Chapter Seventeen.Legal Advice.“Hullo! What do you want? Never sent for you.”“No,” said Doctor Lawrence gruffly, “I came without,” and he seated himself in one of the old, worn, leather covered chairs in the lawyer’s private room at Lincoln’s Inn.“But I’m right as a trivet, Lawrence, and if I was not, I should not consult you.”“I know that. You never did.”“Well, you never came to me about your legal affairs.”“Of course I did not. If I had we should never have remained friends.”“Humph! Then you think I should have ruined you.”“Well, you think I should have poisoned you.”“There! get out. What’s the matter, Lawrence?”“I’ve come to consult you.”“You have? Then hang it all, old chap, I’ll have jaundice or gout next week.”“About The Mynns’ affairs.”“Oh! Then I’ll keep quite well. What’s the matter now?”“Sit down, Hampton, and let’s talk quietly, old fellow, as friends.”The old lawyer sat down, took a penknife from a drawer, and throwing himself back in his chair, began to pare his nails.“Well, what is it?” he said.“I’m very uncomfortable about the state of affairs down yonder.”“So am I, and I get no peace of my life.”“How’s that?”“The wife!”“Oh! Shouldn’t have married.”“Too late to alter that now.”“But what do you mean?”“Mean? Why, of course, situated as we were, the wife agreed to poor little Gertrude’s wishes, and stayed at The Mynns to play propriety till those two were married; and now I want to get home to my own fireside, but we seem regularly stuck, and the worst of it is, we are unwelcome visitors.”“Yes, I saw that.”“Then can you imagine a more unpleasant position for a well-to-do old chap like myself; staying at a house where your host always shows you that you are not wanted?”“No. It is hard; and for unselfish reasons.”“I wouldn’t stop another hour with the rowdy Yankee scoundrel, only Mrs Hampton says I must.”“For Gertrude’s sake, of course.”“Oh, hang your of ‘course,’” cried the lawyer angrily.“Call yourself a friend! Why don’t you advise me to go?”“Can’t,” said the doctor, putting his hat upon the top of his cane, and spinning it slowly round.“Don’t do that, man. It fidgets me.”The doctor took his hat off the cane meekly, and set it on the table, after which he laid his cane across his knees, and began to roll it slowly to and fro, as if he were making paste.“I say, Lawrence,” cried the old lawyer querulously, “don’t do that. You give me the creeps.”The doctor meekly laid his stick beside his hat, and put his hands in his pockets.“Look here,” he said, “what about that poor girl?”“Well, what about her?”“Are we to standstill and see her throw herself away upon this wretched man?”“Can you show me a way out of the difficulty? If so, for goodness’ sake speak out.”“Your wife! Cannot she influence her?”“No. She has done everything. The poor girl looks upon it as a duty to the old man, and to his grandson; and she has made up her mind.”“Tut—tut—tut—tut—tut!”“She believes that she can bring the fellow round to a better way of life.”“I don’t, Hampton.”“No more do I.”“Think she loves him?”“No. Not a bit. She doesn’t dislike him though, for he can make himself agreeable when he chooses.”“Then she will marry him?”“Not a doubt about it, doctor.”There was a pause, broken by the lawyer doubling his fist and striking the table so heavy a blow that there was a cloud of pungent dust directly after in the doctor’s nostrils, and he sneezed violently again and again.“Oh, you old fool!” cried the lawyer.“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, blowing his nose upon a great yellow silk handkerchief. “It was your dust.”“I don’t mean that. I mean for not letting the brute die when you had him in your hands. It would have been a blessing for everybody.”“Saul Harrington included, eh? I wonder what he would have given me to have let him die.”“Five thousand at least!”“Don’t talk nonsense, man. Let’s see if we cannot do something.”“We can do nothing, sir. The wedding-day is fixed, and the poor little girl is going to swear she will love, honour, and obey a scoundrel, who will break her pretty little heart while she sees him squander away that magnificent estate.”“It’s very, very terrible,” said Doctor Lawrence thoughtfully; “and I came here this morning in the hope that as co-executors we might do something to save the girl, even if we cannot save the estate.”“There’ll be nothing to save in half-a-dozen years, if he goes on as he’s going now. In the past three months there are ten thousand pounds gone spang!”“Spent?”“Heaven knows! Gambled away, I suppose. I have to keep on selling stock, regardless of losses, and I do the best I can for him. If the applications were made to some shady firm, they’d plunder him wholesale.”“It’s very sad,” said the doctor, meekly.“Sad, sir! It’s criminal. I don’t know what he does with it all, but, between ourselves, Lawrence, I’ve a shrewd suspicion that he is remitting a good deal to the States.”“What for?”“How should I know, sir? To pay old debts, perhaps. Ah, it’s a sorry business.”“But surely we can do something.”“Bah!”“Now, don’t be angry, Hampton. If it was a leg or a wing diseased, I should know what to do, but in these legal matters I am a perfect child.”“You are, Lawrence, you are.”“Well,” said the doctor tartly, “knowing that, I came to you, as a legal light, to give me your opinion. Do you mean to tell me that we, as old Harrington’s executors, cannot interfere to stop this man from wasting his substance and wrecking the life of that poor girl?”“Yes, sir, I do, plump and plain. Our duties were limited to seeing that, after all bequests were paid, this gentlemanly young fellow from the Far West had all the money his old lunatic of a grandfather left him.”“But—”“There, butt away till you break your skull, if you like, against the stone wall of the law. I, as a lawyer, can do nothing, but perhaps you can—as a doctor.”“In heaven’s name, then, tell me what, for I feel heartbroken to see the way things are going.”“Kill him.”“What?”“I mean as you nearly did before, and blamed the chemist.”“My dear Hampton, surely you acquit me of that business.”“Oh, yes, if you like, but if I were you I’d get him into such an awful state of health that he should not want to spend money, and, as to wedding, that’s the last thing he should think of.”“Absurd! absurd!” cried Doctor Lawrence angrily. “You non-professional men get the maddest notions into your heads.”“Very well, then, try that.”“Try what?”“That which you were hinting about—madness.”“What?”“Can’t you contrive to make it appear that the man isnon compos mentis. Then we lawyers could come in and get some one appointed to administer the estate—I mean a judge would do that.”“My dear Hampton, I came to you for good advice, and you talk trash to me.”“I’ve told you—trash or not—the only way of getting out of the difficulty, and I can do no more,” said the lawyer pettishly. “There, Lawrence, old fellow, we will not quarrel over this unfortunate affair. We can do nothing but look on and advise. George Harrington will tell us to go to Jericho if we say a word; and as to the lady, when a good, pure-minded young girl takes it into her head that it is her duty to do something or another, the more you preach at her, and try to get her to think as you do, the more she looks upon you as a worldly-minded old sinner, and persists in going her own gait. I can only see one thing to do.”“Yes? What is it?” cried the doctor.“Ram a lot of legal jargon into the scoundrel, and frighten him into making ample settlements on the poor girl, tying it down so that he can’t touch it, nor she neither, except as payments fall due. Then she’ll be safe when he dies ofdelirium tremens, or gets killed in some drunken brawl.”“You think you can manage that, Hampton?” cried the doctor eagerly.“Yes, I fancy I can contrive that, but if he proves to be obstinate, you must help me.”“In any way I can.”“That’s right. Well, then, you’ll have to bring him nearly to death’s door.”“What?”“Not near enough to make your conscience uneasy, but just enough to make him soft and workable. Sick men are the ones to make their wills, I can tell you. A hale, hearty man is as obstinate as a bull.”“Look here, Hampton, if you expect me to degrade my noble profession by aiding and abetting in any dishonourable act, you are confoundedly mistaken, sir, and I wish you a very good morning.”The doctor seized his hat and stick, put on the former with a bang which threatened injury to the skin of his forehead, and was going out of the room when he received a slap on the back, and faced round fiercely, to find the lawyer smiling as he held out his hand.“What a confounded old pepper-box you are, Lawrence! Hang it, man! who wants to do anything dishonourable? Do you think I do? Now, after knowing me all these years, do you think it likely?”“No,” cried the doctor, slapping his hand loudly into that of his friend; “but you shouldn’t look so serious when you are cracking a joke.”“That’s the perfection of joking, my dear boy. Seriously, though, I shall try and force him into making heavy settlements upon that poor girl.”“By all means do; and I’d give something if we could break off the match.”“What do you say to forging a new will, forbidding the banns—eh?”The doctor looked into the dry and mirthful countenance before him, shook his head, and went to the door.“See you at dinner at The Mynns on Wednesday, I suppose?”“Oh, yes,” said the lawyer, “for certain. We live there now, and if it was not for poor little Gertrude, I should be very glad when emancipation day came.”
“Hullo! What do you want? Never sent for you.”
“No,” said Doctor Lawrence gruffly, “I came without,” and he seated himself in one of the old, worn, leather covered chairs in the lawyer’s private room at Lincoln’s Inn.
“But I’m right as a trivet, Lawrence, and if I was not, I should not consult you.”
“I know that. You never did.”
“Well, you never came to me about your legal affairs.”
“Of course I did not. If I had we should never have remained friends.”
“Humph! Then you think I should have ruined you.”
“Well, you think I should have poisoned you.”
“There! get out. What’s the matter, Lawrence?”
“I’ve come to consult you.”
“You have? Then hang it all, old chap, I’ll have jaundice or gout next week.”
“About The Mynns’ affairs.”
“Oh! Then I’ll keep quite well. What’s the matter now?”
“Sit down, Hampton, and let’s talk quietly, old fellow, as friends.”
The old lawyer sat down, took a penknife from a drawer, and throwing himself back in his chair, began to pare his nails.
“Well, what is it?” he said.
“I’m very uncomfortable about the state of affairs down yonder.”
“So am I, and I get no peace of my life.”
“How’s that?”
“The wife!”
“Oh! Shouldn’t have married.”
“Too late to alter that now.”
“But what do you mean?”
“Mean? Why, of course, situated as we were, the wife agreed to poor little Gertrude’s wishes, and stayed at The Mynns to play propriety till those two were married; and now I want to get home to my own fireside, but we seem regularly stuck, and the worst of it is, we are unwelcome visitors.”
“Yes, I saw that.”
“Then can you imagine a more unpleasant position for a well-to-do old chap like myself; staying at a house where your host always shows you that you are not wanted?”
“No. It is hard; and for unselfish reasons.”
“I wouldn’t stop another hour with the rowdy Yankee scoundrel, only Mrs Hampton says I must.”
“For Gertrude’s sake, of course.”
“Oh, hang your of ‘course,’” cried the lawyer angrily.
“Call yourself a friend! Why don’t you advise me to go?”
“Can’t,” said the doctor, putting his hat upon the top of his cane, and spinning it slowly round.
“Don’t do that, man. It fidgets me.”
The doctor took his hat off the cane meekly, and set it on the table, after which he laid his cane across his knees, and began to roll it slowly to and fro, as if he were making paste.
“I say, Lawrence,” cried the old lawyer querulously, “don’t do that. You give me the creeps.”
The doctor meekly laid his stick beside his hat, and put his hands in his pockets.
“Look here,” he said, “what about that poor girl?”
“Well, what about her?”
“Are we to standstill and see her throw herself away upon this wretched man?”
“Can you show me a way out of the difficulty? If so, for goodness’ sake speak out.”
“Your wife! Cannot she influence her?”
“No. She has done everything. The poor girl looks upon it as a duty to the old man, and to his grandson; and she has made up her mind.”
“Tut—tut—tut—tut—tut!”
“She believes that she can bring the fellow round to a better way of life.”
“I don’t, Hampton.”
“No more do I.”
“Think she loves him?”
“No. Not a bit. She doesn’t dislike him though, for he can make himself agreeable when he chooses.”
“Then she will marry him?”
“Not a doubt about it, doctor.”
There was a pause, broken by the lawyer doubling his fist and striking the table so heavy a blow that there was a cloud of pungent dust directly after in the doctor’s nostrils, and he sneezed violently again and again.
“Oh, you old fool!” cried the lawyer.
“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, blowing his nose upon a great yellow silk handkerchief. “It was your dust.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean for not letting the brute die when you had him in your hands. It would have been a blessing for everybody.”
“Saul Harrington included, eh? I wonder what he would have given me to have let him die.”
“Five thousand at least!”
“Don’t talk nonsense, man. Let’s see if we cannot do something.”
