We stared at one another for quite sixty seconds: she standing white-faced and tongue-tied near her chair, I kneeling by the open portmanteau to display the cloak. When I would have spoken, she flung up a protesting hand to silence me.
"How do you know it is my cloak?"
"The embroidery in blue silk repeats the initials of your name."
"And you found it in the field, where the motor car was stranded?"
"I did, concealed in a hedge."
"Where I concealed it?"
"I don't say that."
Gertrude stepped back and clutched at her breast. "Don't you believe that I am the woman who stole your car?"
"No, I don't."
"Don't you believe that I murdered Anne for the sake of the eye?"
"No, I don't."
"But on what ground"--she flung abroad her arms--"do you believe me to be innocent?"
"I love you."
"You love me," she repeated mechanically.
I rose, still holding the cloak in my arms, and spoke vehemently. "Of course you must have seen for days that I love you. I came here because I fell in love with your photograph, and because I found this." I shook the cloak. "Yes! Can you not understand that I desired to save you."
"To save me. From what?"
"From arrest. Had anyone but myself found the cloak you would have been in prison long, long ago. But I told no one about my discovery. I hid the cloak in my portmanteau and came here to seek an explanation. I knew that you would be able to exculpate yourself."
"Then you needed an explanation?" she asked in low tones.
"Only that I might learn how to save you. I needed no explanation to assure me that you are innocent. For a moment I had my doubts, when Miss Destiny spoke to me, yesterday----"
Gertrude interrupted with a cry and the scarlet blood flushed her cheeks swiftly. "Aunt Julia has been speaking to you?"
"I have been speaking to Aunt Julia. Listen. I saw long ago that your aunt was not your friend, and I feared lest she should make mischief. I therefore called to see her yesterday, so that I might learn how much she knows. She told me----"
"I know what she told you," interrupted Gertrude again, and flung back her head; "she came to me this morning, as I explained, and said all manner of dreadful things."
"Such as----?"
"I shall tell you, so that you may see I place myself entirely in your hands, Mr. Vance. Aunt Julia declared that I was at Mootley on the evening of the murder; that the hat-pin with which Anne was stabbed belonged to me; and that she saw my white cloak on the lady who drove the motor car, whom she believed to be myself escaping. She threatened to tell the police all these things unless I gave her half of the fifty thousand pounds. As if I could--as if I could!" wailed Gertrude, dropping into her seat. "I do not know where it is."
"Why not learn from the glass eye?"
She looked up astonished. "I have not got the glass eye."
I stared in my turn. "Listen, Miss Monk. In the face of what you have told me, and of what your aunt has said, I believe that you are innocent."
"Thank God for that," she muttered. "I could not have endured an accusation from you."
On hearing this it was with the greatest difficulty that I prevented myself from taking her in my arms to kiss away the tears. But there was much to be cleared up before I could do that, as I wished her to understand my entire belief in her innocence. "But," I went on with emphasis, "while I know that your account of the interview with Mrs. Caldershaw is correct, I ask you to trust me--as I am your firm friend--fully."
"I have trusted you fully," she said plaintively.
"What about the glass eye? Are you sure that Mrs. Caldershaw did not allow you to carry it away when you left by the back door to escape meeting this mysterious person you speak of."
"I am quite sure," said Gertrude, rising with great dignity, "that Mrs. Caldershaw's glass eye was in her head when I ran from her house. I was in such a hurry to escape meeting the person I mentioned that I left my cloak behind me, and also one of the blue glass-headed pins which fastened my hat. I can guess what happened. The assassin killed Anne with the hat-pin, stole the glass eye, and then assumed my cloak to escape, and perhaps," she added, with an afterthought, "to throw the blame of the crime on me."
"And the assassin was this person whom you did not wish to meet?"
Her hands trembled. "I think not: I hope not. I--I--I can't answer your questions, Mr. Vance. But why," she continued hurriedly, "why do you mention the glass eye in connection with my not having--as you declare--trusted you fully?"
"Because I saw the very eye on the small table near the middle window of the drawing-room at The Lodge."
She rose quickly and looked aghast. "You--saw-the--glass eye there?" she said slowly. "When?"
"Yesterday." And I rapidly explained the circumstance. "I thought that you had the eye in your pocket when I came afterwards into the room with your father," I said, "and because I fancied Miss Destiny might have seen it, I went along, in your interest, to interview her. But from what she said I am convinced that you had concealed it before she could set eyes on it."
