Copyright Story. A Dead Cert, or Gertie’s Surprise.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXX, Issue XXVI, 27 June 1903, Page 1774

Copyright Story. A Dead Cert, or Gertie’s Surprise.

By

J. MACLAREN COBBAN.

(Author of “The Red Sultan,” etc.).

I. Everybody who heard of it—and everybody who frequented the sea-front at Billington did hear of it—declared it was “too funny for words.” Everybody laughed; but there were two varieties of laughter. For while the old boys chuckled and sniggered, and said it served “the young beggar right,” the young people giggled softly, and said it was "a little steep—too hard on Bert — don’t you know.” Well, this is the story. Bert Wigginton was one of those handmme. gay. well-dressed young men, who laboriously occupy their time with doing nothing, because they expect to come into money. Bert had flirted through the season with every girl that would allow him to flirt —and there were very few who would not—until he made the acquaintance of Gertie Miniver, and with her he seemed to be very seriously taken up. Bert was staying in the house of his uncle, Major-General Waller, in one of those fine old squares of the old town; for Bert’s mother was airing and warming the house of her brother, the General, who was on his way home from South Africa. That was the situation when Gertie Miniver appeared on the scene. Gertie was an actress who came io “rest” at a boardinghouse in the same old Square that contained the mansion of the General. How she and Bert Wiggington became acquainted does not matter; for it is notorious that on holiday occasions at the seaside acquaintance is easily struck up between young people. Once acquainted they met very frequently. Indeed, they spent most of their spare time together—and nearly all their time was spare—with the inevitable result that they fell in love with each other. At least, Bert was completely in love with Gertie. She was so different, he said, from “the common fool of a girl a fellow larks about with;” besides being good-locking and welldressed. she was clever, and she was “all soul.” She understood a fellow—don’t you know —as no other girl did. And great is the delight of being understood! To be understood by a girl is to desire to spend your life in that girl’s company; and so Bert proposed tc Gertie that they should be married. That was a memorable occasion. It was before breakfast, whieh may account for the passionless way in which they discussed the matter—although each was no doubt brimming with love. They were, walking in the soft morning sunshine on the cliff-top. Gertie was chastely dressed in white, with a red parasol, and Bertie was arrayed in blue striped flannels, with white boots from which his trousers were nicely folded up. “Don’t you think, Gertie,” said he, “that we should make an awfully jolly, happy pair?” “‘Should make,’ Bert?” said she. “We do—don’t we?” “Ah, but I mean for always,” said Bert—“if we were married, don’t you know.” “Oh, married!” exclaimed Gertie. “For always! That takes a lot of thinking about.” "But we’re awfully in love with each other, Gertie.” “Are we? Perhaps we arc,” said Gertie. “But to get married—well, it’s like putting a play on the stage—you need a great deal more than love to do it.” “Love is the chief thing to have, though,” said Bertie—“isn’t it?” “Oh, love is a beautiful thing to have—like flowers in a vase,” said Gertie; “but then you want the vase to put them it. You see what I meant” •he added, smiling sweetly.

“Oh, yes, I know what you mean,” said he. “You mean somewhere to live —a house and all that sort of thing.” “Yes,’ said she, promptly; “and something to live upon. I haven’t much to live upon, and you don’t seem to be anything, Bertie. You have no profession; you are not even an actor; although, if the worst came, you might earn something as walking gentleman —or second lover.” “But I’m not thinking of being an actor, Gertie. Dash it all,” said he, “I’m a gentleman—dont’ you know—and I have expectations.” “I shouldn’t like to live upon expectations,” said Gertie. “They wouldn't agree with me. I would no more grow fat on them than the wild ass can grow fat on the east wind, according to the prophet.” “What prophet?” asked Bert. “A prophet in the Bible, young man,” said Gertie; “not a turf prophet, although you mighc think so.” “Well, but as to expectations, Gertie,” said Bert, “it’s a dead cert, and I’m the heir to my unde, General Waller, and he has a pot of money.” “Has he told you that you are his heir?” asked Gertie. “Well, no.” “Have you had a sight of his will?’’ ‘Well, no.” “Then how ean it be a dead cert? And your uncle is still alive, isn’t he?” “Of course he is. But, dash it all, the mater knows all about it, and she has brought me up to be the old boy’s heir,” said Bert, a little huffed. “Then, I think, with all due respect to you, Bert, and to your mater, too, that it is high time you began to bring yourself up to something else, that is if you want me to be interested in you. I could never think of marrying a-— well, a professional heir.” “You’re not serious, Gertie!” exclaimed Bert, in genuine surprise. “I’m as serious,” she answered, “as I ever can be. Besides,” she added, quickly, “even if it were what you call ‘a dead cert,’ it must take some years before it can come to anything.” “Oh, not very long, Gertie,” he answered, readily. “The dear old boy has had a pretty bad time of it in South Africa —wounds, enteric, Boers and mausers, and all that sort of thing, you know.” “Why, how old is General Waller?” she asked, in unfeigned curiosity. “Is he really very old? I didn’t think there were any’ really old generals out in South Africa, except Lord Roberts.” “Oh, yes, Gertie; he’s pretty well done for,” answered Bert, cheerfully. “But how old is he, truly?” “Ah, he’s upon fifty, if he’s a day,” answerd the young man. “Upon fifty! Is that all? Well, I never knew anything like the cheek of you boys! ” “Boys!” “Yes. boys!” repeated Gertie, with emphasis. “I’ve an aunt who is over fifty, and she thinks herself, and is, younger than I am—in all essentials of life.”

