One of Nature's Gentlemen

Front matter

BY ALEX SURTEESE Xon&on DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE ' I. IN THE VICARAGE GARDEN - - - 1 II. BERTIE VINCENT - - - -13 III. SIR GEOFFRY VANE - - - -22 IV. AT THURLSTON TOWERS- - - - 42 V. A LONELY DEATH-BED - 53 VI. ' I AM NOTHING TO YOU ' - - - 70 VII. SURPRISES FOR MRS. DREW - - - 85 VIII. THE ACCIDENT - - - - - 98 IX. DISAPPEARANCE- - - - - 122 X. THE GHOST ----- 141 XI. 'THE IRON ENTERED HIS SOUL ' - - l6l XII. EDITH DEAN -♦- - - -186 XIII. GEOFFRY VANE's MISTAKE - 204 XIV. DOUBTS AND HEARTACHES - - - 221 XV. AT THE BALL ----- 236 XVI. BEN SPICER SOLVES THE MYSTERY - - 254 XVII. THE POINT-TO-POINT - - - - 271 xvin. julia's sacrifice - 284 XIX. MORE SURPRISES - 299 XX. WON AT LAST - - - - -310

Chapter I. In The Vicaeage Garden

A lovely summer evening was drawing to a close ; the last rays of the setting sun were slowly dying in the West, casting deep shadows across the lawn of Thurls ton Vicarage. Slowly pacing up and down was a young girl about nineteen, dressed in deep mourning, every now and again stooping to caress a spaniel dog that kept jump ing up to her side. Very sad looked she as she stopped by a garden-seat beneath a large beech-tree, and gazed longingly at the old Vicarage where she was born, and had never been away from all her short life. The next moment she flung herself down upon the turf, and, resting her fair head upon the seat, burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Bonnie, the spaniel, with the instinct of his breed, knew his young mistress was in trouble, sniffed round her, then poked his black nose into her hand ; finding his caress was not responded to, he commenced to lick her face.

Placing her arm around his neck, she leaned her face against his, sobbing. Poor Bonnie whined piteously, and tried to push away the one hand she held to her face. ' Oh, Bonnie, my sweet V she murmured, hugging the faithful animal fondly, ' what will you do without me ? No one will love you so and care for you when I am gone. ' Yes, they will f exclaimed a manly voice at her side. And before she had time to rise from her kneeling posture, a pair of strong arms raised her to the seat. 'Oh, GeoffT she cried, 'when did you come? I thought I should have to go away without seeing you again.1 ' Where are you going ?' asked he, seating himself by her side. Taking her hand in his, his voice tremulous with emotion, he continued : ' Gertie, do not grieve so, dear; I am so sorry for you. I only returned this afternoon, when I was told of your loss.

Mother was gone out, so I have not heard any particulars. Tell me, dear : where are you going T But no reply came, only the tears fell faster, and the slender form shook with deep sobs. Bonnie put his paws on his mistress's knee, and laid his nose upon them and gave a low whine. Geoff looked on in silence. Such grief as Gertie's seemed too sacred to intrude upon, so he rose and walked a little distance away, and with bowed head, and something in his eyes that looked very much like a tear, stood looking down into the basin of a large fountain, where gold-fish were busily careering round and round, now and then darting to the surface after some unwary fly that ventured in dangerous proximity to their mouths. But Geoff heeded not their play ; he was lost in thought, full of grief for the gentle girl who had been to him as a sister, towards whom his love had lately grown stronger than a brother's, and he knew not how to comfort her.

Geoffry Vane, the only child of the late Colonel Vane, and nephew of Sir Geoffry Vane, of Thurlston Towers, was the next in line of succession to Thurlston Towers, a fine estate about three miles from the Vicarage, which had been heavily mortgaged in the late Sir Geoff'ry's time, and the present owner, caring nothing for the home of his fathers, had not cared to redeem it, which he might have done upon his marriage with a wealthy American lady, receiving one hundred and twenty thousand pounds with his bride, who only lived a few years to enjoy her title, leaving no child. Geoffry naturally looked forward to inheriting this money, which had accumulated to a much larger amount all these years since her ladyship died. Thurls ton Towers had been let twenty years or more to Squire Keyworth, who was a millionaire, and possessed two daughters, who would naturally be co-heiresses.

