VI
The reply—a note from Gertrude, the ink hardly dry on it, written from the Egyptian tomb of the Misses Carstairs—came directly to me that evening; and Mrs. Parrot was the messenger. Her expression, as she mutely handed me the note, was ineffable. I read the note with sensations of suffocation; an answer was requested.
"Tell Mrs. Hunt," I said firmly to Mrs. Parrot, "that it was she who left me, and I am stubbornly determined to make no advances. If she cares to see me I shall be glad to see her. She has only to walk a few yards, climb a few easy steps, and ring the bell."
My courtesy was truly elaborate as I conducted Mrs. Parrot to the door. Her response was disturbing.
"It's not for me to make observations," said Mrs. Parrot, "the situation being delicate, and not likely to improve. But if I was you, Mr. Hunt, I'd not be too stiff. No; I'd not be. I would not. No. Not if I valued the young lady's reputation."
Like the Pope's mule, Mrs. Parrot had saved her kick many years. I can testify to its power.
Thirty minutes later this superkick landed me, when I came crashing back to earth, at the door of the Egyptian tomb.
"How hard it is," says Dante, "to climb another's stairs," and he might have added to ring another's bell, under certain conditions of spiritual humiliation and stress. Thank the gods—all of them—it was not Mrs. Parrot who admitted me and took my card!
I waited miserably in the large, ill-lighted reception vault of the tomb, which smelt appropriately of lilies, as if the undertaker had recently done his worst. How well I remembered it, how long I had avoided it! It was here of all places, under the contemptuous eye of old Ephraim Carstairs, grim ancestral founder of this family's fortunes, that Gertrude had at last consented to be my wife. And there he still lorded it above the fireplace, unchanged, glaring down malignantly through the shadows, his stiff neck bandaged like a mummy's, his hard, high cheek bones and cavernous eyes making him the very image of bugaboo death. What an eavesdropper for the approaching reconciliation; for that was what it had come to. That was what it would have to be!
It was not Gertrude who came down to me; it was Lucette. Lucette—all graciousness, all sympathetic understanding, all feline smiles! Dear Gertrude had 'phoned her on arriving, and she had rushed to her at once! Dear Gertrude had such a desperate headache! She couldn't possibly see me to-night. She was really ill, had been growing rapidly worse for an hour. Perhaps to-morrow?
I was in no mood to be tricked by this stale subterfuge.
"See here, Lucette," I said sternly, "I'm not going to fence with you or fool round at cross purposes. Less than an hour ago Gertrude sent over a note, asking me to call."
"To which you returned an insufferable verbal reply."
"A bad-tempered reply, I admit. No insult was intended. And I've come now to apologize for the temper."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Lucette. "Men always do their thinking too late. I wish I could reassure you; but the mischief seems to be done. Poor Gertrude is furious."
"Then the headache is—hypothetical?"
"An excuse, you mean? I wish it were, for her sake!" Lucette's eyes positively caressed me, as a tiger might lick the still-warm muzzle of an antelope, its proximate meal. "If you could see her face, poor creature! She's in torment."
"I'm sorry."
"Isn't that—what you called her headache?"
"No. I'm ashamed of my boorishness. Let me see Gertrude and tell her so."
Lucette smiled, slightly shaking her head. "Impossible—till she's feeling better. And not then—unless she changes her mind. You see, Ambrose, Mrs. Parrot's version of your reply was the last straw."
"No doubt she improved on the original," I muttered.
"Oh, no doubt," agreed Lucette calmly. "She would. It was silly of you not to think of that."
"Yes," I snapped. "Men always underestimate a woman's malice."
"They have so many distractions, poor dears. Men, I mean. And we have so few. You can put that in your next article, Ambrose?" She straightened her languid curves deliberately, as if preparing to rise.
"Please!" I exclaimed. "I'm not ready for dismissal yet. We'll get down to facts, if you don't mind. Why is Gertrude here at all? After years of silence? Did you send for her?"
Lucette's spine slowly relaxed, her shoulders drooped once more. "I? My dear Ambrose, why on earth should I do a thing like that?"
"I don't know. The point is, did you?"
"You think it in character?"
"Oh—be candid! I don't mean directly, of course. But is she here because of anything you may have telephoned her—after your call last night?"
"Really, Ambrose! This is a little too much, even from you."
"Forgive me—I insist! Is she?"
"You must have a very bad conscience," replied Lucette.
"I am more interested in yours."
She laughed luxuriously, "Mine has never been clearer."
Did the woman want me to stop her breath with bare hands? I gripped the mahogany arms of my stiff Chippendale chair.
"Listen to me, Lucette! I know this is all very thrilling and amusing for you. Vivisection must have its charms, of course—for an expert. But I venture to remind you that once upon a time you were not a bad-hearted girl, and you must have some remnants of human sympathy about you somewhere. Am I wrong?"
"You're hideously rude."
"Granted. But I must place you. I won't accept you as an onlooker. Either you'll fight me or help me—or clear out. Is that plain?"
"You're worse than rude," said Lucette; "you're a beast! I always wondered why Gertrude couldn't live with you. Now I know."
"That's better," I hazarded. "We're beginning to understand each other. Now let's lay all our cards face up on the table?"
Lucette stared at me a moment, her lips pursed, dubious, her impenetrable blue eyes holding mine.
"I will, if you will," she said finally. "Let's."
It was dangerous, I knew, to take her at her word; yet I ventured.
"I've a weak hand, Lucette; but there's one honest ace of trumps in it."
"There could hardly be two," smiled Lucette.
"No; I count on that. In a pinch, I shall take the one trick essential, and throw the others away." I leaned to her and spoke slowly: "There is no reason, affecting her honor or rights, why Gertrude may not return to her home—if she so desires. I think you understand me?"
"Perfectly. You wish to protect Miss Blake. You would try to do that in any case, wouldn't you? But I'm rather afraid you're too late. I'm afraid Miss Blake has handicapped you too heavily. If so, it was clever of her—for she must have done it on purpose. You see, Ambrose, it was she who sent for Gertrude."
"Susan!"
"Susan. Telegraphed her—of all things!—either to come home to you or set you free. The implication's transparent. Especially as I had thought it my duty to warn Gertrude in advance—and as Mr. Phar sent her, by messenger, a vague but very disturbing note this morning."
"Maltby?"
"Yes. His note was delivered not five minutes ahead of Susan's wire. Gertrude caught the next train. And there you are."
Well, at least I began to see now, dimly, where Maltby was, where Susan was, where we all were—except, possibly Gertrude. Putting enormous constraint on my leaping nerves, I subdued every trace of anger.
"Two more questions, Lucette. Do you believe me when I say, with all the sincerity I'm capable of, that Susan is slandered by these suspicions?"
"Really," answered Lucette, with a little worried frown, as if anxiously balancing alternatives, "I'm not, am I, in a position to judge?"
I swallowed hard. "All right," I managed to say coldly. "Then I have placed you. You're not an onlooker—you're an open foe."
"And the second question, Ambrose?"
"What, precisely, does Gertrude want from me?"
"I'm not, am I, in a position to judge?" repeated Lucette. "But one supposes it depends a little on what you're expecting—from her?"
"All I humbly plead for," said I, "is a chance to see Gertrude alone and talk things over."
"Don't you mean talk her over?" suggested Lucette. "And aren't you," she murmured, "forgetting the last straw?"