"Stop!" cried Gertrude. "I did not conceal it. I never saw the glass eye save in Anne's head. If I had that eye you must think me guilty." And her eyes searched my face.
"No," I said firmly; "I only thought that perhaps, not quite trusting me, you did not say that Anne Caldershaw had given it to you."
"But she did not. I have told everything. You know the reason why I went to Mootley, and all that took place. I left Anne in good health and walked to Murchester to catch the train. Don't you believe me?"
"Oh," I advanced towards her anxiously, "can't you see that I believe you entirely. Nothing will ever persuade me that you are guilty. All I ask is for absolute confidence, so that I can find the true assassin and free you from the danger of being denounced by your vindictive aunt."
"I have given you my absolute confidence," she said with dignity, yet not unmoved by my declaration.
"Not entirely. I do not know the sex or the name of the person from whom you fled at the corner shop."
Gertrude turned swiftly towards the window. "I can answer no question on that point," she said in low tones.
"Do you think this person had possession of the eye?" I persisted.
"No! no! no! Ask me no more, I have told you all that I can tell you."
"I will only ask one question, which--if I am to learn the truth about this case, and save you from arrest--I must have answered. Do you believe that the person in question is guilty?"
She turned with a pearly-white face. "No, the person is not guilty. Do you wish me to swear it?"
Her question was sarcastic, and I winced. "I believe your bare word," I said somewhat coldly; "have I not proved my belief?"
"Forgive me." In her turn she moved towards me, and laid a beseeching hand on my arm. "You are my best friend and indeed my only friend. I have no one but you to trust."
"And love?" I asked, trying to catch her hands. "No! no!" she drew away; "not yet."
"Yes, now. We must understand one another. I am not content with friendship, Gertrude, I want your love."
"But--but it is so sudden!" she stammered.
"Sudden. When I have been eating my heart out ever since I set eyes on your portrait? Oh, my dear, you can't believe that."
"But--but," she made another objection. "There is so much to talk about."
"We can talk all the easier when we understand one another. Surely you can see how devoted I am to you."
"I know that; oh yes, I know that; indeed I do."
"Then--" I held out my hands.
"Mr. Vance?"
"Call me by my name."
"Indeed I can't--oh no--oh no."
"Gertrude!" this time I became masterful and possessed myself of her unwilling hands, "is there anyone else?"
"No; certainly there is not."
"You don't love Striver."
"The idea! I never heard such nonsense."
"You are about to hear a good deal of nonsense. When a sensible man such as I am is in love, he talks his heart out."
She did not draw away her hands, but laughed softly in spite of her fears and insistent troubles. "What you say can never be nonsense."
"Then you love me?" I demanded persistently. "Yes; it's no use my denying it, I do love you."
"Gertrude!" I caught her fully in my arms and, before she could turn her head aside, had pressed my lips to her own. She bore the embrace for one moment, then pushed me away, and retreating to the armchair sat down to cry softly. I followed. "Gertrude darling!"
"Oh, what is the use of talking? How can we behave in this way, when all things are wrong? I do love you: it is useless to say that I do not. But my heart aches with pain."
"Darling," I knelt beside her, "I am here to help you."
"I know. I accept your help gladly, and I thank God for having sent a good man to help me."
"Dear, don't think of me as good, I have no end of faults."
"You would not be human otherwise, and for those faults I love you all the more, Mr.----"
"Gertrude?"
"Well then, Cyrus."
"Dearest, my own; you will marry me?"
"Some day, when----" She suddenly rose, and assumed a resolute air. "Cyrus, we must not fiddle while our Rome is burning. Tell me how the glass eye came to be at The Lodge?"
I fell into her humor, as I saw that she regarded the position of things as far too serious to permit simple love dalliance. "My dear, I can't tell you unless----"
"I never saw the eye," she interrupted impatiently. "Don't you believe me."
"Yes. You never saw the eye. Was Miss Destiny in the drawing-room?"
"No; we both went up to my bedroom when she came into the house, and I saw her out of the gate just before I returned to the house to meet you and my father. Why do you ask that question? Do you think my aunt----?"
"Oh no. Miss Destiny did not arrive at Mootley until the crime was committed. She could not have got possession of the glass eye. I only wished to be sure that she had not seen it. As she did not enter the drawing-room, and as I have cross-questioned her, it is evident that she knows nothing on that point. Then there's Giles?"
"Who is Giles?"