The present Sir Geoffry always lived in London ; he said the country was too damp for his rheumatism, from which he occasionally suffered very severely. His only remaining sister, a widow, lived with him, and managed his household affairs, living in a very modest house close to the park. They saw few visitors, going out very little; sometimes Sir Geoffry never left his home for weeks, when he would take a journey by rail to see his solicitors or stockbrokers. Belmont House boasted of few servants — a gray-headed old butler and 1—2 housekeeper, who had seen service with the previous Baronet, and three or four maids. About five years before this story opens, Sir Geoffry had paid a short visit to the Cedars, where Geoffry lived with his mother, about one mile from Thurlston Vicarage. He called upon Squire Keyworth at the Towers, and was greatly impressed with the magnifi cence that wealth can procure, and there and then he made up his mind that his nephew Geoff' must marry one of the Squire's daughters.

Unfortunately, Geoff thought differently, and re solved in his own mind to do as he liked. A bonnie boy of five was he when his mother came to the Cedars in the second year of her widowhood, and the Vicar's only child, a pretty, toddling, fat little girl of two years, who had been motherless a year, was brought down to the Cedars by her nurse, because Mrs. Vane had ex pressed a wish to see the dear baby of her once-loved schoolfellow, Gertie Marlow, who had come but three short years before a happy bride to the Vicarage. Very happy was she, and when she died she had asked her grief-stricken husband to write to Mrs. Vane, and ask her not to forget her baby-girl. So when Mrs. Vane settled down at the Cedars she sent for Gertie, and when the winning little motherless girl put her chubby arms round Mrs. Vane's neck and kissed her, she burst into a flood of tears, which baby tried to wipe away with her fat little hands, saying : ' Me love 'ou ; me's 'our 'ittle dirl now.' And so the years flew on, and when Gertie was not at the Cedars Geoff was at the Vicarage.

Very long were two or three years when he was away at college, but all the holidays they spent together, and he loved and waited on her just as he used to do when she first came to the Cedars ; and he gave her his nicest sweets, and kissed her when he swung her too high in the tree, and she cried because she was frightened. For two years he had been at home with his mother, and during that time what delightful walks he and Gertie Tremayne had taken together ! Morning roamings in the woods or over the hills, halting here and there to sketch some lovely view or rugged hillside, never dreaming of a day when they might have to part. And Gertie, with her gentle, sweet manners and pretty face, won Geoff's heart, and she looked up to him, yet unaware of the love that filled her own heart. And now, when this story opens, her father had been dead a month, leaving her with very little money and few friends.

Everything was to be sold the following week, except a few knick-knacks and things belonging to her mother, which were all packed up and sent to the Cedars. And the day before the sale she was leaving the Vicarage for ever, to make her home with her father's sister in London. Was it any wonder that the child — for child she seemed — was in such despair as she thought of it ? Her father dead, her home to be broken up, and Geoff' away — these thoughts filled her mind as she wept, when suddenly Geoff came noise lessly across the velvety turf, and lifted her to the seat. How long Geoff' stood by the fountain he did not know, but when he at last raised his head and returned to the seat under the beech-tree, the daylight was nearly gone, and in the shadow of the trees it was nearly dark. Gertie still sat there, unconscious of the flying moments, but much more composed, looking very white and ill.