“We can do nothing, sir. The wedding-day is fixed, and the poor little girl is going to swear she will love, honour, and obey a scoundrel, who will break her pretty little heart while she sees him squander away that magnificent estate.”
“It’s very, very terrible,” said Doctor Lawrence thoughtfully; “and I came here this morning in the hope that as co-executors we might do something to save the girl, even if we cannot save the estate.”
“There’ll be nothing to save in half-a-dozen years, if he goes on as he’s going now. In the past three months there are ten thousand pounds gone spang!”
“Spent?”
“Heaven knows! Gambled away, I suppose. I have to keep on selling stock, regardless of losses, and I do the best I can for him. If the applications were made to some shady firm, they’d plunder him wholesale.”
“It’s very sad,” said the doctor, meekly.
“Sad, sir! It’s criminal. I don’t know what he does with it all, but, between ourselves, Lawrence, I’ve a shrewd suspicion that he is remitting a good deal to the States.”
“What for?”
“How should I know, sir? To pay old debts, perhaps. Ah, it’s a sorry business.”
“But surely we can do something.”
“Bah!”
“Now, don’t be angry, Hampton. If it was a leg or a wing diseased, I should know what to do, but in these legal matters I am a perfect child.”
“You are, Lawrence, you are.”
“Well,” said the doctor tartly, “knowing that, I came to you, as a legal light, to give me your opinion. Do you mean to tell me that we, as old Harrington’s executors, cannot interfere to stop this man from wasting his substance and wrecking the life of that poor girl?”
“Yes, sir, I do, plump and plain. Our duties were limited to seeing that, after all bequests were paid, this gentlemanly young fellow from the Far West had all the money his old lunatic of a grandfather left him.”
“But—”
“There, butt away till you break your skull, if you like, against the stone wall of the law. I, as a lawyer, can do nothing, but perhaps you can—as a doctor.”
“In heaven’s name, then, tell me what, for I feel heartbroken to see the way things are going.”
“Kill him.”
“What?”
“I mean as you nearly did before, and blamed the chemist.”
“My dear Hampton, surely you acquit me of that business.”
“Oh, yes, if you like, but if I were you I’d get him into such an awful state of health that he should not want to spend money, and, as to wedding, that’s the last thing he should think of.”
“Absurd! absurd!” cried Doctor Lawrence angrily. “You non-professional men get the maddest notions into your heads.”
“Very well, then, try that.”
“Try what?”
“That which you were hinting about—madness.”
“What?”
“Can’t you contrive to make it appear that the man isnon compos mentis. Then we lawyers could come in and get some one appointed to administer the estate—I mean a judge would do that.”
“My dear Hampton, I came to you for good advice, and you talk trash to me.”
“I’ve told you—trash or not—the only way of getting out of the difficulty, and I can do no more,” said the lawyer pettishly. “There, Lawrence, old fellow, we will not quarrel over this unfortunate affair. We can do nothing but look on and advise. George Harrington will tell us to go to Jericho if we say a word; and as to the lady, when a good, pure-minded young girl takes it into her head that it is her duty to do something or another, the more you preach at her, and try to get her to think as you do, the more she looks upon you as a worldly-minded old sinner, and persists in going her own gait. I can only see one thing to do.”
“Yes? What is it?” cried the doctor.
“Ram a lot of legal jargon into the scoundrel, and frighten him into making ample settlements on the poor girl, tying it down so that he can’t touch it, nor she neither, except as payments fall due. Then she’ll be safe when he dies ofdelirium tremens, or gets killed in some drunken brawl.”
“You think you can manage that, Hampton?” cried the doctor eagerly.
“Yes, I fancy I can contrive that, but if he proves to be obstinate, you must help me.”
“In any way I can.”
“That’s right. Well, then, you’ll have to bring him nearly to death’s door.”
“What?”
“Not near enough to make your conscience uneasy, but just enough to make him soft and workable. Sick men are the ones to make their wills, I can tell you. A hale, hearty man is as obstinate as a bull.”
“Look here, Hampton, if you expect me to degrade my noble profession by aiding and abetting in any dishonourable act, you are confoundedly mistaken, sir, and I wish you a very good morning.”
The doctor seized his hat and stick, put on the former with a bang which threatened injury to the skin of his forehead, and was going out of the room when he received a slap on the back, and faced round fiercely, to find the lawyer smiling as he held out his hand.
“What a confounded old pepper-box you are, Lawrence! Hang it, man! who wants to do anything dishonourable? Do you think I do? Now, after knowing me all these years, do you think it likely?”
“No,” cried the doctor, slapping his hand loudly into that of his friend; “but you shouldn’t look so serious when you are cracking a joke.”
“That’s the perfection of joking, my dear boy. Seriously, though, I shall try and force him into making heavy settlements upon that poor girl.”
“By all means do; and I’d give something if we could break off the match.”
“What do you say to forging a new will, forbidding the banns—eh?”
The doctor looked into the dry and mirthful countenance before him, shook his head, and went to the door.
“See you at dinner at The Mynns on Wednesday, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” said the lawyer, “for certain. We live there now, and if it was not for poor little Gertrude, I should be very glad when emancipation day came.”
Chapter Eighteen.Saul’s Invitation.Mr Hampton was quite right; Gertrude had nerved herself to the sacrifice, and looked forward to the wedding-day, although with apprehension, still with something akin to eagerness.“But you don’t love him, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, “and is it right for you to go to the altar like that?”Gertrude was silent and thoughtful for some minutes before she raised her large clear eyes, and gazed full in the old lady’s face.“Yes,” she said, “I think it is right. I shall have influence over him which will grow, and I shall then have the right to speak with authority—as his wife.”Mrs Hampton sighed and shook her head.“You have no faith,” said Gertrude, smiling, “I have. The real nature of which my dear guardian spoke is only hidden away, crusted over by the rough life George has led. Once we are married, he will think of his duties toward me, and he will change back to what he was.”“Well, I hope so, my dear, for your sake, and you must forgive me because I am not so sanguine as I was at your age. I tell you what I would do first, though, if I were you.”“Yes?”“Get rid of Saul Harrington.”“Yes, I should be glad to do that, and I shall try it,” said Gertrude, with a dreamy look in her eyes which changed to one of dislike and dread as a step was heard outside upon the gravel walk, and the two women looked at each other curiously.“Talk of some one—” said Mrs Hampton at last.At that moment the door was opened, and Saul Harrington ushered in.“Ah, ladies,” he said cheerily, “both indoors upon a day like this. Well, I’m glad to find you at home. Come to say good-bye.”“Good-bye?” said Gertrude.“Yes. I am going to the Continent for a month, and I have come down to try and persuade George to go with me. Do him no end of good. Where is he?”“I think he is in the study,” said Gertrude.“What do you say to my scheme? Can you spare him for a fortnight?”“Spare who for a fortnight?” said the object of their debate, entering.“You, old fellow. I’m going to Paris, and then on to Switzerland, and back by the Rhine and Amsterdam. Come with me.”“What, and do all the paying?”Saul flushed up, snatched his pocket-book from his breast and tore it open.“Well, I shan’t ask you to pay for my circular ticket anyhow,” he said, taking out a tiny book; “and here are my hotel coupons. Hang it all! how fond you men with coin are of insulting those without.”“Well, we’re cousins,” said the other, with a sneering laugh. “All right, little one; I’ll apologise before he goes,” he continued, as Gertrude looked at him appealingly; and Saul winced as if it was painful to him to have Gertrude interfere on his behalf.“Then you will not come?” said Saul, leaning forward to show Gertrude the tickets.“No, thanks; I’m going to spend my last bachelor fortnight here.”“Just as you like. Better have spent it with me. I’m sure Gertie does not want you with all her dresses to see to—what do you call it, Mrs Hampton—atrousseau?”“I believe so, Mr Saul,” said the old lady dryly; “but when I was married, I had to do without.”“You will not come, then,” said Saul, at last, rising.“No, thanks; but you’ll stop to dinner.”“No; too many little preparations to make; letters to write, and that sort of thing. If I stay, will you alter your mind?”“No, no. In me behold a converted reprobate. I’m in training for a married man.”“Oh, very well, then; I must be off. I’ll write to you from Paris and let you know how I’m getting on, and where I stay in case you would like to join me.”“No fear.”“You may alter your mind, my lad. Good-bye, Gertie. Be an obedient girl. Good-bye, Mrs Hampton. Hang it all, George! you might ask a fellow to have a drink.”“Oh, of course. Beg pardon. I’m such a teetotaller now, that I forget other people’s wants. Eh, Gertie?”“I am sure you have been much better lately.”“Oh, certainly! I shall not dispute it. Come along, Saul; you are case-hardened.”He led the way to the study, and opened the closet where he kept spirit-stand and a syphon. These and glasses he placed upon the table, while Saul watched him keenly.“There, poison yourself, my lad,” he said laughingly.“Oh, thanks! Pleasant way of poisoning oneself though. You’ll have a drop?”“I? No. I’ll stick to my faith now, for Gertie’s sake.”“Just as you like,” said Saul, pouring out a portion of whiskey, and holding the glass beneath the syphon tap, to press the handle and send a bubbling stream of mineral water into the spirit.“Your health, old fellow!” cried Saul.“Thanks.”Then there was a long draught, and, as he drank, Saul stood with his right hand in his pocket.“Splendid drink. Hah! Feel all the better for it. I say, you might give me a cigar.”“To be sure.”Saul watched his host as he turned toward the cabinet, and quick as thought his hand was drawn from his pocket, and what seemed to be a tiny white lozenge was dropped into the whiskey decanter.“Ah, that looks a good weed,” said Saul, taking the cigar offered to him.“Have any more whiskey?”“Thanks, no,” said Saul; and he proceeded to cut off the end of the cigar, while his companion took up and replaced the decanter stopper.“Smell gets into my nose,” he said. “Tempts one.”Saul laughed, lit his cigar, shook hands very warmly, as he raised his eyes from the decanter, after seeing that the lozenge had melted. Then looking his companion full in the eyes, he bade him “good-bye” and was gone.The party at dinner that night was quiet and pleasant, for the host was in his best form. Doctor Lawrence came down and exchanged glances with Hampton consequent upon the alteration they perceived; and when at last the ladies left the table there was very little drinking, the host turning from the table as if in disgust.“A good sign, Hampton,” Doctor Lawrence whispered, as he took his leave about ten. “Patience, and all may be right yet.”“Doubt it,” muttered the lawyer, as he returned to the drawing-room, to stand chattering till the ladies said “good-night” to him, and Gertrude crossed to where her betrothed stood with his back to the fireplace.“Going?” he said. “Good-night, little woman—good-night.”He bent down smiling and kissed her, and this time she did not dash upstairs to her bedroom to bathe her cheek, but walked up slowly and thoughtfully, oppressed as it were by a strange sadness which made her look hurriedly round as if in search of some trouble or danger hovering near, and in place of sobbing wildly with horror and disgust, she sank upon her knees at her bedside to pray that strength might be given her to carry out her desires, and in that attitude she unwittingly dropped asleep.
Mr Hampton was quite right; Gertrude had nerved herself to the sacrifice, and looked forward to the wedding-day, although with apprehension, still with something akin to eagerness.
“But you don’t love him, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, “and is it right for you to go to the altar like that?”
Gertrude was silent and thoughtful for some minutes before she raised her large clear eyes, and gazed full in the old lady’s face.
“Yes,” she said, “I think it is right. I shall have influence over him which will grow, and I shall then have the right to speak with authority—as his wife.”
Mrs Hampton sighed and shook her head.
“You have no faith,” said Gertrude, smiling, “I have. The real nature of which my dear guardian spoke is only hidden away, crusted over by the rough life George has led. Once we are married, he will think of his duties toward me, and he will change back to what he was.”
“Well, I hope so, my dear, for your sake, and you must forgive me because I am not so sanguine as I was at your age. I tell you what I would do first, though, if I were you.”
“Yes?”
“Get rid of Saul Harrington.”
“Yes, I should be glad to do that, and I shall try it,” said Gertrude, with a dreamy look in her eyes which changed to one of dislike and dread as a step was heard outside upon the gravel walk, and the two women looked at each other curiously.
“Talk of some one—” said Mrs Hampton at last.
At that moment the door was opened, and Saul Harrington ushered in.