"He is a man who lives at Mootley, and who caught me in the back room with Mrs. Caldershaw's dead body. He came over to see Striver about the lease of the corner shop, and was in the garden of The Lodge. I wondered if he might have placed the glass eye on the table."
"Why should he? Does he know anything of the secret?"
"I don't think so, and indeed he is an honest man, who would not harm anyone, my dear. I don't think Giles had the eye. Then Striver----"
"Oh, Cyrus, he did not go to Mootley until the funeral. Do you suspect him?"
"Not of the murder. But it is just possible that the eye was not taken by the assassin, and that Striver found it when he was in the shop hunting amongst the papers of his late aunt."
"That is a new idea, since you have always believed that the murder was committed for the sake of the eye."
"I don't know what to believe," I said wearily, passing my hand across my forehead. "Still someone must have placed the eye on the table, and why not Striver, who was working in the garden?"
"I don't see--supposing your theory of the murder is true--how he could have got possession of the eye. It might be another one?"
"I don't think so, Gertrude, for in the concave of the eye I saw a piece of white metal--silver, I fancy. On that, I truly believe, the hiding-place of the diamonds is indicated."
"But if Joseph had the eye," she persisted, "although I do not see how he could have got it, he would use it to find the diamonds, and thus would not have placed it on the table."
"You forget," I said quickly, "that the hiding place of the eye is indicated in cipher, according to Mrs. Caldershaw. Joseph might have found the eye in the corner house--I don't accuse him of murder--and, being unable to read the cipher, might have placed the eye on the table to implicate you."
"Why should he, when he says that he loves me?"
"For that very reason. He is jealous of me, and knows that you will never marry him. If by implicating you he could secure your arrest, and then could save you by confessing that he found the eye and placed it on the table, he might think you would marry him out of gratitude."
"Oh, the idea is absurd," said Gertrude petulantly. "It's such a roundabout way of going to work. Let us ask Joseph?"
"No," I said cautiously; "after all what I say is merely theoretical. If Joseph did not place the eye on the table, it is no use our letting him know that it was there. It would supply him with a weapon."
"Then you don't think he----"
"I can't say what I think; as I said before," I muttered, rising to pace the room, "if I were a born detective I might unravel this mystery. As it is I can't see my way to the truth."
"If the truth is never known," remarked Gertrude, after a pause, "what does it matter?"
"This much. You will always be in danger of being denounced by your aunt."
"Not if I give her half the fifty thousand pounds."
"Quite so, my dear, but there again, the truth must be discovered, as you can't gain possession of the money otherwise. Can you trust your servant?"
"Eliza? Oh yes. She has been with us for years. She could not have placed the eye on the drawing-room table. What time did you see it?"
"About three o'clock. I was about to enter the room through the middle window, which was open, and saw it suddenly. Then your father called me. When I returned in half-an-hour you were in the room and the eye was gone."
"I had just entered the drawing-room a few moments before you came with papa," said Gertrude thoughtfully; "and I entered through the window, as I had been seeing my aunt out of the gate. The eye certainly was not on the table then. I should have seen it otherwise, as you did."
"Well then, it was gone just before half-past three," I remarked, "and I saw it at the hour. When you were in the drawing-room before that time did you see anything?"
"No," replied Gertrude impatiently, "I told you I never saw the eye at all, Cyrus. I did not enter the drawing-room after luncheon until half-past three o'clock. In the morning I certainly saw nothing."
"Was your father in the drawing-room after luncheon?"
"Not to my knowledge. He was pottering round the greenhouses. Surely you don't suspect papa?" and her color rose.
"No; certainly not. Only I wondered if he had seen it."
"He could not have seen it, else he would have picked it up to show me."
"Well," I said, with a long-drawn sigh, for the mystery of the thing perplexed me, "I don't know who placed it there, or who took it away. Perhaps Striver removed it," I added with an afterthought.
"Why should he?"
"Why shouldn't he?" I echoed. "It's the very thing he wanted, since when I saw him at Mootley he was hunting for the eye to secure the money."
"But you said----"
"I know what I said," was my cross interruption. "So far as I can see there is no chance of learning the truth, as I dare not risk speaking to Striver lest I place a weapon in his hand. I don't know what to do."
"Well, dear," said Gertrude, rising to take her departure "if you ask my opinion, I think it is best to leave matters alone."
"But you will be in danger from your aunt's tongue."
"I don't think so. I have promised to give her half the money when it is found, and she won't risk losing that, since she is such a miser. Anne is dead and buried, so let sleeping dogs lie."