Geoff again placed himself beside her, and asked her to tell him why she spoke of going away. ' You see,' he added in an eager tone, ' I thought you would come and live with us whenever you had to go away from here — unless,' he whispered shyly, ' you should get married.' ' Married ! — I ? Why, Geoff, how silly of you to talk so! I don't know anyone to marry.' ' Don't you, dear ? I hope you do. You know who loves you better than everyone else — who has loved you all these years since you could walk. Gertie, it was a boy's love then ; now it is a man's love, strong and pure, and will be yours for ever.' She was startled at his words. Very sweet were they unto her ears. She never thought he loved her like this ; and she was powerless to answer him ; speech seemed to have gone from her. He saw how she was startled, but he only drew nearer to her and took her hand. ' Gertie, say you love me, dear ; say you will be my wife.

My mother will welcome you to her home. She has always loved you, too. Only this evening, when I returned, and she told me of your loss, she said she had always looked upon you as a daughter, and hoped some day you would be one really. Let me be able to tell her to-night you have consented. Say you love me.' She lifted her head, and turned her face toward him. What a sweet face he thought it ! As the moon came from behind a cloud and brightened up the land, one streak peeped through the boughs and fell upon her face, now crimson with blushes. He raised it up, and their eyes met ; he read his answer there, and was satisfied. ' I must go in,' she said ; ' it is so late. Nurse will be alarmed at my being out so long.' ' Oh, I'll make it all right with nurse,' said he, as they both rose and walked towards the house.

Again they lingered when they reached the small gate that led into the rose-garden. 'Come in here, darling, and give me a rose in memory of this evening.' Slowly she went and gathered a deep red bud. She held it to him. ' No, you must put it in my buttonhole, dear.' And she obeyed. Did he know how nervous she was, and with what difficulty she fastened it in ? He clasped her in his arms. ' Darling, this rose shall be an emblem of my love. So long as roses grow, so long will my love be yours — for ever.' He bent his head and showered kisses upon her lips. ' I thought you would not come home before I left here, Geoff, and I was so grieved.' ' I have only been away five weeks, you know, and Frank was so weak he could not bear me to leave him. We were moving from place to place, and I wrote only once to my mother, and could not give her any positive address.

I should have come sooner had I known you were in such distress.' ' I am glad you did not leave your friend for me,' she said. ' For you, dearest, I should have left everyone. And Frank is coming to stay at the Cedars in the autumn ; then I shall be able to introduce him to my promised wife.' 'But I haven't promised, Geoff, yet, you see. And do let me go,' she said, in a playful tone. ' I will let you go when you have promised. Say you love me and will be my wife.' ' I do, Geoff ; you know I always have done. But — but, you know, you must ask Sir Geoffry's consent before I can promise to marry you, or he may disinherit you, and that will never do.' ' I care not if he does. Give me your consent, dear, and I shall be happy. Promise to be my wife.' ' I promise, Geoff, if Sir Geoffry approves of me.' How could she resist his pleading tones ?

He kissed the sweet face looking up at him, whispering fondly : ' Darling, he will approve when he sees you.' They left the rose-garden, and went towards the house. Just as they neared the steps an elderly woman came out and met them. ' Good-evening, Banks,' said Geoff brightly. ' Did you think Miss Tremayne was lost ?' ' Oh, sir, is it you ? I thought it was Phillips con ducting my young lady home. I made sure you'd walked to the Cedars, Miss Gertie,' quoth she, not answering his question ; then asking : ' And how are you, sir ? I can scarcely see you in this light.' ' I'm quite well, thanks, nurse,' answered he, clasping his arm round her, and giving her a hearty kiss. 'For shame, Master Geoff!' cried she, though really pleased at his caress. ' You are as bad as ever. Now you are a young man, you must not kiss an old woman like me.' ' But, nursie, I always did, you know ; and I'm sure you'd miss it now,' replied he playfully. ' Fie, fie, sir !