“Ah, ladies,” he said cheerily, “both indoors upon a day like this. Well, I’m glad to find you at home. Come to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” said Gertrude.
“Yes. I am going to the Continent for a month, and I have come down to try and persuade George to go with me. Do him no end of good. Where is he?”
“I think he is in the study,” said Gertrude.
“What do you say to my scheme? Can you spare him for a fortnight?”
“Spare who for a fortnight?” said the object of their debate, entering.
“You, old fellow. I’m going to Paris, and then on to Switzerland, and back by the Rhine and Amsterdam. Come with me.”
“What, and do all the paying?”
Saul flushed up, snatched his pocket-book from his breast and tore it open.
“Well, I shan’t ask you to pay for my circular ticket anyhow,” he said, taking out a tiny book; “and here are my hotel coupons. Hang it all! how fond you men with coin are of insulting those without.”
“Well, we’re cousins,” said the other, with a sneering laugh. “All right, little one; I’ll apologise before he goes,” he continued, as Gertrude looked at him appealingly; and Saul winced as if it was painful to him to have Gertrude interfere on his behalf.
“Then you will not come?” said Saul, leaning forward to show Gertrude the tickets.
“No, thanks; I’m going to spend my last bachelor fortnight here.”
“Just as you like. Better have spent it with me. I’m sure Gertie does not want you with all her dresses to see to—what do you call it, Mrs Hampton—atrousseau?”
“I believe so, Mr Saul,” said the old lady dryly; “but when I was married, I had to do without.”
“You will not come, then,” said Saul, at last, rising.
“No, thanks; but you’ll stop to dinner.”
“No; too many little preparations to make; letters to write, and that sort of thing. If I stay, will you alter your mind?”
“No, no. In me behold a converted reprobate. I’m in training for a married man.”
“Oh, very well, then; I must be off. I’ll write to you from Paris and let you know how I’m getting on, and where I stay in case you would like to join me.”
“No fear.”
“You may alter your mind, my lad. Good-bye, Gertie. Be an obedient girl. Good-bye, Mrs Hampton. Hang it all, George! you might ask a fellow to have a drink.”
“Oh, of course. Beg pardon. I’m such a teetotaller now, that I forget other people’s wants. Eh, Gertie?”
“I am sure you have been much better lately.”
“Oh, certainly! I shall not dispute it. Come along, Saul; you are case-hardened.”
He led the way to the study, and opened the closet where he kept spirit-stand and a syphon. These and glasses he placed upon the table, while Saul watched him keenly.
“There, poison yourself, my lad,” he said laughingly.
“Oh, thanks! Pleasant way of poisoning oneself though. You’ll have a drop?”
“I? No. I’ll stick to my faith now, for Gertie’s sake.”
“Just as you like,” said Saul, pouring out a portion of whiskey, and holding the glass beneath the syphon tap, to press the handle and send a bubbling stream of mineral water into the spirit.
“Your health, old fellow!” cried Saul.
“Thanks.”
Then there was a long draught, and, as he drank, Saul stood with his right hand in his pocket.
“Splendid drink. Hah! Feel all the better for it. I say, you might give me a cigar.”
“To be sure.”
Saul watched his host as he turned toward the cabinet, and quick as thought his hand was drawn from his pocket, and what seemed to be a tiny white lozenge was dropped into the whiskey decanter.
“Ah, that looks a good weed,” said Saul, taking the cigar offered to him.
“Have any more whiskey?”
“Thanks, no,” said Saul; and he proceeded to cut off the end of the cigar, while his companion took up and replaced the decanter stopper.
“Smell gets into my nose,” he said. “Tempts one.”
Saul laughed, lit his cigar, shook hands very warmly, as he raised his eyes from the decanter, after seeing that the lozenge had melted. Then looking his companion full in the eyes, he bade him “good-bye” and was gone.
The party at dinner that night was quiet and pleasant, for the host was in his best form. Doctor Lawrence came down and exchanged glances with Hampton consequent upon the alteration they perceived; and when at last the ladies left the table there was very little drinking, the host turning from the table as if in disgust.
“A good sign, Hampton,” Doctor Lawrence whispered, as he took his leave about ten. “Patience, and all may be right yet.”
“Doubt it,” muttered the lawyer, as he returned to the drawing-room, to stand chattering till the ladies said “good-night” to him, and Gertrude crossed to where her betrothed stood with his back to the fireplace.
“Going?” he said. “Good-night, little woman—good-night.”
He bent down smiling and kissed her, and this time she did not dash upstairs to her bedroom to bathe her cheek, but walked up slowly and thoughtfully, oppressed as it were by a strange sadness which made her look hurriedly round as if in search of some trouble or danger hovering near, and in place of sobbing wildly with horror and disgust, she sank upon her knees at her bedside to pray that strength might be given her to carry out her desires, and in that attitude she unwittingly dropped asleep.
Chapter Nineteen.A Business Interview.As the ladies left, the old lawyer glanced at his companion, and then drew his watch from his pocket and began to wind it up.“Example is better than precept,” said his companion, drawing the handsome gold presentation-watch from his pocket, and winding it in turn.“Don’t you ever feel afraid of being robbed of that watch, Mr Harrington?” said the old lawyer. “It must have cost a hundred.”“The sum exactly with the nugget chain,” said the young man sharply. “No, I never feel afraid of being robbed. I could afford it, though, if I were.”“Yes, yes; of course—of course.”“Come into the study. I want a chat with you.”“About more money,” muttered the lawyer, as he followed the young man down the passage to the library-like room opening upon the garden.Here the first thing the host did was to open the window, look out for a few moments at the soft dark night, and then draw to and fasten the outer shutters, after which he closed the window.“You know what I want, of course,” he said shortly.“Yes, sir; I presume it is money.”“Well, it’s my money, isn’t it?”“Yes, yes; of course; but if you would allow me—”“I don’t allow you,” was the sharp reply. “I want three thousand pounds within a week. You understand—within a week.”“Consols are very low just now, Mr Harrington; would it not be advisable to wait till they go up?”“No, sir, it would not. You understand; I want that money within a week, and the day I am married, fifteen days from this, I shall require another thousand.”“Certainly, Mr Harrington,” said the old lawyer. “You have nothing more to say to me to-night?”“No, sir, nothing. That’s an end to business. Now we can be sociable and friendly. Will you have a little whiskey and a cigar?”“No, sir, thanks. I had a busy day in town and shall be glad to get to bed. Good-night.”“Good-night, Mr Hampton, and I suppose you will not be sorry when our relations are always of a business character.”“For some reasons, no, Mr George Harrington—for some reasons, yes,” said the old lawyer. “Good-night.”He left the study and began to ascend the stairs, but for some reason went down again and entered the dining-room, and in the dim light given by the turned-down lamp, the portrait of his own client seemed to be gazing down at him searchingly.With a half shiver he went back, and again began to ascend, to feel the cool night air blowing in upon him from the open staircase window.This he closed, but did not fasten, the clasp being too high, and the window far above the ground.“I shall be glad when I am back home,” he muttered. “What can he do with all this money? I should like to know. Who’s that?”He started and exclaimed aloud, for he had heard a rustling sound.“Only me, sir. I was coming down to close that window.”“You startled me, Denton, going about like a ghost. Good-night.”“Good-night, sir.”Then first one door closed, then another, and one door opened, that of the study, from which the occupant’s face appeared for a few moments with an intent listening air upon the stern features.Then the door was closed again, the cabinet opened, and the cash-box taken from one of the drawers, over which the young man sat for quite half an hour, counting notes and calculating, before replacing the contents.“I don’t like to leave it here,” he said thoughtfully. “It has been safe so far, but thieves might break through and steal, and that would be awkward. Let’s think it out over a cigar.”He took the spirit-stand from the closet again, poured out a goodly portion of whiskey into a Venice glass, and after mildly lowering its strength with water, took a deep draught before lighting a choice cigar, whose pleasant perfume soon pervaded the room.“Notes, notes. Gold so much better, but awkward to carry,” he muttered, and then burst into an unpleasant laugh.“Shall I—shan’t I? Ten thousand safe, better than a hundred thousand doubtful, and who knows what Master Saul might do.”A strange silence fell upon the place—a silence which seemed painful, for as a rule the low hollow rumble of market-wagons echoed from the high brick wall of The Mynns the night through.That silence was broken by the smoker’s voice, as he said in a low, angry whisper:“Saul Harrington is a coward and a cur. He dares nothing—nothing. A snarling dog who fears to bite. Why, if I had been in his place—“Well, never mind,” he said after a pause. “But about this money—a bird in the hand is worth too in the bush, even if one is Gertrude—a pretty little innocent. Yes, that will be the best plan after all.”He rose hastily, took a Bradshaw from the shelf, and rapidly turned over the leaves; but as he did so the lamp went out.
As the ladies left, the old lawyer glanced at his companion, and then drew his watch from his pocket and began to wind it up.
“Example is better than precept,” said his companion, drawing the handsome gold presentation-watch from his pocket, and winding it in turn.
“Don’t you ever feel afraid of being robbed of that watch, Mr Harrington?” said the old lawyer. “It must have cost a hundred.”
“The sum exactly with the nugget chain,” said the young man sharply. “No, I never feel afraid of being robbed. I could afford it, though, if I were.”
“Yes, yes; of course—of course.”
“Come into the study. I want a chat with you.”
“About more money,” muttered the lawyer, as he followed the young man down the passage to the library-like room opening upon the garden.
Here the first thing the host did was to open the window, look out for a few moments at the soft dark night, and then draw to and fasten the outer shutters, after which he closed the window.
“You know what I want, of course,” he said shortly.
“Yes, sir; I presume it is money.”
“Well, it’s my money, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes; of course; but if you would allow me—”
“I don’t allow you,” was the sharp reply. “I want three thousand pounds within a week. You understand—within a week.”
“Consols are very low just now, Mr Harrington; would it not be advisable to wait till they go up?”
“No, sir, it would not. You understand; I want that money within a week, and the day I am married, fifteen days from this, I shall require another thousand.”
“Certainly, Mr Harrington,” said the old lawyer. “You have nothing more to say to me to-night?”
“No, sir, nothing. That’s an end to business. Now we can be sociable and friendly. Will you have a little whiskey and a cigar?”
“No, sir, thanks. I had a busy day in town and shall be glad to get to bed. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Mr Hampton, and I suppose you will not be sorry when our relations are always of a business character.”
“For some reasons, no, Mr George Harrington—for some reasons, yes,” said the old lawyer. “Good-night.”
He left the study and began to ascend the stairs, but for some reason went down again and entered the dining-room, and in the dim light given by the turned-down lamp, the portrait of his own client seemed to be gazing down at him searchingly.
With a half shiver he went back, and again began to ascend, to feel the cool night air blowing in upon him from the open staircase window.
This he closed, but did not fasten, the clasp being too high, and the window far above the ground.
“I shall be glad when I am back home,” he muttered. “What can he do with all this money? I should like to know. Who’s that?”
He started and exclaimed aloud, for he had heard a rustling sound.
“Only me, sir. I was coming down to close that window.”
“You startled me, Denton, going about like a ghost. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir.”
Then first one door closed, then another, and one door opened, that of the study, from which the occupant’s face appeared for a few moments with an intent listening air upon the stern features.
Then the door was closed again, the cabinet opened, and the cash-box taken from one of the drawers, over which the young man sat for quite half an hour, counting notes and calculating, before replacing the contents.
“I don’t like to leave it here,” he said thoughtfully. “It has been safe so far, but thieves might break through and steal, and that would be awkward. Let’s think it out over a cigar.”
He took the spirit-stand from the closet again, poured out a goodly portion of whiskey into a Venice glass, and after mildly lowering its strength with water, took a deep draught before lighting a choice cigar, whose pleasant perfume soon pervaded the room.
“Notes, notes. Gold so much better, but awkward to carry,” he muttered, and then burst into an unpleasant laugh.
“Shall I—shan’t I? Ten thousand safe, better than a hundred thousand doubtful, and who knows what Master Saul might do.”
A strange silence fell upon the place—a silence which seemed painful, for as a rule the low hollow rumble of market-wagons echoed from the high brick wall of The Mynns the night through.
That silence was broken by the smoker’s voice, as he said in a low, angry whisper:
“Saul Harrington is a coward and a cur. He dares nothing—nothing. A snarling dog who fears to bite. Why, if I had been in his place—
“Well, never mind,” he said after a pause. “But about this money—a bird in the hand is worth too in the bush, even if one is Gertrude—a pretty little innocent. Yes, that will be the best plan after all.”
