Chapter Six.How the Money was Left.“A singularly quiet funeral, Mr Hampton,” said Doctor Lawrence as he rode back in the same carriage with the solicitor.“The wish of the deceased, sir. He had a great dislike to wasting money.”“Bit miserly, Mr Hampton.”“No, sir, no. On the whole a generous man, but if he spent money, as he used to say to me. He liked to have something substantial in return.”“Well, I must say for him, that he was always prompt in his payments.”“Always,” said the lawyer.“But with his wealth it seems strange that we have not got a host of needy relatives. We can talk about it, Hampton, not being relatives. Wish I was. A slice of the poor old boy’s cake would have been a nice help to a family man like me.”“Humph, yes, I suppose so. Money’s nice. Very sudden at last, doctor.”“Ye-es, and no,” said the doctor. “When a man gets to eighty-five you may say his life hangs by a cobweb. Any little excitement may bring it to an end.”“Humph! Hah! And I’ve a shrewd suspicion that he had an angry interview with Mr Harrington—the nephew.”“And heir?” said the doctor.“My dear Lawrence,” said the old lawyer, smiling, “never try to pump one of our profession. In a very short time I shall be reading the will, so curb your impatience.”“Of course, my dear sir, of course; only a little natural curiosity. Between ourselves I think it will be a pity if he marries our charming young friend, Gertrude.”“Thousand pities,” said the old lawyer drily. “Sooner marry her myself—if I could.”The carriage drew up at the outer gates as he spoke, and the ugly old brick house, known as “The Mynns,” seemed a little more cheerful now that the blinds, which had been down for days, were raised and the sun allowed to light up the gloomy rooms, in one of which—the dining-room—the little party assembled after a while to hear the reading of the will; Saul’s enemy, the dog, taking up his position or the hearthrug.The party consisted of Gertrude, who came in attended by Bruno; Mrs Hampton, a stiff, stern old lady, who looked like a black dress with a face on the top; Saul Harrington, and the servants. Mr Hampton was there officially, and the doctor was retiring to see a patient in town, when the lawyer took him by the coat.“Don’t go, Lawrence,” he said; “you forget you are an executor.”“Oh, yes, of course, so I did.”“It’s a long time since the will was executed, and I have some recollection of a snuff-box left to you.”“Indeed,” said the doctor, with his face lighting up as he rubbed his hands; “then he has left me the old engine turned silver snuff-box. I took a fancy to it years ago, and he laughed and said he would leave it to me in his will. Now that’s very pleasant of him to remember me. Eh Miss Gertrude? Yes, I’m very glad.”The doctor drew out a holly-root box, took snuff loudly, and looking up at the portrait of the old man, gave it a friendly nod, while the eyes seemed to be gazing into his is they did into those of all present.Then the last will and testament was read, and Saul Harrington listened impatiently to the minor bequests to the under-servants, no one being forgotten; and to the comfortable legacy left to Mrs Denton with the wish that she would always remain housekeeper at The Mynns, so long as her health permitted. Then came a fairly large amount for the maintenance of “my old and faithful servant Bruno,” with the addition that if “my heir” did not feel inclined keep the dog, Mrs Denton was to have him in charge and care for him till his death.“Lucky dog!” said the doctor to himself; and he glanced at Gertrude, who was holding Mrs Hampton’s hand while crying gently, and, as if not to intrude on her sorrow, he again looked up at the portrait, gave it a friendly nod, and then chirruped softly to the dog, which came and laid its head upon his knee, after turning its eyes apologetically to Gertrude.Then the doctor’s attention was excited by the next clause in the will which bequeathed “to my old friend and adviser, Phineas Hampton, five thousand pounds clear of legacy duty.”“Another lucky dog,” muttered the doctor, who then drew in his breath with a hiss as he heard the lawyer’s words:“To my very old friend, Edward Lawrence, MD, my old silver snuff-box which he once admired.”“Hah! I’m very glad,” said the doctor, meeting Gertrude’s eyes now, as the lawyer paused to look up and repeat from the will the next words:“And ten thousand pounds free of legacy duty.”“No!” ejaculated the doctor, half rising. Then sitting down again he exclaimed, “Well!” took out his pocket-handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and then, without disguise, sat quietly wiping away the tears.