“Ah, but it is different with ladies,” •aid Bert, gallantly. “Well, now, Bert,’ said Gertie, with a laugh, “that is quite the nicest, wisest thing I’ve heard you say this morning.” “Oh, come, Gertie!” “Come, Gertie, come, and live wltn me!” she carolled softly. Then she swept a stage curtsey, and added, “No thank you, Bertie.” “But, Gertie,” he pleaded, “we needn’t get married at once; in fact, I wasn't thinking of such a thing. But let us be engaged—won’t you?” “No, I won’t,” answered Gertie; “and here we are in the square. All the bedroom windows of the boarding-house will be full of eyes watching me. Be off with you.” “I shall see you before lunch, shan’t I?” he asked “Oh, yes, if you like,” she answered. Such treatment from Gertie made Bert, of course, only more in love than ever. He was constantly in her company—“downright infatuated” about her, people said, who amused themselves by noting such things—but he paid no serious heed to her suggestion that ho should make something of himself, for he could not believe that she was not truly as pleased with him as he was with himself. “Well, Bert,” she would ask sometimes, “have you made up what you call your mind how you are going to earn a living?” But he merely laughed it off as persiflage. n. General Waller was on his way home. He had an old family connection with Billington, and the Corporation had sent a telegram to await him at Madeira, saying that Billington desired to give him a public reception on his home-coming. The General cabled baek declining with thanks the public reception immediately on his arrival, but expressing the hope that he would meet the Billingtonians later. Then came great preparations for the occasion. Gertie Miniver was eaught into the prevailing excitement, and she found herself wondering what sort of man the General was—evidently shy, she thought, and hating publicity, and only giving way to it now and then out of politeness or good nature. She tried to learn something about him by questioning Bert Wigginton, but he only said, “Oh, he’s not half a bad sort,” and things like that. The preparations went on, and the excitment and expectation grew. General Waller was to be presented with a congratulatory address in a golden casket, and there were to be a luncheon, a garden party, and then a ball at night. All was ready, and there was needed only the General for the full fruition of hope. The arrival of the ship off Ushant was telegraphed, then its arrival at Southampton, and finally, the General’s arrival at Billington station was noted by a great many people. But he had begged there would be no public demonstration on the occasion, and there was not. There was only a big crowd, shouting “Hooray!” and waving handkerchiefs and tiny Union Jacks, from all of which the General hastened away with a hurried bow or two and a fixed smile —and in that moment Gertie recognised the General as a man who had once sat beside her at dinner, but whose name she did not know. “They say ‘as shy as a boy,’ but he is shier than any boy I ever knew,” said Gertie Miniver to herself. She saw the General shake Bert Wigginton warmly by the hand, and she saw him take Bert’s mother in his arms; and she was thoughtful. She could not think of the agreeable dinner companion of three years ago as old, nor could she see even now that he looked old; why, then, should his two nearest relatives think he was soon likely to make an end?