He rose hastily, took a Bradshaw from the shelf, and rapidly turned over the leaves; but as he did so the lamp went out.
Chapter Twenty.The Master is Late.“Hadn’t we better begin breakfast. Mr Hampton?” said Gertrude.“Oh, don’t hurry, my dear. Mr Hampton is not going to town by the early train. What a lovely morning! Perhaps he has gone for a walk.” The ladies walked to the window and Mr Hampton turned his newspaper and coughed loudly, as he glanced at the breakfast-table, afterwards making a wry face as he felt sundry twinges suggestive of Nature’s demands for food.A quarter of an hour slipped by, and then the old housekeeper, who kept to the same simple old fashion adopted by her late master, whose household had consisted of Denton, a housemaid, cook, and gardener, entered the dining-room.“Shall I bring up the ham, Miss Gertrude?”“Perhaps you had better go and knock at Mr Harrington’s door. He may have dropped asleep again.”The old woman went out, and at the end of five minutes she came back, looking pale and scared.“I—I can’t make him hear, miss,” she said. “Do you think he is ill?”“Gone for a walk,” said the old lawyer sharply.“I—I don’t think he has gone out, sir,” faltered the old lady. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going up to his room.”“And be told to mind my own business—eh? Thanks; no.”He gave the newspaper a vicious shake, and a blow in the middle to double it up for a fresh reading.“Shall I go up, Gertrude, my dear?” said Mrs Hampton.“If you would not mind. He may, perhaps, be a little unwell.”“To be sure, my dear. I’ll go.”The lawyer’s wife left the room, and without a moment’s hesitation walked along the passage to the study, entered and looked round.“Yes,” she said to herself, as she took up the whiskey decanter, and held it at arm’s length. “How temperate and self-denying we are. Essence of sick headache, and he has drunk every drop.”To give colour to Mrs Hampton’s theory, besides the empty condition of the decanter, a peculiar odour of spirits filled the room, causing the old lady’s nostrils to dilate, and the corners of her lips to go down as she hurried out.“And they hardly ever will open a window,” she muttered, as she stood in the hall, hesitating. “But I said I would go up,” she continued, and ascending quickly she paused before the door of the bedroom she sought.“Mr Harrington!” she cried, as she gave a few sharp raps with her bony knuckles.No answer.“Mr Harrington!”The taps were louder, but there was no reply.“I thought as much,” she muttered. “Broken out again, and in a regular drunkard’s sleep. No; it’s an insult to sober people’s rest to call it sleep—stupor. Oh, my poor girl, my poor girl! If I could only save you from being this dreadful man’s wife.”“Mr Harrington!” she cried again, after a pause; but all was still. Then the taps she had previously given upon the door became heavy thumps. “Mr Harrington, are you coming down to breakfast?”“Is anything the matter, ma’am?” said the old housekeeper coming slowly up the stairs.“Yes, Mrs Denton; no, Mrs Denton; yes, Mrs Denton. I mean nothing serious, but it’s very dreadful.”The old housekeeper shook her head; and the tears stood in her eyes as she walked to the end of the wide passage, and descended to the embayed window looking upon the garden, where she used her apron to flick off some white powdery dust from the sill.“Yes, ma’am,” she said, “it is very dreadful. I know what you mean. Poor dear master liked his two or three glasses of port after his dinner, but that was all. Unless any one was ill you never saw a drop of spirits about the place, while now it’s brandy and whiskey, and soda and seltzer, as is a pair of shams, not to make the spirits weaker, but to coax people on to drink more.”“You think the same as I do then, Denton?” whispered Mrs Hampton.“It don’t take any thinking, ma’am. Look at his nose and his cheeks. People don’t have those public-house signs on their fronts without going very often into the cellar. Oh, my dear ma’am; you’re a woman—I mean a lady.”“Only a woman like yourself, Denton.”“Then don’t—pray don’t stand by with your hands crossed and see that poor darling child sold into such a bondage as this.”“What do you mean, Denton?”“Well, there, ma’am, if you’re offended, you must be, but I shall speak the honest truth.”“Go on, Denton.”“I mean letting poor Miss Gertrude be married to such a man as Master George.”“What am I to do, Denton?”“I don’t know, ma’am. I’ve been down upon my bended knees to her, but she turns away. She don’t like him—that’s the wonder of it—and yet she will have him.”“Yes, Denton; that’s the wonder of it. She’s little and weak, and yet she’s stronger than all of us put together with poor old Mr Harrington’s wishes at her back.”“But you, ma’am—she believes in and likes you. Many a time she’s come to me, years ago, and told me how you’ve scolded and found fault with her about her manners, and when I’ve said you were very cantankerous—”“Oh, you said that of me, did you, Denton?”“Yes, ma’am, to speak the truth, I have said so; but she always spoke up for you, and said you talked to her like a mother.”“Yes, Denton; I tried to.”“Then,” cried the old woman fiercely, “why don’t you talk to her like a mother now, and save the poor child from such a terrible fate.”“You think it will be a terrible fate, Denton?”“Do you believe in young men who can’t keep from the drink now, and who make the poor old house smell of whiskey from top to bottom, mending because they’ve got pretty young wives?”“I want to be charitable, Denton.”“Then prove it, ma’am, by saving my poor dear young lady from being the wife of a sot.”“Is anything the matter, Mrs Hampton?” said Gertrude.“No, my dear, only that wicked, idle man is so fast asleep that we cannot wake him.”“Never mind,” said the old lawyer, who had followed Gertrude out into the hall. “Better let him have his sleep out. Come, my dear, and have pity on me.”“Yes, Mr Hampton, we will not wait any longer. Denton, pray see that some fresh breakfast is ready on a tray, to bring up directly your master comes down.”“Yes, miss, I will,” said the old woman; and then in an undertone to Mrs Hampton, as the old lawyer said something to Gertrude: “Do, do, pray, ma’am, try and stop it. I’d sooner help to lay the poor dear out for her last sleep than help to dress her to go to church with Master George.”Mrs Hampton went down the flight of stairs to the breakfast-table, looking exceedingly comic.Hers was a peculiar face at the best of times; and now it was at its worst, for her spirit was greatly troubled on Gertrude’s behalf, and she was trying to smile and look cheerful.Her husband saw it and made matters worse.“Gertrude, my dear,” he said in a whisper his wife could hear, “for goodness’ sake give her a cup of tea; she’s bubbling over with acidity.”“No, I am not, Hampton, and don’t be absurd.”“Certainly not, my dear. Excuse me, Miss Gertie, may I begin?”He was already placing a slice of ham upon his plate with a delicately cooked egg reposing in its midst, but he recollected himself and passed it across to his wife.“Thanks, no,” she said with quite a hoarse croak. “Dry toast.”Gertrude was of the same way of thinking. Only the lawyer made a hearty breakfast hastily, and then started for town.“No, no, don’t you ladies move,” he said. “Finish your breakfasts. Apologise to George Harrington for me. Back in good time.”He did not realise that the other occupants of the breakfast-table had been forcing themselves to swallow a few morsels, so as to keep up appearances; and as the door closed their eyes met, and Gertrude could contain herself no longer, but burst into a passion of tears.“Hush, hush, my darling?” whispered Mrs Hampton, taking her to her breast. “Don’t take on about it. There, there, there; I want to play a mother’s part to you, and I’m only a clumsy imitation; but, indeed, Gertie, I want to advise you for the best.”“Yes, I know you do,” whispered the poor girl, as she struggled hard to be composed. “But tell me you don’t think there is any reason for George being so late.”For answer Mrs Hampton kissed her on the brow.“You do not speak. It is cruel of you to be silent.”“Do you wish me to speak out?”“Yes, even if I do not agree with you,” cried Gertrude, flushing up as if ready to defend her betrothed.“Then, my dear, I do.”“Tell me—what?”“I am George Harrington’s guest, Gertrude; then I am the trusty friend of the girl I have known and loved ever since she was a child.”“Yes, yes, indeed you are; I know that; only you are so bitter against George.”“Gertie, my dear,” said the old lady, leading her to the couch and sitting down with old Harrington’s face seeming to smile down upon them, “if I feel bitter against George Harrington it is from love for you.”“Yes, yes; but try not to be unjust. Think of the life he has been forced to lead.”“I can think only of my little girl’s life that she will have to lead.”“Why do you speak like this?” panted Gertrude, who looked like some frightened bird, ready to struggle to escape.“I may be hard and unjust, my child, but I judge by what I see.”“See! What have you seen this morning?”“I have been in the study. It smells as a room does where men have passed the night drinking.”“But after the change—after the promises.”“The whiskey decanter was empty. I know it was full yesterday morning, for I saw Mrs Denton carry it in.”“Ah!” sighed Gertrude.“And this morning the man you have promised to marry is lying in a drunken sleep.”“You do not know that,” cried Gertrude excitedly.“I know enough to make me say once more—Gertrude, I am a childless old woman, and I love you as Mr Hampton loves you in his peculiar way, which is a good deal like mine—rough and clumsy, but very honest and true.”“Dearest Mrs Hampton!” cried Gertrude, throwing her arms about the old lady’s neck; “as if I did not know how good, and kind, and loving you have always been.”“Then listen to me once more, my darling, before it is too late. I do not look like the sort of woman who can talk about love, but I can, and I know what love is.”“Yes, yes, of course,” faltered Gertrude.“And I know that you do not love George Harrington.”A pause.“And George Harrington does not love you.”“He told me he did—very dearly, Mrs Hampton, and if—if—I do not love him as I ought to do, I shall try so very, very hard to make him a true and loving wife.”“Trying is no use, my dear. Love comes and goes of itself. You may make yourself friends with any one, but you cannot make yourself love.”“Not when he loves me?” cried Gertrude.“So much, my child, that only a short time before he is married to you, he goes and plays the swine.”“Mrs Hampton!” cried Gertrude indignantly.“Very well, then, my dear, I will not speak like that. It is too blunt and strong. He goes then—after promising everybody, and in disobedience to Doctor Lawrence’s orders, and quite soon after a dangerous attack ofdelirium tremens, brought on by drink—and takes that which has compelled him to keep his bed this morning.”“But he may be ill, Mrs Hampton.”“He is ill, my dear, and with an illness which brings on a craving he cannot control.”“Oh?” sighed Gertrude, covering her face with her hands.“He madly goes and makes himself the slave of a terrible master, who will ruin health, and pocket—destroy him utterly.”“You are too severe, Mrs Hampton,” faltered Gertrude.“Not a bit, my dear.”“He said he would not take more than Mr Hampton might, or you.”“That will not do, my dear,” said the old lady calmly. “My husband treats wine and spirits as his slaves, and makes them obey him. I do the same. George Harrington sets what the teetotallers call the great God Alcohol up on a pedestal, and grovels before it in his insane worship.”“But he is growing so much better, Mrs Hampton.”“No, my dear. He is only professing to do so. He is the slave and he will go lower and lower. I say then, even with the great wealth he has inherited, is this man the suitable partner of your future?”“I want to defend him,” sighed Gertrude to herself, “but she masters me—she masters me.”“Then listen to me, my dear, before it is too late. Do one of two things—come to us, where you shall be as our child, or, if you prefer it, set up a little simple home of your own, with poor old Denton, who would gladly accept this plan; you will not be well off, but you will be happy—yes, I say happy,” cried the old lady, looking up defiantly at the portrait, which had caught her eye, and seemed to be gazing searchingly at her. “Ah, you may look, but you are only canvas and paint; and if you were alive you would not throw this poor child into the arms of a drunken man.”“Mrs Hampton, what are you saying?” cried Gertrude, looking up and shivering, as she realised that the old lady was addressing the picture on the wall.“The plain, honest, simple truth, my dear. Come, come, be advised by me.”“No, no; it is impossible,” murmured Gertrude.“Not a bit of it, my child. Think of your future. He will not reform.”“He will—he will.”“He will not. He can’t. He hasn’t it in him. Gertie, my dear, you may fight for him, but he is a shifty bad man, and I don’t believe in him a bit.”“This is too cruel.”“It is kindness though it gives you pain, my dear. Some men might repent and alter, but I have studied George Harrington from the day he came to the house, and I cannot find the stuff in him to make a better man.”“I should make him a better man, Mrs Hampton,” said Gertrude proudly.“You would worry yourself into your grave, Gertrude, and if you marry him, I shall order my mourning at once, for you do not, and never will love him.”“Now you are laughing at me,” said Gertrude, brightening up, and taking the old lady’s withered hands in her soft, plump little palms. “It is impossible to follow out your proposal, and I shall marry George Harrington for my dear uncle’s sake.”“And be a wretched woman for life.”“No, Mrs Hampton; even at the worst, I shall have the happy consciousness of having done my duty; but there will be no worse. I shall win.”Mrs Hampton shook her head.“Yes,” repeated Gertrude; “I shall win, and bring him to the right way. He cannot refuse to listen to me. Surely a weak trusting woman has power over even the strongest man.”“In novels, and poems, and plays, my dear, more than in real life, I am afraid,” said Mrs Hampton, with a sigh of resignation; “but remember this, my dear, when in the future you recall all I have said—No, no, no, my darling; I can’t stoop to talk to you like that. Gertie, my child, I am very sorry, but I am going to help you carry out your noble resolve with all my heart.”“Mrs Hampton?” cried Gertrude joyously.“Yes, my dear; and if women can win, we’ll make a hero of George Harrington—good Heavens! what’s that?”The two women started from the sofa, and gazed in a startled way toward the hall.