"And marry you?" I asked tenderly.
"Yes, and marry me." She came forward, threw her arms round my neck and whispered: "Cyrus let us think of ourselves and our happiness, and leave this mystery alone."
"Well," I shrugged my shoulders and slipped my arm round her waist, "I only wished to learn the truth in order to shield you, although I don't deny that the mystery of the case appeals to me. But if you are content to leave it alone and marry me, so am I. Let us relegate the murder of Mrs. Caldershaw to the already long list of undiscovered crimes."
"And the cloak?" asked Gertrude, her eyes falling on it.
"I'll wrap it up in a parcel, and you can take it back to hang in your wardrobe. Eliza knows that you have a white cloak, and will never connect it with the Mootley murder, even though she read an account of the case."
"She has not," said Gertrude shaking her head; "she never reads any of the newspapers, and only knows that Anne is murdered. She may hear talk, of course, but I don't fancy she'll trouble her head."
"Does she know that you went to Mootley on that day?"
"No; I told her that I was going to London, for you see I did not wish my father to know that I had been to see Anne."
"Why not?"
"Can you ask, knowing what I said about my uncle's mistrust of my father. If papa knew what I had found out about the diamonds, and had gone to see Anne about the matter, he would--at the time--had I been successful, have insisted on my giving him the jewels. For that reason I kept my visit secret from everyone, save my aunt. I was forced to let her know, as she had arranged to see Anne on that day, and we were bound to meet."
"Did you tell Miss Destiny about the diary?"
"Yes. It was necessary for me to ask her if she thought that Anne would be honest enough to give me the cipher. She told me that she believed there would be no difficulty in getting it, as Anne, having nursed me, was devoted to my interest. But you see," ended Gertrude with a sigh, "Anne would only help me on condition that I agreed to marry Joseph."
"Then you don't intend to let your father have the diamonds when they are found?" I asked, wrapping up the cloak in brown paper.
"No, dear. Papa is the best of men, but he does not know the value of money, and if he gained possession of fifty thousand pounds would only squander it. The five hundred a year he has settled on me after his death, and he can't spend the capital. I shall give papa plenty of money within reason when he asks for it, and when the jewels are mine."
"Oh, he'll ask for it right enough," I muttered cynically. "However, Gertrude, you must first catch your hare. We must search for the diamonds. It may be that they are hidden in the house."
"No. It has been turned upside down without result."
"I wish I had found time to glance at the cipher, which certainly must have been written on that piece of silver attached to the eye," I muttered regretfully. "However, it's too late now, nothing can be done."
"Nothing," echoed Gertrude, taking the parcel from me and advancing towards the door. "Leave the matter alone, Cyrus, and let us be happy."
I flew after her. "Gertrude, you are going without----"
"Dear, I forgot." She paused to kiss me fondly, and then departed.
After that I cared very little if the mystery were solved or not.
So here I had reached the goal of my desires in a surprisingly short space of time. Truly the gods had been good to me, and in the most unexpected manner I had won the love of the sweetest woman in the world. And the mysterious murder of Anne Caldershaw--gruesome as it may seem--had been the main circumstance to bring about my triumph. But for the crime I should not have seen the portrait of my beloved, and but for her innocent connection with the same--whereby I was enabled to prove my honesty and good faith--I should never have gained her confidence. But to trust me she had to study my character closely, and having done so, had unconsciously fallen in love. When I offered to come forward as her champion my conquest was complete, and therefore Gertrude yielded. Truly an odd wooing.
For the next two or three days we were completely happy. Mr. Monk, having departed, could no longer interrupt us at inauspicious moments, so we had all the golden hours to ourselves. Also the weather unexpectedly changed from autumnal greyness to a springlike delicacy of sunshine in a blue sky. It was more like May than the end of September, and the singing of the birds was echoed by our joyful hearts. We scarcely said a word about the Mootley crime, as we had tacitly agreed to abandon any search for the criminal. And indeed there remained no clue to lead to the discovery of the assassin. At times I had doubts about the mysterious person whose name Gertrude had so steadily refused to tell me. I felt sure that she was shielding someone, and could not think of any reason strong enough to make her do so. But I put the doubt from me when she smiled into my eyes and surrendered myself entirely to the happiness of the magic hour.