“It is ridiculous,” she said to herself. “It is a shame!—and General Waller ought to know—although I’m not going to tell him.” There' happened an unexpected, and for some a rather embarrassing, occurrence. The General’s house in the old Square had been got ready and aired for him by his sister, Bert’s mother, but the carriage that received him, instead of taking him there, whirled him off to a little country-seat he had recently acquired some three miles off. The explanation of the flight came later in the day from Bert. “The old boy,” said he, “couldn’t stand the idea—don’t you know—of staying in the Square. He was afraid all Billington would be coming to stare at his windows—and I daresay he was right—so he said to the mater, ‘No, no, Jane; very kind of you to get the house ready, but I’ll go to the otherplace’; and he went, although there was nothing readv for him.” Gertie was pining to meet General Waller—for she was profoundly interested in her own conception of him—but Bert Wigginton made no offer to introduce her to the General’s notice in any way; and she was not the girl to ask him. Day after day passed, and at length the day was at hand when the General was to be publicly received and feted, and Gertie Miniver took a desperate resolution to see and speak with the General before the business of the day should begin. Why? Well, she was, as I’ve said, profoundly interested in the General, and she told herself she ought to know the General before she should answer “yes” or “no” to Bert Wigginton’s importunities. She had got to know from Bert that hie uncle wis an early riser—a really early riser; five o’clock was his hour, and he was commonly out by six for a ride or a walk. So Gertie Miniver, on the evening before the great day, went to a livery stable, and ordered a horse to be ready for her at half-past five the next morning; in that way she would be prepared to meet the General either riding or walking. . She was a good horsewoman, and by six o clock in the morning she was riding slowly in the sunshine along a grassgrown lane that skirted the General’s country place. She suddenly drew up on hearing a voice not far off—a man’s voice saying clearly: “Mr Chairman and gentlemen—no, no; Mr Mayor, Aidermen, councillors, gentlemen and ladies—no, no! Won’t do at all!” She peeped and peered over the high hedge, and there came pacing quickly into view—who, but the General himself? There could be no doubt of that. He was a tallish man, well-set-up, burnt to the colour of an old brick, as lean as a greyhound, and somewhat grizzled. He stood still and made another oratorical effort, speaking in a strong, clear voice, as if he were addressing a regiment, and jerking his hand and wagging his head at an imaginary audience: “Mr Mayor and —and Gentlemen,—er—l rise—to my feet—my feet—. No, no, no, no! D—the thing! I wish to goodness I had never engaged to meet the crowd! I shall certainly break down! I shall make a me as of it!”

He was in a little secluded space, surrounded by shrubbery, and Gertie Miniver smiled to herself at his nervous quandary. It was manifest what he was about; he was preparing, or trying, his address in acknowledgment of the gift of the golden casket that was to be made to him that day, and he was making a mess of it. He sat down on a bench in the full morning sunshine, and pulled a sheet of foolscap from his poeket, from which he began, apparently, to study his speech. He read attentively for a little while, and then his gaze began to wander. He stretched out his legs, leaned well back upon the bench, and yawned — a wide yawn, which showed a mouthful of good teeth. “I’m dooeed sleepy! Bad night, I s’pose! Got this confounded thing on my mind!” He resumed with a resolute frown his study of the foolscap. In the quiet the birds that had been silenced by his resonant oratory broke out afresh with their morning songs. A robin-red-breast, as bold as a British soldier, stood forth on a twig opposite to the General, cocked a bright eye at him, and trilled forth a fine flow of confident notes. The General raised his head from his foolscap. “Yes, you little beggar,” said he. “you think you could do it—don’t you? Well,

I wish I had your nerve, and your flow of speech. But you’re not before an audience, you know.” The robin trilled forth again, and the General laughed, let his foolscap slip to the ground, folded his arms, sank his head on his chest — and gave way to sleep. Gertie Miniver looked at him a little while, and considered, with her hand pensively at her chin. Then she resolved what she would do. She slipped from her seat on the horse’s back, led him swiftly away up the lane for some twenty yards, tied him to a tree, and ran back to the spot whence she had viewed General Waller. She had noted a thinness in the hedge, a step or two off, which could easily be made into a gap. Through this she crept, and stepped softly to the General’s seat. From the grass she picked up the foolscap, and retired behind the bench on which he slept to read it. Her suspicion was right, it was the speech destined for the great occasion that day. She smiled over it; a bright idea came and shone before her. She seated herself on the grass, and with a pencil which she found in her pocket, she wrote a nice little speech of her own, beginning, “Mr Mayor, and fellowtownsmen, although this is a most interesting occasion for me, it is also a most trying one.” She wrote on and on, while she smiled to herself, and produced a complete little speech on the empty halfsheet of foolscap. Without thinking of the noise she might make, she tore with a wrench the two half-sheets apart. They separated with a harsh sound that alarmed her.