“To my nephew, Saul Harrington, one hundred pounds a year, raised as hereinafter specified by a Government annuity.”Saul frowned and looked down at the carpet, though it was all he had dared to expect, and he listened eagerly to the next clause which left an annuity of one hundred per annum to the testator’s dear adopted child, Gertrude Bellwood, with the hope that she would fulfil his wishes. In conclusion, as Saul was trying to recover from the shock of knowing that Gertrude had spoken the truth, came the clauses dealing with the remainder of the old man’s wealth, which was left unconditionally with certain sums and their interest, sums remitted from the United States, “to my grandson, George Harrington, in the hope that he will dutifully fulfil my wishes expressed to him in the last letter I sent to America.”The other parts of the will, with its appointment of “my old friends, Doctor Lawrence and Phineas Hampton, to be my sole executors,” seemed to consist of the ringing of bells in Saul Harrington’s ears as he still sat gazing down at the carpet when all was over.“My congratulations, Lawrence,” said the old lawyer, smiling.“My dear Hampton, I don’t know how to be sufficiently grateful. And, my dear Miss Gertrude, I cannot take this. Ten thousand pounds, and you only left with a hundred a year. Look here, Hampton. Now, no nonsense. I shall only take some of this money—half. The other I insist upon making over to Miss Gertrude here as her dowry.”“Can’t be done. Shan’t be done,” said the old lawyer gruffly. “Lawrence, we’ve known each other twenty years.”“Yes, we have.”“Then don’t be a fool.”“And not at his side when he died,” said the doctor, nodding his head. “My dear Miss Gertrude, I feel as if I am robbing you.”“You don’t know how glad I am, Doctor Lawrence,” cried Gertrude, laying her hands in his. “Dear uncle always liked you, and I felt sure he would leave you something handsome in his will.”“Hah!”It was a long, low expiration of the breath from Saul Harrington, who was too deep in thought to hear what was going on, as, with hands down in his pockets, he gazed down fixedly at the carpet.“And if George Harrington dies, I succeed to everything. Yes,” he said to himself, “I should be master here. Get out! Beast!”He said these last words aloud, for the dog was sniffing at his legs, and all the time it seemed as if the portrait of old James Harrington was the old man himself, gazing down sternly from the wall at his plotting nephew.“Yes, if he dies—if he dies—I shall be master here.”
“A singularly quiet funeral, Mr Hampton,” said Doctor Lawrence as he rode back in the same carriage with the solicitor.
“The wish of the deceased, sir. He had a great dislike to wasting money.”
“Bit miserly, Mr Hampton.”
“No, sir, no. On the whole a generous man, but if he spent money, as he used to say to me. He liked to have something substantial in return.”
“Well, I must say for him, that he was always prompt in his payments.”
“Always,” said the lawyer.
“But with his wealth it seems strange that we have not got a host of needy relatives. We can talk about it, Hampton, not being relatives. Wish I was. A slice of the poor old boy’s cake would have been a nice help to a family man like me.”
“Humph, yes, I suppose so. Money’s nice. Very sudden at last, doctor.”
“Ye-es, and no,” said the doctor. “When a man gets to eighty-five you may say his life hangs by a cobweb. Any little excitement may bring it to an end.”
“Humph! Hah! And I’ve a shrewd suspicion that he had an angry interview with Mr Harrington—the nephew.”
“And heir?” said the doctor.
“My dear Lawrence,” said the old lawyer, smiling, “never try to pump one of our profession. In a very short time I shall be reading the will, so curb your impatience.”
“Of course, my dear sir, of course; only a little natural curiosity. Between ourselves I think it will be a pity if he marries our charming young friend, Gertrude.”
“Thousand pities,” said the old lawyer drily. “Sooner marry her myself—if I could.”
The carriage drew up at the outer gates as he spoke, and the ugly old brick house, known as “The Mynns,” seemed a little more cheerful now that the blinds, which had been down for days, were raised and the sun allowed to light up the gloomy rooms, in one of which—the dining-room—the little party assembled after a while to hear the reading of the will; Saul’s enemy, the dog, taking up his position or the hearthrug.
The party consisted of Gertrude, who came in attended by Bruno; Mrs Hampton, a stiff, stern old lady, who looked like a black dress with a face on the top; Saul Harrington, and the servants. Mr Hampton was there officially, and the doctor was retiring to see a patient in town, when the lawyer took him by the coat.
“Don’t go, Lawrence,” he said; “you forget you are an executor.”
“Oh, yes, of course, so I did.”
“It’s a long time since the will was executed, and I have some recollection of a snuff-box left to you.”
“Indeed,” said the doctor, with his face lighting up as he rubbed his hands; “then he has left me the old engine turned silver snuff-box. I took a fancy to it years ago, and he laughed and said he would leave it to me in his will. Now that’s very pleasant of him to remember me. Eh Miss Gertrude? Yes, I’m very glad.”
The doctor drew out a holly-root box, took snuff loudly, and looking up at the portrait of the old man, gave it a friendly nod, while the eyes seemed to be gazing into his is they did into those of all present.