It does my old heart good to see your face again. But it's the young lasses you must give your kisses to now,' quoth she, laughing. ' I ? Good gracious, nurse ! they wouldn't let me.' ' Ah, Master Geoff, I'd like to see the lass who would refuse you. Ever since you were so high ' ' Hush ! hush !' he cried, in mock dismay, ' you will make me blush. If you say another word I shall kiss you again.' Off marched Nurse Banks, leaving them alone, murmuring to herself: ' Bless his bonnie face ! He's just the same Geoff' as ever, with his nonsense and his fun. Bless 'em both ! As if I could not see which way the wind is blowing, as folks say.' What she meant no doubt my readers can guess. During this colloquy between nurse and Geoffry, Gertie was standing at the bottom of the steps. When nurse disappeared Geoffry whispered : ' Good-night, dearest.

We'll tell her to-morrow, but my mother must be told first.' ' Yes,' she assented ; and with his last kiss upon her lips she went to her room, where Nurse Banks was wait ing for her. ' Oh, nursie dear,' she said, stroking the silver hair from the wrinkled brow, ' you will let me come and stay with you sometimes, won't you, when you are in your cottage ?' ' Bless you, dearie ! of course I will ; but someone else will be wanting you, I am a-thinking.' ' Hush, nursie ! I'm sure I should die if I could not come to see you sometimes. And you'll take care of Bonnie, for he'd die too if I took him to London.' 'I will, Miss Gertie. Now go to sleep, that's a dearie.' And the kind, motherly old soul kissed her charge, and went to her own room. Tlie silver moonlight flooded the room where Gertie slept.

For a long time she knelt beside the open window, looking out into the silent night ; then her lips moved in prayer — a prayer to Heaven to make her worthy of Geoffry's love, and a prayer of thanks giving, too, for the love that was given her. When her heart was filled with sorrow at her recent bereavement, and the pang it gave her to have to leave her dear home, then this love of a good man's heart was given her, and as she thanked God for it, she felt that there was indeed ' a silver lining to every cloud.' The few remaining days following the evening of Geoffry's return passed very quickly, much too quickly for Geoffry and Gertie. Each morning they spent in visiting some favourite resort of their childhood's days, and the afternoons and evenings were spent at the Cedars, for Mrs. Vane, delighted at the engagement of Geoff' to her favourite, looked upon her already as a daughter, but insisted that he should write to Sir Geoffry and acquaint him of their engagement.

Geoff' did not hesitate in doing so, feeling sure that when Sir Geoffry saw Gertie, he, too, could not do otherwise than admire her ; so he wrote : ' The Cedars, ' Thurlston, 'July 22. ' My dear Uncle, ' I have some very important news to tell you, for my mother says you must be told before anyone else. I am engaged to be married to Gertie Tremayne, my little playfellow ; her father is dead, and she is leaving the Vicarage next week to live in London with her aunt until our marriage, during which time my mother hopes to visit you, and introduce Gertie to you and auntie. I feel sure she will win both your hearts, as she has won mine. I also feel confident of your approval. My mother joins me in love to you and auntie. ' Your affectionate nephew, ' Geoffry Vane.' It was the last evening Gertie Tremayne would spend in her own home.

She had returned from the Cedars earlier than usual, accompanied by Geoff. They were slowly pacing up and down beneath the beeches, talking of the time when she should return to Thurlston his bride. ' I can't think,' he suddenly exclaimed, ' why Uncle Geoffry does not write.1 She laughed, although she felt more like crying. ' Perhaps,' she said, ' it will be unwelcome when it does come. Don't wish for it ; no news is good news.' ' Gertie, why did you say the other night, if I should marry anyone my uncle did not approve of, he would disinherit me ?' ' Because a long time ago, when you were at college, Sir Geoffry was staying at the Cedars, and I was there too. He had been up to Thurlston Towers that morning, and was speaking to Mrs. Vane of it. He said one of Squire Keyworth's daughters would be a good match for you ; but your mother said she hoped you would be guided by your feelings, and not marry merely for money.