“Oh!” she exclaimed in a suppressed voice; and before she. eould say or do anything else, the General had wakened, turned on the bench, and looked at her! “Hallo!' he said, after a quiet and amazed pause of recovery from his slumber. “What are you doing with that paper ?” He held out his hand, and she was compelled to rise aud give him the sundered halves of the foolscap. Then a gleam of recognition came upon his face. “Surely,” said he, “we have met before ?” “Yes,” she answered, in a flutter; “three years ago, at dinner. My name is Miniver.” “Of course, said he, rising; “I remember. And mine is Waller.” “I know,” she said. “What have you been doing with my foolscap?” He smiled. “Writing on it. Hallo!” he exclaimed again, as he caught the significance of what she had written. He read rapidly through it, and then he looked at her. “You aro very clever,” said he. “It is very rude of me,” said she, “to interfere.” “It is very kind,” he replied. “I thought,” said she, “that I would do it, and get away before you awoke, and you would think a fairy, perhaps, had done it.” “A fairy has done .’t,” said he, gallantly, “and I am very glad I awoke before you disappeared.” “Do you think,” she asked, with a genuine flutter of shyness, “that it will do?-—do better?” “Much better! It is the proper thing!” “Do you think so, really?” “Now, I tell you what, Miss Miniver,” he said, gaily. "You’re an actress. Ah, yes; I remember all about you. It would be a great kindness if you would show me how to deliver it. But- forgive my naming so common and trivial a thing—it is my time for breakfast. Will you come and breakfast with me —I am all alone —and then we can get at this in good earnest?” “There is not really much to get at,” answered Gertie, “but I’ll breakfast with you gladly.” Gertie's horse was found, and General Waller led it along the lane to his house, while he walked by her side. She insisted, a little nervously, on giving her views at once on how the speech should be delivered. “Not,” said she, “as a creature in a Punch and Judy show might deliver it, but like a soldier; standing flrm, speaking clearly with you hand —if you like —stuck in the bosom of your coat, like Napoleon,” In the house they sat down to breakfast, and were silently waited on by the General’s soldier servant. They enjoyed themselves immensely; and they, were talking and laughing, forgetful of everything but themselves, when who

should come in but—Bert Wigginton and his mother! They declared at once that they had come to breakfast, but Mrs Wiggin ton stood in rigid surprise at the company her brother was in. “Who is this creature you have picked up?” her look plainly said. “This improper woman who comes in and breakfasts alone with you? Alone!” “Jane, my dear,” said the General, rising, “let me introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine—Miss Miniver —the lady that I intend to make my wife.” Miss Miniver was speechless with astonishment; Mrs Wigginton gasped with amazement, and had to sit down; while Bert was smitten silent and sulky. General Waller pressed them to draw in to the table, since they had come to breakfast. “John,” said he, “will soon make some fresh tea.” But Mrs Wigginton was on her dignity, and her son silently supported her. “I wouldn’t think,” said she, “of breaking in upon your little tete-a-tete, Herbert.” That she said with intended bitterness and sarcasm, but her brother only smiled and said, “Well, as you please, Jane. I suppose I shall see you again in an hour or two.” “Oh, yes, I daresay you will see us,” said Mrs Wigginton. When mother and son had departed, there was a pause of embarrassment between General Waller and Gertie. But he took her hand in a firm clasp. “I hope,” said he, “that you have forgiven me for the liberty I have taken in the declaration I have made to my sister.” “Yes,” said Gertie, “I forgive you. You said it, I know, to protect my reputation. But what is to be done next? Announce, I suppose, that your intended marriage is broken off?” “Announce?” he exclaimed. “The next announcement will be, I hope, that I am married. Do you doubt that I meant what I said? I do intend to make you my wife.” And he smiled in a masterful way. Gertie truly had doubted. Now she was in a flutter of wonder and blushes; but she kept her courage and defiance. “I should like to be asked first,” said she. “No woman likes to be taken for granted.” “Please will you marry me?” he asked earnestly, with an engaging smile. “I’ll think about it,” she answered, smiling in return, and trying to release her hand. "Promise me first,” said he, refusing to let go her hand, “and think about it afterwards.” “But—but,” she urged, “I can’t tell yet whether I really like you ot not.” “You can’t really tell that,” said he,

“until you are married. Promise me.” “Well, yes, then, I will,” she answered, “although I feel I am being hurried off my feet.” “That’s right,” said he, aud promptly kissed her where she stood. The day passed with great eclat. The General’s little speech of thanks for the address and the golden casket was generally pronounced “just the thing”; and at the ball that night he danced with Gertie (after he had danced with the Mayoress), and then introduced her io some friends as his intended bride j. But by that time Gertie had had a final interview with Bert Wigginton. He reproached her with being underhand, and mean, and deceitful. “You have no right to talk to me like that,” she said. “I don’t know that I owe you anything—any consideration even. Yes, I have liked you; and you have worried me to become engaged to you, but you never gave any sign of doing anything to make marriage possible.” “But why,” he demanded, “did you never tell me that you knew my uncle?” “I didn’t know that I knew him,” she answered, “until I saw him at the station the day he arrived.” “Knew him before by another name, I suppose?” he asked. “Yes,” she answered: Bert might believe so if he liked. She added, “I knew no more than you did what he was going to say this morning when you and your mother found us at breakfast. But I’m glad—really glad—that I shall be the wife of a man who has done things, and not of a boy who hasn’t learnt to do anything.”