Then the last will and testament was read, and Saul Harrington listened impatiently to the minor bequests to the under-servants, no one being forgotten; and to the comfortable legacy left to Mrs Denton with the wish that she would always remain housekeeper at The Mynns, so long as her health permitted. Then came a fairly large amount for the maintenance of “my old and faithful servant Bruno,” with the addition that if “my heir” did not feel inclined keep the dog, Mrs Denton was to have him in charge and care for him till his death.
“Lucky dog!” said the doctor to himself; and he glanced at Gertrude, who was holding Mrs Hampton’s hand while crying gently, and, as if not to intrude on her sorrow, he again looked up at the portrait, gave it a friendly nod, and then chirruped softly to the dog, which came and laid its head upon his knee, after turning its eyes apologetically to Gertrude.
Then the doctor’s attention was excited by the next clause in the will which bequeathed “to my old friend and adviser, Phineas Hampton, five thousand pounds clear of legacy duty.”
“Another lucky dog,” muttered the doctor, who then drew in his breath with a hiss as he heard the lawyer’s words:
“To my very old friend, Edward Lawrence, MD, my old silver snuff-box which he once admired.”
“Hah! I’m very glad,” said the doctor, meeting Gertrude’s eyes now, as the lawyer paused to look up and repeat from the will the next words:
“And ten thousand pounds free of legacy duty.”
“No!” ejaculated the doctor, half rising. Then sitting down again he exclaimed, “Well!” took out his pocket-handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and then, without disguise, sat quietly wiping away the tears.
“To my nephew, Saul Harrington, one hundred pounds a year, raised as hereinafter specified by a Government annuity.”
Saul frowned and looked down at the carpet, though it was all he had dared to expect, and he listened eagerly to the next clause which left an annuity of one hundred per annum to the testator’s dear adopted child, Gertrude Bellwood, with the hope that she would fulfil his wishes. In conclusion, as Saul was trying to recover from the shock of knowing that Gertrude had spoken the truth, came the clauses dealing with the remainder of the old man’s wealth, which was left unconditionally with certain sums and their interest, sums remitted from the United States, “to my grandson, George Harrington, in the hope that he will dutifully fulfil my wishes expressed to him in the last letter I sent to America.”
The other parts of the will, with its appointment of “my old friends, Doctor Lawrence and Phineas Hampton, to be my sole executors,” seemed to consist of the ringing of bells in Saul Harrington’s ears as he still sat gazing down at the carpet when all was over.
“My congratulations, Lawrence,” said the old lawyer, smiling.
“My dear Hampton, I don’t know how to be sufficiently grateful. And, my dear Miss Gertrude, I cannot take this. Ten thousand pounds, and you only left with a hundred a year. Look here, Hampton. Now, no nonsense. I shall only take some of this money—half. The other I insist upon making over to Miss Gertrude here as her dowry.”
“Can’t be done. Shan’t be done,” said the old lawyer gruffly. “Lawrence, we’ve known each other twenty years.”
“Yes, we have.”
“Then don’t be a fool.”
“And not at his side when he died,” said the doctor, nodding his head. “My dear Miss Gertrude, I feel as if I am robbing you.”
“You don’t know how glad I am, Doctor Lawrence,” cried Gertrude, laying her hands in his. “Dear uncle always liked you, and I felt sure he would leave you something handsome in his will.”
“Hah!”
It was a long, low expiration of the breath from Saul Harrington, who was too deep in thought to hear what was going on, as, with hands down in his pockets, he gazed down fixedly at the carpet.
“And if George Harrington dies, I succeed to everything. Yes,” he said to himself, “I should be master here. Get out! Beast!”
He said these last words aloud, for the dog was sniffing at his legs, and all the time it seemed as if the portrait of old James Harrington was the old man himself, gazing down sternly from the wall at his plotting nephew.
“Yes, if he dies—if he dies—I shall be master here.”