He got in such a passion, and said, " Don't let me hear any such foolish notions, for I tell you distinctly that if my nephew marries anyone I do not approve of, he will never get a penny of my money ; I will disinherit him." Your mother began to cry, and I was frightened, and ran from the room.' 'Never mind, dear,' Geoff' said. 'If he does not approve, we can do without his money. I've got enough to make both ends meet, as the old women say.' The tears rushed to her eyes, but still she clung to him. ' I must say good-bye now,' she said. ' Nurse will be wanting me to help her finish pack.' ' Good-night, darling, not good-bye. I shall see you to-morrow at the station.' She laid her head on his bosom, whilst the tears streamed from her eyes. He held her in a last long, lingering embrace, and kissed the sweet lips.

When he released her, she hurried up the steps into the house, not daring to turn to give another look toward him. And this was their farewell. Ah ! who can say when next their lips shall meet again, if ever? 'Tis well human hearts must bear these farewells, but, oh, how differently they do so ! Geoff was, of course, grieved at her departure, but was buoyed up with hope for the future. She, poor girl ! was depressed with a presenti ment of coming trouble, but all her faith was placed in Him who had said, " I will not leave thee nor forsake thee." '

Chapter II. Bertie Vincent

Nurse Banks accompanied Gertie Tremayne to London. She was to stay a few days there, and then return to Thurlston to end her days in a small cottage just out side the village, having a small annuity left her by the late Mrs. Tremayne's father ; that, with her own savings, was ample to keep her in comfort the remainder of her days, or, as Geoff would say, ' enough to make both ends meet.' Geoffry and his mother were on Thurlston platform to see them off. Mrs. Vane pressed the girl she loved very dearly to her motherly bosom, and bade her ' keep a brave heart '; at the same time her tears were mingled with Gertie's. Geoff held the hand she placed in his longer than was necessary, and the expression of his blue eyes spoke what his lips would have said had they been alone. The train came steaming in, a porter opened a first class compartment, Gertie and Nurse Banks were seated together, the whistle blew, again the train steamed on, and Gertie Tremayne had left the place of her birth, not knowing when, if ever, she might return.

She stood at the window watching Geoff and his mother standing still there, though she could scarcely see them with her tear-dimmed eyes, until the train ran round a curve and they were lost to view. Just then she caught sight of the old Vicarage above the trees, and with a low moan she sank on the seat and, burying her face in her hands, gave way to her grief. Geoffry and Mrs. Vane gazed after the train until it was lost to view. Very handsome indeed looked he, standing with the sunshine lighting up his fair hair; but the big blue eyes looked very sad indeed as he turned to his mother and offered her his arm, and silently they returned to the Cedars. He was thinking of some lines he had read somewhere : ' Strangers stood by us while we said farewell, who could not understand or sympathize ; And so with voice and heart nigh breaking, I looked my last look into your tender eyes.' The next morning Geoffry received a letter from his uncle as follows : 'Belmont House, ' July 30. ' Dear Geoffry, ' I was astonished to get your news, and beg to inform you that I do not approve of your engagement to that parson's little girl.

You must marry a rich girl and retrieve the Towers. Miss Keyworth is the one I have always wished you to marry — a fine girl, too — but you were always self-willed in my opinion, so, of course, you will do as you like. But remember, if you marry this girl, I shall disinherit you. My regards to your mother. ' Your uncle, ' Geoffry Vane.' Geoff's face grew very dark as he read this, and Mrs. Vane saw he had unpleasant news, but, like a wise mother, would not question him. Presently he rose and gave the letter to her, and walked to the window while she read it. She finished it, and laid it on the table. ' My boy,' she said, ' your uncle may change his mind when he sees Gertie. Cheer up.' ' Mother,' he said, as he came to her side and knelt there, the same as he used to do when he was a child, ' Uncle Geoff' can keep his money, or leave it to whom he pleases, but he shall not separate Gertie and I ; she is dearer to me than all his gold.' ' Yes, dear, I know ; but she is so sensitive.