Whether Miss Destiny guessed the truth I cannot say. She never came near The Lodge, as she only haunted it when Mr. Monk appeared on the scene, and then merely for the sake of getting what she could out of him. But as Lucinda was always shopping in the village, and the dwellers in Burwain were born gossips, Miss Destiny must have heard that her niece was receiving me at all hours and in all places. Knowing my infatuation, she would put two and two together, and the resultant four would prove to her suspicious mind that we had come to an understanding. But if she did arrive at this knowledge she made no sign. Perhaps she was content to wait events so long as her half of the fifty thousand pounds was safe. At all events she lay snug in the jungle which surrounded her tin hovel, like the malignant fairy she was.
But the golden days came to an end, as golden days will, since an everlasting Paradise is impossible on earth. I was forced to keep my promise to Cannington and seek London, else he would certainly have put in an inopportune appearance. Of course in spite of his title and looks, and the possible support of Mr. Walter Monk--always supposing the two met--he could do nothing now, as Gertrude had solemnly promised to be my wife. All the same I did not want Cannington to come stumbling into Love's garden. Later on, when the first ecstasy of delight had passed away, I promised myself that he should be formally presented to my newly-captured Diana. But at the moment a duet was better than a trio, so I explained matters to Gertrude and put the Rippler in order for a spin to London.
"But you won't remain long away, dear?" she asked me. "Promise me, promise me."
I did promise her, with many a kiss, on the bare road between Burwain and Tarhaven. So far I had taken her in my car, and now it was necessary that she should return. Only the birds and sheep, the sailing clouds and the all-beholding sun, saw our embrace, so we gave ourselves up fully to the delight. The parting indeed was "sweet sorrow," as Shakespeare says, and only at the golden moment did I fully understand the feelings of Romeo.
The day was balmy and sunny, the roads were dry, and the Rippler was on her best behavior, so the journey to London was extremely pleasant. I reached my West Kensington flat early in the afternoon. As I had telegraphed the probable time of my arrival to the caretaker's wife, who usually looked after my rooms, I found everything in good order. There was a brisk fire, a good meal, and a warm bath awaiting me, so I spent the next hour very pleasantly. Cannington had already been informed that I would call at Lady Denham's Grosvenor Square house about five o'clock, therefore I had ample time to get ready for the visit.
After writing a few letters, and looking into my bankbook, I arrayed myself in the purple and fine linen of the West End--that is, I assumed a frock coat, grey trousers, patent leather boots, and all the paraphernalia of society. Then I sallied forth, and--giving the Rippler a rest--jumped into a taxi-cab. After the perfect quietness of the country the bustle and roar of the many-colored life in London streets rather appealed to me. I was quite sorry when the vehicle stopped at my destination.
A stately footman took my hat and gloves, and showed me into the smoking-room, where Lord Cannington awaited me. The boy sprang to his feet and rushed forward to shake hands.
"I'm so glad to see you, Vance," he said breathlessly; "how jolly well you look. I suppose"----He began to laugh, and could get no further.
"Well," said I, sitting down and accepting a cigarette, "I presume your laugh means that I am engaged."
"Good Lord, no! I don't go so far as that. But you went in search of the original of the photograph, and having found her, I can see that love has proved to be the elixir of life."
"You are quite poetical, Cannington, and excessively complimentary."
"Oh, rot! I'm only speaking the truth. You looked as hard as nails."
I laughed. "I don't know, but what I am as soft as butter, so far as the heart is concerned."
"Ah, that's the effect of love," said Cannington wisely; "that is, if you really are in love. I say, old chap, are you in earnest?"
"So much so that I am engaged."
"Engaged! Good Lord!"
"Engaged to Gertrude Monk, who loves me as much as I love her."
"Good Lord!" said Cannington again, and rose to his feet to say it. "I say, you haven't lost much time, have you?"
"No. Circumstances precipitated matters."
"But are you sure that you are wise, Vance. Remember. 'Marry in haste and repent at leisure.'"
I laughed again. It seemed so strange that the boy should advise an elderly person such as I was. "It's all right, Cannington, I know what I'm about. You shall be best man."
"Delighted, and--I say--you don't mind me having said what I did say. We're old friends, you know."
"That's all right, boy. Sit down, and I'll tell you everything that has taken place since we parted at Murchester. But I must ask you to be secret."
Cannington flushed. "As if I'd be such a bounder as to talk of your love affairs," he growled.
"The love affairs in this case are merely a side issue, although important enough to me, boy. What I wish to explain is what I have discovered with regard to Mrs. Caldershaw's death."
"Oh!" Cannington jumped up again, greatly excited. "Are you prying into that still?"