“Hadn’t we better begin breakfast. Mr Hampton?” said Gertrude.
“Oh, don’t hurry, my dear. Mr Hampton is not going to town by the early train. What a lovely morning! Perhaps he has gone for a walk.” The ladies walked to the window and Mr Hampton turned his newspaper and coughed loudly, as he glanced at the breakfast-table, afterwards making a wry face as he felt sundry twinges suggestive of Nature’s demands for food.
A quarter of an hour slipped by, and then the old housekeeper, who kept to the same simple old fashion adopted by her late master, whose household had consisted of Denton, a housemaid, cook, and gardener, entered the dining-room.
“Shall I bring up the ham, Miss Gertrude?”
“Perhaps you had better go and knock at Mr Harrington’s door. He may have dropped asleep again.”
The old woman went out, and at the end of five minutes she came back, looking pale and scared.
“I—I can’t make him hear, miss,” she said. “Do you think he is ill?”
“Gone for a walk,” said the old lawyer sharply.
“I—I don’t think he has gone out, sir,” faltered the old lady. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going up to his room.”
“And be told to mind my own business—eh? Thanks; no.”
He gave the newspaper a vicious shake, and a blow in the middle to double it up for a fresh reading.
“Shall I go up, Gertrude, my dear?” said Mrs Hampton.
“If you would not mind. He may, perhaps, be a little unwell.”
“To be sure, my dear. I’ll go.”
The lawyer’s wife left the room, and without a moment’s hesitation walked along the passage to the study, entered and looked round.
“Yes,” she said to herself, as she took up the whiskey decanter, and held it at arm’s length. “How temperate and self-denying we are. Essence of sick headache, and he has drunk every drop.”
To give colour to Mrs Hampton’s theory, besides the empty condition of the decanter, a peculiar odour of spirits filled the room, causing the old lady’s nostrils to dilate, and the corners of her lips to go down as she hurried out.
“And they hardly ever will open a window,” she muttered, as she stood in the hall, hesitating. “But I said I would go up,” she continued, and ascending quickly she paused before the door of the bedroom she sought.
“Mr Harrington!” she cried, as she gave a few sharp raps with her bony knuckles.
No answer.
“Mr Harrington!”
The taps were louder, but there was no reply.
“I thought as much,” she muttered. “Broken out again, and in a regular drunkard’s sleep. No; it’s an insult to sober people’s rest to call it sleep—stupor. Oh, my poor girl, my poor girl! If I could only save you from being this dreadful man’s wife.”
“Mr Harrington!” she cried again, after a pause; but all was still. Then the taps she had previously given upon the door became heavy thumps. “Mr Harrington, are you coming down to breakfast?”
“Is anything the matter, ma’am?” said the old housekeeper coming slowly up the stairs.
“Yes, Mrs Denton; no, Mrs Denton; yes, Mrs Denton. I mean nothing serious, but it’s very dreadful.”
The old housekeeper shook her head; and the tears stood in her eyes as she walked to the end of the wide passage, and descended to the embayed window looking upon the garden, where she used her apron to flick off some white powdery dust from the sill.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, “it is very dreadful. I know what you mean. Poor dear master liked his two or three glasses of port after his dinner, but that was all. Unless any one was ill you never saw a drop of spirits about the place, while now it’s brandy and whiskey, and soda and seltzer, as is a pair of shams, not to make the spirits weaker, but to coax people on to drink more.”
“You think the same as I do then, Denton?” whispered Mrs Hampton.
“It don’t take any thinking, ma’am. Look at his nose and his cheeks. People don’t have those public-house signs on their fronts without going very often into the cellar. Oh, my dear ma’am; you’re a woman—I mean a lady.”
“Only a woman like yourself, Denton.”
“Then don’t—pray don’t stand by with your hands crossed and see that poor darling child sold into such a bondage as this.”
“What do you mean, Denton?”
“Well, there, ma’am, if you’re offended, you must be, but I shall speak the honest truth.”
“Go on, Denton.”
“I mean letting poor Miss Gertrude be married to such a man as Master George.”
“What am I to do, Denton?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I’ve been down upon my bended knees to her, but she turns away. She don’t like him—that’s the wonder of it—and yet she will have him.”
“Yes, Denton; that’s the wonder of it. She’s little and weak, and yet she’s stronger than all of us put together with poor old Mr Harrington’s wishes at her back.”
“But you, ma’am—she believes in and likes you. Many a time she’s come to me, years ago, and told me how you’ve scolded and found fault with her about her manners, and when I’ve said you were very cantankerous—”
“Oh, you said that of me, did you, Denton?”
“Yes, ma’am, to speak the truth, I have said so; but she always spoke up for you, and said you talked to her like a mother.”
“Yes, Denton; I tried to.”
“Then,” cried the old woman fiercely, “why don’t you talk to her like a mother now, and save the poor child from such a terrible fate.”
“You think it will be a terrible fate, Denton?”
“Do you believe in young men who can’t keep from the drink now, and who make the poor old house smell of whiskey from top to bottom, mending because they’ve got pretty young wives?”
“I want to be charitable, Denton.”
“Then prove it, ma’am, by saving my poor dear young lady from being the wife of a sot.”
“Is anything the matter, Mrs Hampton?” said Gertrude.
“No, my dear, only that wicked, idle man is so fast asleep that we cannot wake him.”
“Never mind,” said the old lawyer, who had followed Gertrude out into the hall. “Better let him have his sleep out. Come, my dear, and have pity on me.”
“Yes, Mr Hampton, we will not wait any longer. Denton, pray see that some fresh breakfast is ready on a tray, to bring up directly your master comes down.”
“Yes, miss, I will,” said the old woman; and then in an undertone to Mrs Hampton, as the old lawyer said something to Gertrude: “Do, do, pray, ma’am, try and stop it. I’d sooner help to lay the poor dear out for her last sleep than help to dress her to go to church with Master George.”
Mrs Hampton went down the flight of stairs to the breakfast-table, looking exceedingly comic.
Hers was a peculiar face at the best of times; and now it was at its worst, for her spirit was greatly troubled on Gertrude’s behalf, and she was trying to smile and look cheerful.
Her husband saw it and made matters worse.
“Gertrude, my dear,” he said in a whisper his wife could hear, “for goodness’ sake give her a cup of tea; she’s bubbling over with acidity.”
“No, I am not, Hampton, and don’t be absurd.”
“Certainly not, my dear. Excuse me, Miss Gertie, may I begin?”
He was already placing a slice of ham upon his plate with a delicately cooked egg reposing in its midst, but he recollected himself and passed it across to his wife.
“Thanks, no,” she said with quite a hoarse croak. “Dry toast.”
Gertrude was of the same way of thinking. Only the lawyer made a hearty breakfast hastily, and then started for town.
“No, no, don’t you ladies move,” he said. “Finish your breakfasts. Apologise to George Harrington for me. Back in good time.”
He did not realise that the other occupants of the breakfast-table had been forcing themselves to swallow a few morsels, so as to keep up appearances; and as the door closed their eyes met, and Gertrude could contain herself no longer, but burst into a passion of tears.
“Hush, hush, my darling?” whispered Mrs Hampton, taking her to her breast. “Don’t take on about it. There, there, there; I want to play a mother’s part to you, and I’m only a clumsy imitation; but, indeed, Gertie, I want to advise you for the best.”
“Yes, I know you do,” whispered the poor girl, as she struggled hard to be composed. “But tell me you don’t think there is any reason for George being so late.”
For answer Mrs Hampton kissed her on the brow.
“You do not speak. It is cruel of you to be silent.”
“Do you wish me to speak out?”
“Yes, even if I do not agree with you,” cried Gertrude, flushing up as if ready to defend her betrothed.
“Then, my dear, I do.”
“Tell me—what?”
“I am George Harrington’s guest, Gertrude; then I am the trusty friend of the girl I have known and loved ever since she was a child.”
“Yes, yes, indeed you are; I know that; only you are so bitter against George.”
“Gertie, my dear,” said the old lady, leading her to the couch and sitting down with old Harrington’s face seeming to smile down upon them, “if I feel bitter against George Harrington it is from love for you.”
“Yes, yes; but try not to be unjust. Think of the life he has been forced to lead.”
“I can think only of my little girl’s life that she will have to lead.”
“Why do you speak like this?” panted Gertrude, who looked like some frightened bird, ready to struggle to escape.
“I may be hard and unjust, my child, but I judge by what I see.”
“See! What have you seen this morning?”
“I have been in the study. It smells as a room does where men have passed the night drinking.”
“But after the change—after the promises.”
“The whiskey decanter was empty. I know it was full yesterday morning, for I saw Mrs Denton carry it in.”
“Ah!” sighed Gertrude.
“And this morning the man you have promised to marry is lying in a drunken sleep.”
“You do not know that,” cried Gertrude excitedly.
“I know enough to make me say once more—Gertrude, I am a childless old woman, and I love you as Mr Hampton loves you in his peculiar way, which is a good deal like mine—rough and clumsy, but very honest and true.”
“Dearest Mrs Hampton!” cried Gertrude, throwing her arms about the old lady’s neck; “as if I did not know how good, and kind, and loving you have always been.”
“Then listen to me once more, my darling, before it is too late. I do not look like the sort of woman who can talk about love, but I can, and I know what love is.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” faltered Gertrude.
“And I know that you do not love George Harrington.”
A pause.
“And George Harrington does not love you.”
“He told me he did—very dearly, Mrs Hampton, and if—if—I do not love him as I ought to do, I shall try so very, very hard to make him a true and loving wife.”
“Trying is no use, my dear. Love comes and goes of itself. You may make yourself friends with any one, but you cannot make yourself love.”
“Not when he loves me?” cried Gertrude.
“So much, my child, that only a short time before he is married to you, he goes and plays the swine.”
“Mrs Hampton!” cried Gertrude indignantly.
“Very well, then, my dear, I will not speak like that. It is too blunt and strong. He goes then—after promising everybody, and in disobedience to Doctor Lawrence’s orders, and quite soon after a dangerous attack ofdelirium tremens, brought on by drink—and takes that which has compelled him to keep his bed this morning.”
“But he may be ill, Mrs Hampton.”
“He is ill, my dear, and with an illness which brings on a craving he cannot control.”
“Oh?” sighed Gertrude, covering her face with her hands.
“He madly goes and makes himself the slave of a terrible master, who will ruin health, and pocket—destroy him utterly.”
“You are too severe, Mrs Hampton,” faltered Gertrude.
“Not a bit, my dear.”
“He said he would not take more than Mr Hampton might, or you.”
“That will not do, my dear,” said the old lady calmly. “My husband treats wine and spirits as his slaves, and makes them obey him. I do the same. George Harrington sets what the teetotallers call the great God Alcohol up on a pedestal, and grovels before it in his insane worship.”
“But he is growing so much better, Mrs Hampton.”
“No, my dear. He is only professing to do so. He is the slave and he will go lower and lower. I say then, even with the great wealth he has inherited, is this man the suitable partner of your future?”
“I want to defend him,” sighed Gertrude to herself, “but she masters me—she masters me.”