Chapter Seven.Ready for the Heir.“There, Miss Gertrude,” said Mrs Denton, carefully pinning the white apron she had rolled up to guard against its falling open—the apron she had been wearing for a fortnight, “I don’t like to boast, but I think I may say that The Mynns never looked cleaner since it was a house.”“Never, Denton.”“And I’ve had my work to do, my dear, for servants will be servants. They’re paid so much a year, and they reckon how much they ought to do for the money, and when they’ve done that it’s hard to get them to move.”“Well, Denton,” said Gertrude, smiling, “is it not natural?”“Natural enough, my dear, if you’ll excuse me calling you so now you’re a grown young lady; but we don’t go by nature in service. I like to see servants take a pride in their work, and the place they’re in. I do, and I always try to make the place look better when there’s no one to watch me.”“You’re a dear, good old soul, Denton, and I hope we may never part.”“Till the last, miss, and the last comes to us all as it did to poor dear master. Forty years was I with him, my dear; and it don’t seem like forty weeks. Any news, my dear?”“No, Denton,” said Gertrude, flushing slightly now.“Well, he might have written if he has got the news, and said when you might expect him. It isn’t as if Mr Hampton hadn’t telegraphed out. And it does seem so strange. Six weeks since poor master died, and no letter. You’d be glad to hear, miss, wouldn’t you?”“I—I—yes—I don’t know, Denton.”“Ah well, natural enough, my dear, when you don’t know what he’s like, and he’s to be your husband. I hope he’ll turn out all poor master said about him, and make you very happy, my dear. I remember well when his poor father and mother brought him here before they sailed for America. Sad, restless gentleman, his poor father, wanting to go to foreign countries, to find gold when master used to tell him that there was more gold to be dug out of people’s pockets than ever he’d find out there. Don’t you think, my dear, that we might begin putting flowers now in young master’s room?”“Yes, Denton, do,” cried Gertrude quickly. “He may not come for days yet, but you could renew them.”“I mean for you to put them, my dear.”“I?”“Yes. There, don’t blush, my pretty,” said the old woman, smiling affectionately. “He’s to be your husband, you know, and I can see what you mean; you don’t want him to think you forward and pressing for it. Quite right, my child, but this is a particular case as we may say.”There was a double-knock and a sharp ring, and Bruno gave token of his presence by starting out from under the table and uttering a fierce bay.“Down, Bruno, down!” cried Gertrude, colouring deeply and then turning pale.“That’s a strange knock, Miss Gertrude. Perhaps it’s Mr George.”They stood listening in the drawing-room; the old woman, in her white crape cap, looking flushed and excited, and Gertrude, in her unrelieved black dress, white—even sallow—with excitement.“What will he think of poor little insignificant me?” she said to herself; and her heart beat more and more heavily as steps were heard in the hall; then their dull sound on the carpet, the door handle rattled, and Saul Harrington marched in unannounced.“Ah, Gertie,” he cried with boisterous familiarity. “How do, Denton? Here, keep that dog back or I shall kill him.”“Lie down, Bruno?” said Gertrude.“Send him out of the room.”“He will be quite quiet now,” replied Gertrude, who longed to tell the old housekeeper to stop in the room, but dared not make so great a confession of her dread of the visitor.“Oh, very well,” said Saul carelessly. “As long as he does not try to eat me, I don’t mind. Hah! gone,” he continued with a satisfied smile; “now we can have a chat.”“You wished to speak to me, Mr Harrington?” said Gertrude, trying hard not to show her agitation.“Only dropped in to see how you were, and to ask the news. Well, is my beloved relative on his way yet? When do you expect him?”“We have not heard from Mr George Harrington yet.”“You will open his letter, I suppose, when it comes for the old man?”“I shall pass it on to the executors.”“Pooh! we could read it. I say we, as I am so near a relative; but mark my words, Gertie, he’ll never come back. There, don’t cry. You never knew him, and don’t want to know him I’ll be sworn. Gertie, it’s as good as certain that he is dead, for the old man had not heard from him for quite a year, I know, and out there a man’s life isn’t worth much. Come, let’s see if you and I can’t have a little sensible talk.”Gertrude glanced uneasily at the door, and wondered whether Mrs Denton was near. Then she heard a sigh come from beneath the table, and felt comforted, for there was help at hand.Saul laughed as he interpreted her looks rightly.“What a silly little bird it is,” he said banteringly, “pretending to be afraid of me on purpose to lead me on. There, I apologise for being so rough that day. I ought to have approached you more gently, but it is your fault—you are so pretty and enticing. Why, what a terrible look!”“I have no right to forbid you this house, Mr Harrington,” said Gertrude coldly, “but I must beg of you not to refer to that terrible day again. I cannot bear it.”“Stuff!”“I cannot keep back the feeling that your presence shortened my poor uncle’s life.”“You’re a little goose, Gertie,” said Saul contemptuously. “The old man threw himself into a passion about nothing, and he paid the penalty.”Gertrude shook her head as she took up some work so as to avoid looking at the man lolling before her in an easy-chair.“Why, you little sceptic,” cried Saul laughingly. “It was a foregone conclusion that he would pop off some day in a fit of temper—because there were no coals in the scuttle, or his beef-tea was too hot. I happened to be there, and you blame me. That’s all.”