"Yes. It is that case which led me into the engagement with Gertrude. But I have given up searching further."
"Why?"
"Because I see no clue to follow. Moreover, Gertrude wishes me to stop looking into the matter. And after all, it is no use sullying our love with the sordid details of this crime. Yet, yet"--I rose in my earnestness--"Cannington, although you are years younger than I am, I intend to ask your advice."
"Yes--that's all right. What is it?"
"I shall tell you all I know, and then you can judge what I mean."
The boy looked puzzled, but sat down again and lent an attentive ear to my recital. I walked up and down the room, telling everything in detail, for I really did wish to hear what he thought. Cannington was young, but shrewd, and took a common-sense view of things. Gertrude's refusal to tell me the name of the person who had driven her from the shop lingered in my mind, as I knew we could never be completely happy if there were secrets between us. Nevertheless, I could not reveal what she had said on this point to Cannington, as it was a matter entirely between ourselves. But I intended to tell him everything else, and then ask him what he thought of the position of affairs. He waited with a grave face.
I therefore related all that I had discovered, beginning with the finding of the white cloak in the field, and ending with an account of the interview between Gertrude and myself, suppressing, as I have said, the fact that she withheld the name of the mysterious person. Cannington, with his eyes on my face, listened intently, and without interruption. He was acute enough to put his finger on the weak spot.
"Who was the person who entered the shop when Miss Monk went away?"
"I don't know," said truthfully, and glided into an easy explanation to preserve my secret. "Mrs. Caldershaw wished Miss Monk to leave without seeing the person, and therefore sent her out by the back door so hurriedly that she forgot the cloak and one of her hat-pins."
"That's unfortunate," muttered Cannington, his eyes on the carpet; "perhaps this person killed Mrs. Caldershaw."
I had Gertrude's assertion that this was not the case, but for obvious reasons could not impart the information to Cannington. "We can't be sure of that," I said smoothly.
"We can't be sure of anything," insisted the boy thoughtfully, "still Miss Monk evidently left someone with Mrs. Caldershaw, and when you arrived on the scene Mrs. Caldershaw was dead. It seems to be that the lady killed her."
"The lady? Why do you think that this person was a lady?"
"Well, a woman, a female, what you will," he said impatiently. "She assumed the white cloak which was left behind in the kitchen, and ran off with your motor car."
"And with the eye?"
"Ah, I can't say I'm sure on that point," said Cannington musingly. "You see the eye turned up--so you say--at the Burwain house. I think----" He paused.
"Yes; go on," said I encouragingly.
He shook his head. "I don't know what to think, Vance. The whole matter is most mysterious and perplexing. Give me a night to think about the matter. It is strange," he said suddenly, "that Miss Monk wants you to leave the matter alone."
"It is strange," I assented, and winced; "but there it is."
"Well, let it remain so until to-morrow," said Cannington hastily. "To-morrow, when I've had a good think, I'll give you my opinion."
I guessed what was in his mind, although delicacy prevented him from speaking plainly to me. Gertrude's conduct was suspicious, and he, not being in love with her saw the position more clearly than I did. I don't say he suspected her, but he apparently believed that she knew more than she chose to tell, and thus desired me to leave the case alone. In point of fact, Cannington fancied that Gertrude feared what I might discover if I pried further into the matter. Had he known, as I did, that she was withholding the name of the person who had called to see Mrs. Caldershaw, he might even have taken a blacker view of the matter. Of course, being Gertrude's devoted lover, and believing in her absolutely, I said nothing. All the same I felt a trifle uneasy myself, especially when I guessed what Cannington was thinking about. "The Queen of Hearts can do no wrong": so I amended the old saying. Nevertheless I fervently wished that Gertrude would be more frank with me. Only on perfect confidence would perfect love and perfect peace be established, to say nothing of perfect happiness.
After a pause Cannington, having promised to give me his opinion to-morrow, said no more, but began to talk of Lady Mabel. It seemed that Mr. Wentworth Marr had returned to London, and was more attentive than ever. "He's coming here to-day to afternoon tea," said Cannington, glancing at his watch, "in half-an-hour, I expect he'll turn up. Aunt Lucy and Mab will be here also, and Dicky Weston."
"Oh, Weston is attentive also?"
"Well, he is. In some way he got an inkling that Marr was paying court to Mabel, so he suddenly appeared, and has been here morning, noon, and night. I shouldn't be surprised if he proposed soon."