If she thought you had lost this expected wealth in marrying her, she would be sorely grieved.' ' She shall not know, mother ; and perhaps, as you say, when uncle sees her he will relent, and she will be spared this trouble.' And so mother and son comforted themselves with these thoughts. But, alas ! Sir Geoffry had been too sharp, or shall I say too cruel ? By the same post he also wrote to Gertie, but she did not get the letter until two days after her arrival in London. Her aunt, Mrs. Vincent, very warmly welcomed her brother's child — herself a widow, with one son, the pride of her heart. And she grieved in secret at the thought of leaving him, for she was very delicate, and knew her life might terminate any moment, as she suffered from heart disease. She was full of compassion for the orphan girl who was now to be her care.

Her son Bertie was extremely wealthy, having inherited all his father's vast wealth upon attaining his majority about a year ago. A spoilt boy was he, always having his own way. He had grown up wilful, wild, and ex travagant. Short of stature, with dark smooth hair, and a very pale complexion, small round gray eyes, and a ferocious face, his manners loud, addicted to slang, with a drawling tone of voice, he was anything but prepossessing. Walking into the drawing-room, where Gertie was seated alone, the evening of her arrival, he at once incurred her dislike, by strutting up to her, saying, 'Well, little cousin, you've arrived,' placing his hand upon her shoulder. ' Give me a kiss, my dear ;' and he was stooping to take one, when she drew herself up proudly, and gave him a sound slap upon his face.

He instantly drew back. ' By Jove, you're a tartar !' cried he. ' Is that how young ladies treat the gentlemen at Thurlston ?' ' Gentlemen,' replied she, ' know how to behave them selves at Thurlston ;' and she walked away. ' Ah, well, my beautiful cousin, you'll find I'll have a kiss for that blow ; and you will find it wise to be on friendly terms with me, if you remain here.' Finding she ignored him, he said more quietly : ' Come and play draughts, my dear.' ' No, thank you,' replied she haughtily ; ' I do not play.' ' Then, come and sing ; I'm sure you sing.' ' I would rather not to-night ; I wish to be quiet.' At that instant Mrs. Vincent entered the room, much to Gertie's relief. She looked at Bertie. A shade of sorrow stole over her own face as she noticed Gertie's flushed one. She very quickly guessed the cause, remarking : ' Bertie, you must not tease your cousin ; she is not used to boys, and she is very tired, I am sure.' Then, turning to Gertie, she said : ' Vou must not mind him, my dear ; he is so playful, and loves to tease.

And you will sing another evening, I am sure, when you are more used to us, won't you ?' ' Yes, auntie ; if you will excuse me now, I will go to bed ; I am very tired.' ' Do, dear, and let nurse bring you some cocoa up in the morning, or some tea.' ' No, thank you, auntie ; but I should be so glad if I may ask for some tea for nurse. She always had a cup at home.' ' Of course you may. I hope she will make herself quite at home while she is here. Good-night, dear.' And Gertie, taking no more notice of Bertie, left the room, and went in search of nurse, who was enjoying a chat with Mrs. Drew, the housekeeper, who invited her to take a seat, and inquired if Mr. Bertie was in the drawing-room. Thereupon Gertie expressed her indig nation at his behaviour, and told how she had checked his advances.

Both the old ladies indulged in a merry laugh ; Mrs. Drew, with whom he was no favourite, remarking, ' And served him right, miss ; he's a regular limb, he is. I always say he'll come to bad, with his club, and his betting, and gadding about ; he'll bring trouble to the dear mistress's heart yet, or my name's not Betsy Drew; but poor mistress can't see his faults, and believes all he tells her. Well, if you'll believe me, only in June he goes off for three or four days, telling her he was going to Chester to see a friend who was ill, and he never went anigh Chester, but was off at them nasty races — the Derby, I think it was. How I knew, Jeffs, our coachman, has a brother as is footman to the Duke of Darkshire, and Jeff's met him a week after, and says he to Jeff's, " My eye, Jim, but your young master is a goer !" ' " A goer !" says Jeff's, " what do you mean ?" ' " Why," says he, " a oner to make the money fly.