“Then listen to me, my dear, before it is too late. Do one of two things—come to us, where you shall be as our child, or, if you prefer it, set up a little simple home of your own, with poor old Denton, who would gladly accept this plan; you will not be well off, but you will be happy—yes, I say happy,” cried the old lady, looking up defiantly at the portrait, which had caught her eye, and seemed to be gazing searchingly at her. “Ah, you may look, but you are only canvas and paint; and if you were alive you would not throw this poor child into the arms of a drunken man.”
“Mrs Hampton, what are you saying?” cried Gertrude, looking up and shivering, as she realised that the old lady was addressing the picture on the wall.
“The plain, honest, simple truth, my dear. Come, come, be advised by me.”
“No, no; it is impossible,” murmured Gertrude.
“Not a bit of it, my child. Think of your future. He will not reform.”
“He will—he will.”
“He will not. He can’t. He hasn’t it in him. Gertie, my dear, you may fight for him, but he is a shifty bad man, and I don’t believe in him a bit.”
“This is too cruel.”
“It is kindness though it gives you pain, my dear. Some men might repent and alter, but I have studied George Harrington from the day he came to the house, and I cannot find the stuff in him to make a better man.”
“I should make him a better man, Mrs Hampton,” said Gertrude proudly.
“You would worry yourself into your grave, Gertrude, and if you marry him, I shall order my mourning at once, for you do not, and never will love him.”
“Now you are laughing at me,” said Gertrude, brightening up, and taking the old lady’s withered hands in her soft, plump little palms. “It is impossible to follow out your proposal, and I shall marry George Harrington for my dear uncle’s sake.”
“And be a wretched woman for life.”
“No, Mrs Hampton; even at the worst, I shall have the happy consciousness of having done my duty; but there will be no worse. I shall win.”
Mrs Hampton shook her head.
“Yes,” repeated Gertrude; “I shall win, and bring him to the right way. He cannot refuse to listen to me. Surely a weak trusting woman has power over even the strongest man.”
“In novels, and poems, and plays, my dear, more than in real life, I am afraid,” said Mrs Hampton, with a sigh of resignation; “but remember this, my dear, when in the future you recall all I have said—No, no, no, my darling; I can’t stoop to talk to you like that. Gertie, my child, I am very sorry, but I am going to help you carry out your noble resolve with all my heart.”
“Mrs Hampton?” cried Gertrude joyously.
“Yes, my dear; and if women can win, we’ll make a hero of George Harrington—good Heavens! what’s that?”
The two women started from the sofa, and gazed in a startled way toward the hall.
Chapter Twenty One.Bruno Gets into a Scrape.The sound that startled them was a faint scratching noise at the door, and Gertrude hurried across the room to open and admit the dog Bruno, who was lying on the sheepskin mat, and who raised his head, gazed in his mistress’s face, uttered a low whine, and then dropped his head between his paws.“Why, Bruno, Bruno? what’s the matter?”“Shall I go up and knock at master’s door again, Miss Gertie?” said the housekeeper, who came along the passage just then. “Why, what’s the matter with the dog?”“I don’t know, Denton; he seems ill. Oh! His head is covered with blood.”“Ugh! So it is,” cried the old woman. “I haven’t seen him before this morning, miss. He has been fighting. Go down, sir, directly. Bad dog!”Bruno did not move, but lay blinking at his mistress, and whined uneasily.“He has been fighting with some one who had a big stick then,” said Mrs Hampton shortly. “Look the poor dog’s head is all swollen up, and there’s a great cut here.”“My poor old Bruno?” cried Gertrude, going on her knees beside the dog, and taking one of his paws, when the brute whined feebly, and made a faint effort to lick her hand.“Yes, he has a bad cut upon his head,” said Denton, as she closely examined the place; “and it has been bleeding terribly. Poor fellow! I’ll call cook to help carry him away, and we’ll bathe it.”“No,” said Gertrude decisively; “he was dear uncle’s favourite, and he shall be treated as a friend. Let him stop here, Denton. Draw the mat into this corner, and put another thick mat beside it.”This was done, the mat slipping easily over the smooth floor, with its load; and after submitting patiently to the domestic surgery of his mistress and the old housekeeper, Bruno once more tried to lick the former’s hand and closed his eyes in sleep.“There,” said Gertrude, with business-like cheerfulness, as the basin, sponge, and towels used were removed. “Now, Denton, I think you really ought to go and waken your master.”“Yes, miss,” said the old lady, after giving Mrs Hampton an inquiring look, responded to by a shake of the head.The old housekeeper seemed to catch that shake of the head, and she went upstairs while Gertrude led the way back to the dining-room, and looked carefully over the table to see that the maid had removed all that was untidy, and left the place attractive-looking for her master, when he should come down.“Labour in vain, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, with a quaint smile. “He’ll want nothing but a cup of the strongest tea; and don’t let him have any spirits in it if he asks.”“Miss Gertrude? Miss Gertrude?” came from the stairs; and upon their going to the door, it was to see the old housekeeper hurrying down. “Master’s not in his room, my dear.”“What?”“I knocked till I grew nervous, thinking he might be in a fit, and then I turned the handle, and went in.”“And he is not there,” cried Gertrude. “Now, Mrs Hampton,” she added, as she turned triumphantly on her old friend, “now what have you to say for yourself. Yes! Look!” she cried, as she ran to the hat stand. “We might have known—hat and stick not here. I felt sure he must have gone for a long morning stroll.”“Well, I’m glad I am wrong,” said Mrs Hampton sharply. “Then we have been fidgeting ourselves for nothing. Eh, Denton? Yes? What is it?”She had suddenly caught sight of the old housekeeper making signs to her, and screwing up her face in a most mysterious way!“Yes, Denton, what is it? Why don’t you speak?” cried Gertrude, as she caught sight of the old woman’s action.“I—I—nothing, my dear, only he is not there,” said Denton hesitatingly.“What are you keeping back?” said Gertrude firmly.“N-othing, my dear.”“Denton!”“Don’t ask me, my dear, please,” faltered the old woman.“I desire you to speak,” cried Gertrude imperatively.“Then I will, my dear, for it’s only another reason why you should not go and do what you are thinking about doing,” cried the old woman angrily. “I don’t care, you may send me away if you like, but I shall have done my duty by you, and I shan’t have that on my mind.”“Have the goodness to remember what you are, Denton,” said Gertrude, speaking coldly, and turning very pale.“Yes, miss, only your poor old servant, but I can’t see you going headlong to destruction without trying to stop you. I say you oughtn’t to marry a gentleman who can’t keep from the drink, and goes out spending the night after everybody else has gone to bed.”“What do you mean, Denton?”“That we’ve been wherritting ourselves about him all the morning, and he’s never been to bed all night.”“Denton!”“Well, miss, come up and look. The bed’s just as I turned it down, and the pillows all of a puff.”“That will do,” said Gertrude gravely. “Your master is not bound to consult anybody if he chooses to go out.”“No, miss.”“Mrs Hampton, shall we go into the drawing-room?” said Gertrude quietly, “or would you like a walk?”“I think we will stay in, my dear,” was the reply; and they went into the drawing-room, where after closing the door they stood looking in each other’s eyes.“Gertie,” said Mrs Hampton at last, and she took her young companion’s hand.“No, no,” said Gertrude, shrinking.“I was not going to preach, my dear—only help,” said Mrs Hampton, smiling cheerfully. “Are you thinking what I am?”“I feel that I must be,” cried Gertrude. “You think that George has repented of what he said to Saul Harrington, and has joined him, or followed him to Paris.”“Exactly. That is what I do think.”“Well,” said Gertrude slowly, “he might have told us. Stop,” she added quickly, “he must have left a note for us in the study.”“Of course,” cried Mrs Hampton; and they went quickly into the little library, which the new master had affected as soon as he took possession of the place.A particular odour of spirits and some drug attacked their nostrils as soon as they entered the little room, and their eyes met in an anxious look, but only to be averted as each sought for a letter.“No,” said Gertrude sadly, “he has not written.”“It was a sudden thought, my dear, and we shall have one, or a telegram, before long. He is sure to send.”“He is sure to send,” said Gertrude involuntarily, as a curious chill ran through her, and she turned ghastly pale; for at that moment there came the long, low howl of a dog as if from a great distance, though they felt and knew that it was the faint cry of the wounded beast, and from close at hand—the mournfully strange howl uttered by a dog when it displays that mysterious knowledge of impending or neighbouring death.
The sound that startled them was a faint scratching noise at the door, and Gertrude hurried across the room to open and admit the dog Bruno, who was lying on the sheepskin mat, and who raised his head, gazed in his mistress’s face, uttered a low whine, and then dropped his head between his paws.
“Why, Bruno, Bruno? what’s the matter?”
“Shall I go up and knock at master’s door again, Miss Gertie?” said the housekeeper, who came along the passage just then. “Why, what’s the matter with the dog?”
“I don’t know, Denton; he seems ill. Oh! His head is covered with blood.”
“Ugh! So it is,” cried the old woman. “I haven’t seen him before this morning, miss. He has been fighting. Go down, sir, directly. Bad dog!”
Bruno did not move, but lay blinking at his mistress, and whined uneasily.
“He has been fighting with some one who had a big stick then,” said Mrs Hampton shortly. “Look the poor dog’s head is all swollen up, and there’s a great cut here.”
“My poor old Bruno?” cried Gertrude, going on her knees beside the dog, and taking one of his paws, when the brute whined feebly, and made a faint effort to lick her hand.
“Yes, he has a bad cut upon his head,” said Denton, as she closely examined the place; “and it has been bleeding terribly. Poor fellow! I’ll call cook to help carry him away, and we’ll bathe it.”
“No,” said Gertrude decisively; “he was dear uncle’s favourite, and he shall be treated as a friend. Let him stop here, Denton. Draw the mat into this corner, and put another thick mat beside it.”
This was done, the mat slipping easily over the smooth floor, with its load; and after submitting patiently to the domestic surgery of his mistress and the old housekeeper, Bruno once more tried to lick the former’s hand and closed his eyes in sleep.
“There,” said Gertrude, with business-like cheerfulness, as the basin, sponge, and towels used were removed. “Now, Denton, I think you really ought to go and waken your master.”
“Yes, miss,” said the old lady, after giving Mrs Hampton an inquiring look, responded to by a shake of the head.
The old housekeeper seemed to catch that shake of the head, and she went upstairs while Gertrude led the way back to the dining-room, and looked carefully over the table to see that the maid had removed all that was untidy, and left the place attractive-looking for her master, when he should come down.
“Labour in vain, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, with a quaint smile. “He’ll want nothing but a cup of the strongest tea; and don’t let him have any spirits in it if he asks.”
“Miss Gertrude? Miss Gertrude?” came from the stairs; and upon their going to the door, it was to see the old housekeeper hurrying down. “Master’s not in his room, my dear.”
“What?”
“I knocked till I grew nervous, thinking he might be in a fit, and then I turned the handle, and went in.”
“And he is not there,” cried Gertrude. “Now, Mrs Hampton,” she added, as she turned triumphantly on her old friend, “now what have you to say for yourself. Yes! Look!” she cried, as she ran to the hat stand. “We might have known—hat and stick not here. I felt sure he must have gone for a long morning stroll.”
“Well, I’m glad I am wrong,” said Mrs Hampton sharply. “Then we have been fidgeting ourselves for nothing. Eh, Denton? Yes? What is it?”
She had suddenly caught sight of the old housekeeper making signs to her, and screwing up her face in a most mysterious way!
“Yes, Denton, what is it? Why don’t you speak?” cried Gertrude, as she caught sight of the old woman’s action.
“I—I—nothing, my dear, only he is not there,” said Denton hesitatingly.
“What are you keeping back?” said Gertrude firmly.
“N-othing, my dear.”
“Denton!”
“Don’t ask me, my dear, please,” faltered the old woman.
“I desire you to speak,” cried Gertrude imperatively.
“Then I will, my dear, for it’s only another reason why you should not go and do what you are thinking about doing,” cried the old woman angrily. “I don’t care, you may send me away if you like, but I shall have done my duty by you, and I shan’t have that on my mind.”
“Have the goodness to remember what you are, Denton,” said Gertrude, speaking coldly, and turning very pale.