"Will Lady Mabel accept him?"
"Oh Lord! who knows what girls will do? I think she will, and yet Marr is a fascinating sort of tame-cat man, with heaps of money, so you may be inclined to go 'nap' on him."
"I shouldn't think a tame-cat man would suit your sister," I said dryly.
"Wait till you see him," said Cannington with a yawn; "he's not my style, I must confess. By the way, Dicky's getting on splendidly with his airship and wants some quiet place to put it together."
"To put it together. What do you mean, boy?"
"It's in bits," explained Cannington, "and he wishes to cart the several parts to some peaceful part of the country where the putting together won't be overlooked. What about Burwain?"
"Oh, you know it, Cannington. It's a dull little village between Gattlingsands and Tarhaven. Weston will find all the quiet he wants there. I suppose, like all inventors, he fears lest his especial secret for flying should be discovered."
"Something like that. And yet he told me heaps about his airship. It seems to be a clever sort of business, although it has a gas bag. I believe in the heavier-than-air business myself."
"What the dickens do you mean?"
"Aeroplanes, you know!" and Cannington entered into a long disquisition on the difference between navigable balloons and those machines which strive to fly, birdlike, by power of wing alone. In the middle of his lecture--which I confess bored me--the footman entered to announce that we were wanted in the drawing-room. Thither we repaired, and were welcomed by Mabel, Lady Denham, and by a dark, untidy little man, in whom I recognized Dick Weston.
Lady Denham was a stout, fair-haired, phlegmatic-looking person, who never troubled herself about anyone if she could help it. Therefore she allowed her niece to pour out the tea, and allowed Cannington and myself to hand round the bread and butter, which latter business, of course, was right enough. She aroused herself so far as to say that I was looking well, and reminded her of my poor dear mother. After that she relapsed into meditation, and devoted herself to making a regular substantial meal. There was nothing fairylike about Lady Denham.
Weston was quiet also, and sat near Mabel, haunched up in his chair like a little gnome, but with eyes full of intelligence. He was not handsome, and being devoted to science--I suppose one would call airships science, although I can't be sure--his manner was preoccupied and dry. I wondered that a lively girl like Mabel could love such an uninteresting personage, but she did. I saw the flash of her eyes when they rested on his uncomely face and figure. But Weston was a decent little fellow, in spite of his exterior, and there was something in his dark face which always attracted animals and children. Nevertheless Lady Mabel, handsome, titled, and lively, seemed to be the last person to make him a desirable wife. I managed to get her into a corner after we had eaten and drunk sufficient. "Mabel, tell me, which one of your suitors do you intend to take?"
"I can't say," she whispered back, and her lively face grew sad. "Of course I have known Dicky all my life, and he's a dear. But Mr. Marr is really a charming man. He will be here soon, and then you can judge for yourself."
"Marry Dicky, Mabel. I'm sure you love him," I advised.
"Yes, I do, and I really believe that he loves me. But I can't accept him unless he proposes. He's always in the clouds. Just look at him talking airships to Cannington instead of amiable nonsense to me."
"Do you think you will be happy with him?"
"Certainly. We get on capitally together."
"But he's a solitary inventor, and you are fond of society. Isn't it rather the coupling of the quick and the dead."
"What horrid things you say!" she retorted heatedly. "Of course, if I marry Dicky I shall shake him into a more companionable person. He's got plenty of money, and I daresay when he finishes this airship he'll come out of his shell. The only way I can make him talk is by making him jealous, so I am waiting for Mr. Marr to flirt with."
"Then you are really using Mr. Marr as a stalking-horse to secure Dicky?"
"Well, I am, in a way. But if Dicky will go on being so silly, and sitting as mum as an owl, I shall marry the stalking horse."
"No, Mabel, don't do that; marry for love."
"I can't afford to, you silly man. Cannington and I haven't sixpence between us. And what do you know about love?"
"I know all about it," I whispered proudly. "I'm engaged."
"Oh, Cyrus!" Her eyes shone like stars, and she gasped. "Who is she?"
"A lady called Miss Gertrude Monk, who lives at Burwain."
Before Mabel could ask further questions, Cannington's sharp ear caught the name, and he called out to me. "Vance, I have just been talking to Dicky here about Burwain, and he thinks it will be the very place to establish his workshop. Come and tell him all about it."
"Bother!" murmured Lady Mabel "when I want to hear all about your love affair. Is she pretty?"
"More than pretty. She is an angel."
