr. Monk, waving his delicate hand, "built by an ancestor of mine two hundred years ago in order to live a monastic life--quite like a Monk, ha! ha!" he ended, laughing at his small jest. "My late brother Gabriel always lived in this cell--I call it a cell, Mr. Vance. Rather dull you know, but the beam is extremely fine as you can see."
The apartment was of no great size with one narrow window opposite to one narrow door. Both of these were draped with faded crimson curtains to exclude light and draughts. The wide and spacious fireplace was decorated with reddish Dutch tiles, and at present was filled with ferns and grasses, as it doubtless had been throughout the summer. The floor was covered with a richly-hued crimson carpet from a Cairien loom, and the furniture--what there was of it--consisted of black oak. It really resembled a monastic cell in its severe looks, and the atmosphere was chill and deathlike, as though no human being ever dwelt in it. Gertrude shivered. "Come back to the drawing-room, papa," she said, impatiently, "you can't smoke in this ice-house."
"All the fault of your doubtful housekeeping, my dear. One moment. I wish Mr. Vance to admire this beam to which I called his attention some time ago. See the device and lettering, Mr. Vance. An odd motto and an odd device. My ancestor chose both, and had the beam carved. A very fine piece of work."
The beam, to which he so persistently drew my attention was a massive length of dark oak stretched across the ceiling immediately below the flat panels of black wood. In the powerful radiance of the two lamps I saw that an eagle was carved on the beam, and round him swarmed a cloud of winged insects. Beneath ran the motto in Gothic letters, and in Latin:Aquila non capit muscas!
"An eagle does not catch flies," translated Mr. Monk, with a shrewd glance in my direction. "A quaint saying for any man to choose. There is a story attached to it, I am certain. Perhaps Gertrude----"
"I don't know of any story, father," she interrupted quickly, anticipating a long conversation in this vault-like room. "Do return to the drawing-room, or you will catch cold."
This hint of possible danger to his precious person lured Mr. Monk away at once. I remained behind and extinguished the lamps for Gertrude, trying meanwhile to let her understand that I desired to resume our interrupted conversation. But she seemed to be absent-minded, and when we left the chill smoking-room, did not ask me to follow her father. I therefore assumed my overcoat and took my leave. At the last moment, Mr. Monk appeared with hospitable offers.
"A glass of wine: a slice of cake: a cigarette?" said he, graciously. "Ah, you will have nothing. Very good. Let us say good-night," he shook my hand with a royal air, "remember while you are here to come and see us. I may be away, but my daughter will always be charmed to show you the house. So pleased to have met you: so very, very pleased."
I finally tore myself from Mr. Monk's blandishments, and secured a friendly smile from Gertrude as I stepped out into the darkness. On the way back to the inn, through the unlighted village streets, I meditated on the position. Mr. Monk for his own selfish ends evidently desired me to find the criminal; less to avenge Mrs. Caldershaw than to secure the glass eye, which I believed to be the clue to the hiding-place of the fifty thousand pounds. If I could manage to be successful, it was probable that out of gratitude, he would permit me to marry his daughter. And Gertrude herself, judging from our interrupted conversation, was not averse to me. She was ready to take me for a friend, at all events, and from a friend to a lover is not a far remove; it only needed time and perseverance to accomplish.
It seemed to me that my best plan was to cultivate Mr. Monk's society while he remained at The Lodge, and between whiles, to secure, if possible, a private interview with the girl. Apparently there was something on her mind, which might, or might not have to do with the Mootley murder. But in any case if she were only frank with me, I could gage her attitude more accurately. Once I gained her confidence, and she knew me to be a true friend, if not a lover, she might explain to me how her cloak came to be in the possession of the eloping lady. Of course--although, as I have said before--I persistently declined to believe this, she might be the eloping lady herself. But in any case, it was apparent that I could not move a single step with the clue of the cloak until I learned all about it from the woman I now so devotedly loved.
Having more or less roughed out my plans, which were to see as much of Gertrude and her father as possible, I retired to bed and dreamed that I was a married man with a famous name and a large fortune. But the pleasant vision was rendered uncomfortable by the constant presence of a gigantic eye, which glared malignantly on me and on my schemes. I was glad when the morning broke.