“Yes, miss, only your poor old servant, but I can’t see you going headlong to destruction without trying to stop you. I say you oughtn’t to marry a gentleman who can’t keep from the drink, and goes out spending the night after everybody else has gone to bed.”
“What do you mean, Denton?”
“That we’ve been wherritting ourselves about him all the morning, and he’s never been to bed all night.”
“Denton!”
“Well, miss, come up and look. The bed’s just as I turned it down, and the pillows all of a puff.”
“That will do,” said Gertrude gravely. “Your master is not bound to consult anybody if he chooses to go out.”
“No, miss.”
“Mrs Hampton, shall we go into the drawing-room?” said Gertrude quietly, “or would you like a walk?”
“I think we will stay in, my dear,” was the reply; and they went into the drawing-room, where after closing the door they stood looking in each other’s eyes.
“Gertie,” said Mrs Hampton at last, and she took her young companion’s hand.
“No, no,” said Gertrude, shrinking.
“I was not going to preach, my dear—only help,” said Mrs Hampton, smiling cheerfully. “Are you thinking what I am?”
“I feel that I must be,” cried Gertrude. “You think that George has repented of what he said to Saul Harrington, and has joined him, or followed him to Paris.”
“Exactly. That is what I do think.”
“Well,” said Gertrude slowly, “he might have told us. Stop,” she added quickly, “he must have left a note for us in the study.”
“Of course,” cried Mrs Hampton; and they went quickly into the little library, which the new master had affected as soon as he took possession of the place.
A particular odour of spirits and some drug attacked their nostrils as soon as they entered the little room, and their eyes met in an anxious look, but only to be averted as each sought for a letter.
“No,” said Gertrude sadly, “he has not written.”
“It was a sudden thought, my dear, and we shall have one, or a telegram, before long. He is sure to send.”
“He is sure to send,” said Gertrude involuntarily, as a curious chill ran through her, and she turned ghastly pale; for at that moment there came the long, low howl of a dog as if from a great distance, though they felt and knew that it was the faint cry of the wounded beast, and from close at hand—the mournfully strange howl uttered by a dog when it displays that mysterious knowledge of impending or neighbouring death.
Chapter Twenty Two.Kitchen Opinions.The cry was so peculiar, and impressed its hearers so painfully, that they stood looking at each other, Gertrude with blanched cheeks, and Mrs Hampton, who had not outgrown the superstitious dread common to most natures suffering from a nervous tremor that she had not felt for years.She was the first to speak with assumed cheerfulness.“Why, it’s that dog,” she said. “I declare for the moment it quite startled me?”“Yes,” said Gertrude, with her voice sounding husky and strange, “it was the dog.”But neither moved to do what was most natural under the circumstances: to go and pat and pacify the poor animal, neither did they discuss the possibility of how it was injured, but stood listening for its next cry, and both started violently as the door was opened and Mrs Denton, white and trembling, hurried into the room.“Did—did you hear that, Miss Gertrude?” she said in an awe-stricken whisper.“Do you mean poor Bruno’s howl?”“Yes, miss,” said the old woman in the same low tone of voice.“The poor thing is in pain, I suppose.”“No, miss, it isn’t that,” said Denton slowly. “If he was hurt, he would yelp sharply. He has got something on his mind.”“Don’t be such a ridiculous old woman, Denton!” cried Mrs Hampton impatiently, to cover her own dread. “Dogs have no minds. They howl sometimes because it’s their nature to.”“Yes, ma’am,” said the old housekeeper respectfully, but speaking in a very slow, impressive tone; “because it is their nature to howl when they know there’s death on the way.”“Gertrude, my dear, for goodness’ sake don’t you be superstitious. It’s absurd. It is what you have just heard—an old woman’s tale. Why, if dogs howled because there was death about, they’d pass their days doing nothing else, and wouldn’t have time even to wag their tails.”“Denton, you are old enough to know better.”“Yes, ma’am, I’m seventy years and three months old, and I suppose I ought to know better, but I don’t.”“There is nothing to mind, Denton,” said Gertrude gently. “Poor Bruno quite startled me for the moment, but he has settled down now, and—”She stopped short, for the dog again uttered the same long, low howl—a cry which sounded more impressive than the one they had heard before.Gertrude’s face looked ghastly, and for a moment she reeled and caught at Mrs Hampton’s trembling hand, while the old housekeeper sank upon her knees and buried her face in her apron.Gertrude was the first to recover her presence of mind.“How childish!” she said, as she crossed to the old woman where she knelt. “Denton, dear, don’t think so seriously of such a trifle. There is no truth in these old superstitious ideas.”“No truth, my dear?” said the old woman, taking and kissing the hand laid upon her shoulder. “Was there no truth in my shutting poor Bruno up in the shed, and his getting out by tearing his way under the side, and howling in the garden the night poor dear master died? I know what you will both say to me, that I am a silly old woman; but I have seen and heard strange things in my time, and I hope, with all my heart, that this is not a sign of ill having come to some one we know, whether it’s to young master or Mr Saul. But, mark my words, we shall hear something terrible, and before long.”“Yes, we shall all hear bad news, Denton, if we live long enough,” said Mrs Hampton, who was quite herself again. “Let’s go and see how your patient is, Gertrude, my dear.”She crossed to the door, and Gertrude followed her quickly, leaving the old housekeeper hesitating as to whether to go or stay, and ending by slowly following the others into the hall.Bruno had not moved from where he had been left, but lay with his head between his paws, and eyes closed, apparently asleep, till Gertrude stood over him, when he half opened his eyes and looked up at her.“Poor old dog, then!” she said gently, as she went down on one knee and softly stroked his neck.The dog closed his eyes and responded to her caress by giving a few raps upon the floor with his tail, after which he lay perfectly still, as if asleep.“I wonder how he was hurt,” said Gertrude gently.“Some brute must have struck him, and he ought to be punished.”“Bruno would not hurt anyone except those he hates,” said Mrs Denton slowly, as she came and stood close by them.“Poor thing!” said Mrs Hampton. “Well, we can do no more. He will soon get better. Come, Gertrude.”The girl was giving the dog a final pat on the neck, when it suddenly raised its head, opened its eyes wildly and stared right away, uttering a long, low howl, ending in a mournful whine.“Really,” exclaimed Mrs Hampton, “he must not do that or you must have him moved, Gertrude.”The dog seemed to sink into an uneasy sleep, and Gertrude followed Mrs Hampton into the drawing-room.“Ought we to take any steps about George?” said Gertrude, after a pause; “to find out whether he has gone with Saul Harrington?”“No, my dear, certainly not. He has a perfect right to do as he pleases. He will, as I said before, no doubt write.”Gertrude was silent, and crossed to a writing-table to busy herself over sundry domestic accounts, while Mrs Hampton took out her knitting and glanced at her from time to time, as her needles clicked and flashed in their rapid plying.“And a good thing if he has gone,” she said to herself. “If I could do as I liked, he’d have his money and go to Jericho or any other place, so long as he did not come and worry her.”By this time Gertrude’s attention was taken up by her accounts, and her countenance looked comparatively calm and peaceful.“Love him?” said Mrs Hampton. “She does not even like him, only fights hard to do what she has been told.”The day passed quietly enough in the drawing-room, but the sudden departure of the owner of The Mynns formed a topic of conversation among the servants. John Season, the gardener, came in for what he called “just a snack” about twelve o’clock, the said snack being termed lunch; but as John, a dry-looking gentleman with a countenance like a piece of ruddy bark, did not dine at quality hours, the snack served as dinner and saved him from going home, beside being an economy, as cook was not particular about his making a sandwich to wrap in his red cotton pocket-handkerchief “again he felt a bit peckish.” Not that he ever did feel a bit peckish after the hearty snack, for his sandwich was pecked by the four young Seasons at home.John’s making of that sandwich was artistic and exact, for the slices of cold beef were always fitted on to the bottom slice of bread with the regularity to be expected of a man who kept a garden tidy. The top slice, as if from absence of mind, was also covered with slices to the same degree of exactness, and then after a liberal sprinkling of the sanitary salt, and spreading of the mordant mustard, these two slices were placed close together at the cut edge.Now, to some unpractised hands a difficulty would here have arisen—how to get those two slices together without letting the beef get out of place.But John Season was not unpractised.Some people would have solved the problem by cutting two more slices of bread, and clapping them on the top. But that would have looked grasping. John was allowed by cook to cut himself a sandwich. That would have looked like cutting two sandwiches. True, there was the beef for two sandwiches there; but then it did not appear to be so to the casual observer, and as bread was fairly plentiful at home, while beef was not, John got over the difficulty in a way which salved his conscience and the cook’s.On this particular morning, John had been very busy eating, with his mouth so full that he did not care to talk. The beef was sirloin, and the prime thick, streaked, juicy undercut, with its marrowy fat, had been untouched. The knife was sharp, and John had eaten and carved his sandwich till he had laid down the keen blade with a sigh, gazing at his work, and then at the glass of beer freshly drawn for his use.“Yes?” he said to the cook and housemaid, to take up a thread of conversation which had been lying untouched for twenty minutes; “he came home with his head queer, did he?”“Yes, and bleeding,” said the housemaid. “I dunno where he’d been.”“I do,” said John, altering the position of one of his beef-laden slices, so that it should be exactly parallel with the other, and one inch away.“You do, John?” said the cook, with her eyes wide open.“Yes. Under the laurels half asleep. I see him.”“But he hadn’t been out?” said the housemaid.“Not he.”“Then how did he get that cut on the head?” said the housemaid.“I know,” cried cook triumphantly.“How?”“Climbing the wall after a cat, and then he tumbled off on to the bricks.”“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid, snatching at the explanation.“Wrong,” said John Season, untying and retying his blue serge apron, as a necessity after his hearty meal.“Then, pray how was it, Mr Clever?” said cook.“He’d been interfering with master in the dark. Didn’t know him, I s’pose; and master give him a polt with a stick.”“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid.“But why should he interfere with master?” said cook, who felt annoyed at her solution being so ruthlessly set aside.“Because he was a good dog,” said John, taking a sip from his glass, and moving his chair a little, as he thought, with a sigh, about the big piece of lawn he had to sweep in the hot sun.“A good dog to fly at his master!” exclaimed cook, rolling her arms in her apron.“He’s only a new master that he don’t know well, and don’t much like,” said John sententiously; “and he sees him coming out of the window in the middle of the night.”“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid again.“‘Burglars!’ says Bruno. If you remember, his bark always sounds like saying burglars.”“Yes; I’ve always noticed that,” said the housemaid, emphasising the last word.“Fiddle!” said cook contemptuously.“Ah, you may say fiddle,” said John, taking out his red handkerchief, and slowly spreading it upon his knees, “but that’s it. Sees him coming down from the stairkiss window, and goes at him; master gives him one on the head, and Bruno feels sick, and goes and lies down among the laurels.”“And who says master went out of the stairkiss window,” said cook with a snort, “when there’s a front door to the house as well as a back?”“I did, my dear, and you needn’t be cross.”“Enough to make any one cross to hear folks talk rubbidge. Pray, how do you know he went out that way?”“Ah!” exclaimed the housemaid, as much as to say “that’s a poser.”“Because I had to take the rake and smooth out the footmarks, as was a eyesore to a gardener who takes a pride in his place,” said John with a satisfied smile.“You did, John?” said cook, giving way directly, and lowering her voice as she drew nearer the speaker, and poured him out another glass of ale.“Thankye, my dear. Yes; same as I’ve done before.”“But why should he get out of the window on the sly like that?”“Larks!” said John Season, giving one eye a peculiar cock. “Why do young men get out of other windows o’ nights, eh?”“Well, of all!” exclaimed the housemaid.“Then he ought to be ashamed of himself,” exclaimed cook; “and for two pins I’d go and tell Miss Gertrude myself.”No one offered the two pins, and as the reward was not forthcoming, cook seemed to consider her proposition off.“It’s no business of our’n, cook,” said John Season, slowly extending his hands on either side of the waiting sandwich; then with one sudden and dexterous movement he shut it up, as any one might have closed an open book, and so quickly that not so much as a bit of fat had time to fall.The next moment it was folded in the handkerchief and thrust in John Season’s pocket.“There were footprints under the stairkiss window, then,” whispered cook.“That’s so, under the stairkiss window,” said the gardener.“Under the stairkiss window!” said the housemaid. “My?”Then John Season rose and took a basket from the floor,“But how could he get up and down from the stairkiss window?” said cook excitedly.“Oh, it’s easy enough to any one as knows what he’s about,” said the gardener. “Off course he’d drop down.”“And no bars to the window,” exclaimed cook indignantly. “Well, I always said so; we shall all be murdered in our beds some night.”“Not you, cook. Burglars don’t know,” said John, “and higgerance is stronger than iron bars.”“But shan’t you tell Miss Gertrude?” said the housemaid.“What! that master likes to do as he pleases; and upset her, poor little lass? Not likely.”“No,” said cook, who seemed to have repented of her own proposition; “a still tongue maketh a wise head.”This shot proverbial was fired at the gardener, cook looking at him fixedly, as if to let him know that he did not possess all the wisdom at The Mynns.“Well, here’s luck,” said John Season, before tossing off the remaining half glass of ale; and thrusting his arm under the handle of the basket, he went off, repeating his orders to himself, as given by cook for the late dinner: “Onions, taters, beans, peas, parsley, lettuce, and a beet.”
