"No matter; do not despair. Nil desperandum is 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."