"Oh, all men say that of a girl before marriage: all except Dicky, that is. I have never managed to get him enthusiastic enough to callmean angel."
"Perhaps he thinks it goes without speaking, Mabel, and----"
"Vance! Vance!" called out Cannington impatiently, and I had to obey the summons. Lady Mabel pouted and betook herself to the tea-table as Lady Denham requested, at the eleventh hour, a fresh cup.
"Tell me all about Burwain, Vance," commanded Dicky in his pleasant voice.
I did my best, and drew as vivid a word picture as I was able. When Weston heard of the absence of a railway station, of large tracts of common, and of the sparsity of population, he rubbed his hands. "It's capital," he remarked. "I shall go down next week and lease a portion of the common, outside the village. Then I shall run up a high fence, and take down by rail all the parts of my machine. It won't take long to put together. Then we can all take a fly to the moon."
"Not me," said Mabel firmly. "I don't want to be smashed up."
"That isn't a compliment to my invention," said Dicky hotly, "but I suppose you'll come down and see me start?"
"That means I shall come down to say good-bye," she replied smiling. "Oh, Dicky, you're a dear boy when you are sensible: but this airship rubbish----"
"Mabel, I thought you admired my airship?" he expostulated indignantly.
"How can I, when I have never seen it. Besides, a woman never admires anything that takes the attention of a man off herself."
"What nonsense! I'm always thinking of you." Mabel blushed and laughed skeptically. "Am I to believe that, Dicky?"
"Of course," and then Dicky, in spite of the presence of three other people, might have gone on to say much more--for he really seemed to be warming to a proposal--when Lady Denham sat up and sighed.
"You boys will have to go away," she said in her soft, slow voice; "we have to go out to dinner to-night and to the theatre afterwards, and then to an At Home. I'm sure I would much rather rest in my bed."
"Then why don't you, Aunt Lucy?" asked Cannington bluntly.
"My dear boy," she said reprovingly, "I must take Mabel out and give her some entertainment. Besides, I have made up my mind to get her married."
"Married," cried Dicky indignantly.
"Of course. Mabel isn't cut out for an old maid."
"Perhaps Dicky thinks that I am," said Mabel, looking slyly at the untidy inventor; "that is, if he ever thinks of anything but airships."
"I think of no end of things," said Weston rather crossly, "and I don't see why you are in such a hurry to get married."
"I am not in a hurry."
"Really," said Cannington uneasily, "this conversation is growing personal."
"We all belong to the family here," said Lady Denham wearily. "I look on Cyrus as a son. His mother and I were at school together. A very charming girl she was, too."
"Is Dicky one of the family?" asked Mabel, with a glance at the inventor.
"Of course I am," he said hotly, for Mabel seemed to be rousing him out of his absent-mindedness, "haven't I known you and Cannington for years?"
"I don't think we have ever known you," said Cannington with a laugh, "you are always in the clouds."
"As an airship inventor should be," said I pointedly. "Airship," said Lady Mabel teasingly, "it's nothing but a gas balloon."
"It isn't," snapped Dicky, jumping up, greatly excited by this insult to his pet invention; "when the works are established at Burwain you come down and you will see exactly what I mean."
"Oh, I shall come to Burwain with pleasure," said Mabel, sending a look in my direction. "I am very anxious to go to Burwain."
"Really," said Weston, and his cheeks flushed. After all, it appeared as though Cannington had overrated Dicky's absent-mindedness, for he was singularly alert and watchful. In my opinion he looked upon Lady Mabel Wotton as his own especial property, and therefore was not troubling himself to make a too impulsive proposal. Perhaps he was waiting to launch his airship before launching himself on the sea of matrimonial troubles. But he said no more, although the flush spoke volumes, for Lady Denham struck in quietly, in her placid voice.
"I thought Mr. Marr was coming to tea," she said, looking round slowly.
"I believe he's entering the house now," said Cannington, with the air of a listener. "I heard a motor drive up."
"A charming man," said Lady Denham lazily, "and devoted to Mabel."
"Oh, is he?" growled Weston, darting an angry look at the girl, which she sustained with a sweetly unconscious air. "He must----"
Weston appeared to be doomed to interruption, for just as he was beginning a diatribe on his rival, the door opened and a footman announced: "Mr. Wentworth Marr" in grandiloquent tones.
A man entered, and I gasped, as well I might. Mr. Wentworth Marr of London was none other than Mr. Walter Monk of Burwain.