The cry was so peculiar, and impressed its hearers so painfully, that they stood looking at each other, Gertrude with blanched cheeks, and Mrs Hampton, who had not outgrown the superstitious dread common to most natures suffering from a nervous tremor that she had not felt for years.
She was the first to speak with assumed cheerfulness.
“Why, it’s that dog,” she said. “I declare for the moment it quite startled me?”
“Yes,” said Gertrude, with her voice sounding husky and strange, “it was the dog.”
But neither moved to do what was most natural under the circumstances: to go and pat and pacify the poor animal, neither did they discuss the possibility of how it was injured, but stood listening for its next cry, and both started violently as the door was opened and Mrs Denton, white and trembling, hurried into the room.
“Did—did you hear that, Miss Gertrude?” she said in an awe-stricken whisper.
“Do you mean poor Bruno’s howl?”
“Yes, miss,” said the old woman in the same low tone of voice.
“The poor thing is in pain, I suppose.”
“No, miss, it isn’t that,” said Denton slowly. “If he was hurt, he would yelp sharply. He has got something on his mind.”
“Don’t be such a ridiculous old woman, Denton!” cried Mrs Hampton impatiently, to cover her own dread. “Dogs have no minds. They howl sometimes because it’s their nature to.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the old housekeeper respectfully, but speaking in a very slow, impressive tone; “because it is their nature to howl when they know there’s death on the way.”
“Gertrude, my dear, for goodness’ sake don’t you be superstitious. It’s absurd. It is what you have just heard—an old woman’s tale. Why, if dogs howled because there was death about, they’d pass their days doing nothing else, and wouldn’t have time even to wag their tails.”
“Denton, you are old enough to know better.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m seventy years and three months old, and I suppose I ought to know better, but I don’t.”
“There is nothing to mind, Denton,” said Gertrude gently. “Poor Bruno quite startled me for the moment, but he has settled down now, and—”
She stopped short, for the dog again uttered the same long, low howl—a cry which sounded more impressive than the one they had heard before.
Gertrude’s face looked ghastly, and for a moment she reeled and caught at Mrs Hampton’s trembling hand, while the old housekeeper sank upon her knees and buried her face in her apron.
Gertrude was the first to recover her presence of mind.
“How childish!” she said, as she crossed to the old woman where she knelt. “Denton, dear, don’t think so seriously of such a trifle. There is no truth in these old superstitious ideas.”
“No truth, my dear?” said the old woman, taking and kissing the hand laid upon her shoulder. “Was there no truth in my shutting poor Bruno up in the shed, and his getting out by tearing his way under the side, and howling in the garden the night poor dear master died? I know what you will both say to me, that I am a silly old woman; but I have seen and heard strange things in my time, and I hope, with all my heart, that this is not a sign of ill having come to some one we know, whether it’s to young master or Mr Saul. But, mark my words, we shall hear something terrible, and before long.”
“Yes, we shall all hear bad news, Denton, if we live long enough,” said Mrs Hampton, who was quite herself again. “Let’s go and see how your patient is, Gertrude, my dear.”
She crossed to the door, and Gertrude followed her quickly, leaving the old housekeeper hesitating as to whether to go or stay, and ending by slowly following the others into the hall.
Bruno had not moved from where he had been left, but lay with his head between his paws, and eyes closed, apparently asleep, till Gertrude stood over him, when he half opened his eyes and looked up at her.
“Poor old dog, then!” she said gently, as she went down on one knee and softly stroked his neck.
The dog closed his eyes and responded to her caress by giving a few raps upon the floor with his tail, after which he lay perfectly still, as if asleep.
“I wonder how he was hurt,” said Gertrude gently.
“Some brute must have struck him, and he ought to be punished.”
“Bruno would not hurt anyone except those he hates,” said Mrs Denton slowly, as she came and stood close by them.
“Poor thing!” said Mrs Hampton. “Well, we can do no more. He will soon get better. Come, Gertrude.”
The girl was giving the dog a final pat on the neck, when it suddenly raised its head, opened its eyes wildly and stared right away, uttering a long, low howl, ending in a mournful whine.
“Really,” exclaimed Mrs Hampton, “he must not do that or you must have him moved, Gertrude.”
The dog seemed to sink into an uneasy sleep, and Gertrude followed Mrs Hampton into the drawing-room.
“Ought we to take any steps about George?” said Gertrude, after a pause; “to find out whether he has gone with Saul Harrington?”
“No, my dear, certainly not. He has a perfect right to do as he pleases. He will, as I said before, no doubt write.”
Gertrude was silent, and crossed to a writing-table to busy herself over sundry domestic accounts, while Mrs Hampton took out her knitting and glanced at her from time to time, as her needles clicked and flashed in their rapid plying.
“And a good thing if he has gone,” she said to herself. “If I could do as I liked, he’d have his money and go to Jericho or any other place, so long as he did not come and worry her.”
By this time Gertrude’s attention was taken up by her accounts, and her countenance looked comparatively calm and peaceful.
“Love him?” said Mrs Hampton. “She does not even like him, only fights hard to do what she has been told.”
The day passed quietly enough in the drawing-room, but the sudden departure of the owner of The Mynns formed a topic of conversation among the servants. John Season, the gardener, came in for what he called “just a snack” about twelve o’clock, the said snack being termed lunch; but as John, a dry-looking gentleman with a countenance like a piece of ruddy bark, did not dine at quality hours, the snack served as dinner and saved him from going home, beside being an economy, as cook was not particular about his making a sandwich to wrap in his red cotton pocket-handkerchief “again he felt a bit peckish.” Not that he ever did feel a bit peckish after the hearty snack, for his sandwich was pecked by the four young Seasons at home.
John’s making of that sandwich was artistic and exact, for the slices of cold beef were always fitted on to the bottom slice of bread with the regularity to be expected of a man who kept a garden tidy. The top slice, as if from absence of mind, was also covered with slices to the same degree of exactness, and then after a liberal sprinkling of the sanitary salt, and spreading of the mordant mustard, these two slices were placed close together at the cut edge.
Now, to some unpractised hands a difficulty would here have arisen—how to get those two slices together without letting the beef get out of place.
But John Season was not unpractised.
Some people would have solved the problem by cutting two more slices of bread, and clapping them on the top. But that would have looked grasping. John was allowed by cook to cut himself a sandwich. That would have looked like cutting two sandwiches. True, there was the beef for two sandwiches there; but then it did not appear to be so to the casual observer, and as bread was fairly plentiful at home, while beef was not, John got over the difficulty in a way which salved his conscience and the cook’s.
On this particular morning, John had been very busy eating, with his mouth so full that he did not care to talk. The beef was sirloin, and the prime thick, streaked, juicy undercut, with its marrowy fat, had been untouched. The knife was sharp, and John had eaten and carved his sandwich till he had laid down the keen blade with a sigh, gazing at his work, and then at the glass of beer freshly drawn for his use.
“Yes?” he said to the cook and housemaid, to take up a thread of conversation which had been lying untouched for twenty minutes; “he came home with his head queer, did he?”
“Yes, and bleeding,” said the housemaid. “I dunno where he’d been.”
“I do,” said John, altering the position of one of his beef-laden slices, so that it should be exactly parallel with the other, and one inch away.
“You do, John?” said the cook, with her eyes wide open.
“Yes. Under the laurels half asleep. I see him.”
“But he hadn’t been out?” said the housemaid.
“Not he.”
“Then how did he get that cut on the head?” said the housemaid.
“I know,” cried cook triumphantly.
“How?”
“Climbing the wall after a cat, and then he tumbled off on to the bricks.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid, snatching at the explanation.
“Wrong,” said John Season, untying and retying his blue serge apron, as a necessity after his hearty meal.
“Then, pray how was it, Mr Clever?” said cook.
“He’d been interfering with master in the dark. Didn’t know him, I s’pose; and master give him a polt with a stick.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid.
“But why should he interfere with master?” said cook, who felt annoyed at her solution being so ruthlessly set aside.
“Because he was a good dog,” said John, taking a sip from his glass, and moving his chair a little, as he thought, with a sigh, about the big piece of lawn he had to sweep in the hot sun.
“A good dog to fly at his master!” exclaimed cook, rolling her arms in her apron.
“He’s only a new master that he don’t know well, and don’t much like,” said John sententiously; “and he sees him coming out of the window in the middle of the night.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid again.
“‘Burglars!’ says Bruno. If you remember, his bark always sounds like saying burglars.”
“Yes; I’ve always noticed that,” said the housemaid, emphasising the last word.
“Fiddle!” said cook contemptuously.
“Ah, you may say fiddle,” said John, taking out his red handkerchief, and slowly spreading it upon his knees, “but that’s it. Sees him coming down from the stairkiss window, and goes at him; master gives him one on the head, and Bruno feels sick, and goes and lies down among the laurels.”
“And who says master went out of the stairkiss window,” said cook with a snort, “when there’s a front door to the house as well as a back?”
“I did, my dear, and you needn’t be cross.”
“Enough to make any one cross to hear folks talk rubbidge. Pray, how do you know he went out that way?”
“Ah!” exclaimed the housemaid, as much as to say “that’s a poser.”
“Because I had to take the rake and smooth out the footmarks, as was a eyesore to a gardener who takes a pride in his place,” said John with a satisfied smile.
“You did, John?” said cook, giving way directly, and lowering her voice as she drew nearer the speaker, and poured him out another glass of ale.
“Thankye, my dear. Yes; same as I’ve done before.”
“But why should he get out of the window on the sly like that?”
“Larks!” said John Season, giving one eye a peculiar cock. “Why do young men get out of other windows o’ nights, eh?”
“Well, of all!” exclaimed the housemaid.
“Then he ought to be ashamed of himself,” exclaimed cook; “and for two pins I’d go and tell Miss Gertrude myself.”
No one offered the two pins, and as the reward was not forthcoming, cook seemed to consider her proposition off.
“It’s no business of our’n, cook,” said John Season, slowly extending his hands on either side of the waiting sandwich; then with one sudden and dexterous movement he shut it up, as any one might have closed an open book, and so quickly that not so much as a bit of fat had time to fall.
The next moment it was folded in the handkerchief and thrust in John Season’s pocket.
“There were footprints under the stairkiss window, then,” whispered cook.
“That’s so, under the stairkiss window,” said the gardener.
“Under the stairkiss window!” said the housemaid. “My?”
Then John Season rose and took a basket from the floor,
“But how could he get up and down from the stairkiss window?” said cook excitedly.
“Oh, it’s easy enough to any one as knows what he’s about,” said the gardener. “Off course he’d drop down.”
“And no bars to the window,” exclaimed cook indignantly. “Well, I always said so; we shall all be murdered in our beds some night.”
“Not you, cook. Burglars don’t know,” said John, “and higgerance is stronger than iron bars.”
“But shan’t you tell Miss Gertrude?” said the housemaid.
“What! that master likes to do as he pleases; and upset her, poor little lass? Not likely.”
“No,” said cook, who seemed to have repented of her own proposition; “a still tongue maketh a wise head.”
This shot proverbial was fired at the gardener, cook looking at him fixedly, as if to let him know that he did not possess all the wisdom at The Mynns.
“Well, here’s luck,” said John Season, before tossing off the remaining half glass of ale; and thrusting his arm under the handle of the basket, he went off, repeating his orders to himself, as given by cook for the late dinner: “Onions, taters, beans, peas, parsley, lettuce, and a beet.”