For the next two or three days I was pretty constantly at The Lodge, and became intimate with Mr. Monk, although I did not see so much of Gertrude as I desired. Her father, in his selfishness, would not leave us alone, and moreover, learning that I had a motor car, requisitioned the same to pay visits to surrounding friends. He went to Gattlingsands, to Tarhaven, and even proposed a visit to Mootley in order to inspect the scene of the crime. I was quite willing to go.
"We can stop at Murchester and see my friend, Lord Cannington, who is in the gunners," I suggested.
Mr. Monk started, and turned to ask questions. "You know Lord Cannington?"
"Very well. I have known him for years. And you?"
"Some friend of mine knows him," said Mr. Monk, quietly, although I fancied that he was secretly perturbed. "The name struck me as familiar. A charming young man, I believe. I wish Gertrude knew him. Should this money be recovered, I wish her to marry a title if possible."
This suggestion did not suit me at all. Cannington was just the kind of inflammable youth to fall at Gertrude's feet, quite independent of the fortune. Much as I liked the boy, I did not see why I should search out fifty thousand pounds for him and allow him to marry the woman I loved. I therefore determined--selfishly perhaps--to keep Mr. Monk and Lord Cannington apart, and threw cold water on the journey to Murchester. And as Mr. Monk himself did not seem very keen about the visit, we did not go.
But he did take me to see Miss Destiny, and asked her graciously to The Lodge, rather to the annoyance of Gertrude, who had not much love for her miserly aunt. In fact while Monk remained in Burwain--which he did for quite a week--Miss Destiny hovered round the house like a bee round a flower. Once or twice I met her driving in her so-called trap--I agreed with Mrs. Faith that it was a cart--in the company of Lucinda, and she behaved pleasantly to me, although she could not deny herself the impish delight of hinting at my devotion to Gertrude.
"Not that you'll ever marry her, Mr. Vance. Walter has other plans. She is to be used to forward his fortunes, as he wants money."
I said nothing, but privately determined that the girl should not be sacrificed like a modern Iphigenia on the altar of selfish paternal desires. I kept my counsel, and let Monk talk as he pleased, and was unobtrusively agreeable to Gertrude. Miss Destiny I saw very little of.
On the sixth day of Mr. Monk's stay in Burwain, I went one afternoon to The Lodge and found the little old lady in conversation with Striver. The handsome gardener was trying to evade the pertinacity of Miss Destiny, who insisted that he should look after her domain for nothing. "I am sure that my brother," so she spoke of Mr. Monk, "pays you well Joseph, so you can easily give a couple of hours a day to my little place."
"I have my duties here," said Striver, scowling as I approached. "But if Mr. Monk gives me orders, I can arrange, for a certain sum."
"Oh, I can't pay you a single penny," cried Miss Destiny shrilly. "It's not to be expected. But, if you come, you will find me a friend."
"In what way?" asked the gardener, sharply, and not too politely.
Miss Destiny did not answer in words. She looked at Striver, then looked at me, and finally glanced towards the house, where Gertrude was standing in the doorway. My rival flushed crimson, and I did also, as we both knew exactly what she meant. On seeing the tell-tale color, she burst into a roguish laugh, and walked towards the porch. A moment later, and she disappeared with her niece into the house. Striver and I looked at one another.
"You have no right to come here," said the gardener, who looked handsomer than ever in his rough working clothes.
"What do you mean, man?"
"Oh, it's all very well calling me man in that lordly way," he said violently, "but I know quite well that you are in love with----"
"There is no need to mention names," I interrupted, throwing up my hand, "and I forbid you to speak to me in this way."
"Youforbid me," cried my rival, laughing bitterly, "as if I feared you, Mr. Cyrus Vance. You have more need to fear me. Yes. After all, I believe you know more about my aunt's death than you chose to say."
I did not deign to reply to this absurd remark, but moved towards the house in the hope of meeting Mr. Monk. Usually he was in the drawing-room, and as the French windows were open, all three, I advanced towards the middle one, while Striver, leaning on his spade looked after me enviously. He grudged that I should be able to enter the house while he was chained to the garden and to his work. However, I had no time to consider his feelings and was about to step into the room, when I saw on a small table near it a glittering object. It was a glass eye.