"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."