“Pray say no more.”“All light, I will not. Always ready to obey you, Gertie, because I want to show you that I really love you very dearly.”Gertrude gave a hurried glance at the door, remembered the dog, and grew calm.“I’m not going to frighten you, Gertie,” continued Saul, “but I want for us to understand our position. Never mind what the executors or any one else says, George Harrington is not coming back. He’s dead or he would have been here.”“He has not had time yet. He was in the West—Far West, last time my uncle heard.”“I don’t care if he was in the much farther West. Letters would have reached him, and he would have known that his grandfather was dead, and if he had known it, do you think the man is living who would not have rushed over to secure this property?”Gertrude felt her heart sink. Not many minutes before she had felt a dread of meeting George Harrington; now that there was a possibility of Saul’s words being true, a curious feeling of sorrow attacked her, and she felt that she would give anything for the man, whose praises the old man had sung, to take her by the hand.“Well, you might talk,” continued Saul. “I’m not going to bother you, nor to hurry things. I know I’m right. There is no George Harrington, and you are going to be my wife.”“No, no,” cried Gertrude hastily.“And I say yes, yes, so don’t be silly. Better than being married to a man you have never seen—some whiskey-drinking, loafing rowdy from the States, who would have ill-used you, degraded you, spent every penny the old man left, and then gone back to America, and left you to starve, if you were not already dead of a broken heart.”Gertrude listened in silence, wondering at the strange feeling of indignation within her, and the desire to take up the cudgels on George Harrington’s behalf.“There, I’m speaking strongly,” said Saul, changing his tone, “because, of course, I feel strongly. You have always hung back from me, Gertie, because you did not thoroughly know me. But you are beginning to know me better, and I am going to wait patiently till you lay your hand in mine, and say, ‘Saul, dear, I am yours.’”Gertie started, and looked at her visitor with lips apart, dazed at the confident way in which he prophesied of the future.Saul noted it, and smiled to himself.“It’s easy enough,” he said to himself. “Only got to let ’em feel the curb, and they give in directly.”“Patience is the thing, Gertie, dear,” he continued aloud. “I suppose it will have to be a year first. There’s all that executor business to go through, and the law will be precious slow, of course, about giving up the property to the rightful heir. I’m the rightful heir, Gertie, there’s no mistake about that, and I think I’m behaving very fairly about you. It’s plain enough, now, that I didn’t come after you on account of your prospects, isn’t it?”He rose as he spoke with a peculiar smile on his face, and made two quick steps across to where Gertrude was seated.Her first thought was to spring up and make for the door, but, by a strong effort of will, she mastered herself and sat perfectly rigid in her seat, meeting his eyes without flinching, with the effect of disconcerting him, for he stopped short, and began tapping the crown of his hat. Had she tried to escape, he would have caught her in his arms.“That’s better,” he said, after an awkward pause. “I like that. You’re getting used to me, Gertie, and I tell you what, my girl, it will be a fine thing for you. Do you now what you ought to do if you are the clever girl I think you to be?”She shook her head. She dared not trust herself to speak, lest he should note the tremble in her voice.“Make sure of me while you can. Not many girls have the chance of such a rich husband.”“If he would only go,” thought Gertrude, fighting hard with the hysterical feeling which threatened to break forth in a fit of sobbing.For she was moved more than she knew. She had grown to expect, as a part of her life, that she should marry the frank-hearted man whose praise her guardian had constantly sung. She did not love him, but there was the germ of love in her breast waiting to be warmed into life and burst forth as a blossom, while now, speaking quite with the voice of authority, Saul Harrington had come at the end of her weeks of patient watching and expectation, to announce brutally his full conviction of her betrothed’s death. Her heart sank lower and lower, as she felt how probable his words were, and how likely it was that George Harrington had fallen a victim to climate or accident, or in some encounter, leaving her helpless and alone, at the mercy of a man who would lord it in his place, and who openly avowed his intention of making her his wife—another name for what would prove to be his slave.“Well, Gertie,” he said at last, after terrifying the poor girl by his manner, “I sha’n’t ask you to keep me to dinner to-day. Next time I come you will, won’t you?”She looked up in his face with her eyes wild with horror and perplexity. What should she do—what could she say? She felt now that she must end her position at The Mynns by making an appeal to Doctor Lawrence or Mr Hampton, and she blamed herself for not doing so sooner. But these thoughts did not help her now, and she remained silent.“Silence gives consent,” said Saul, laughing meaningly, as he passed his stick into the hand which held his hat, and held out his right. “I must be going now. Good-bye, Gertie.”She rose at this, and, with a feeling of relief, held out her hand.“Ah, that’s better,” he said, as he took it; and before the poor girl could realise her position, he had snatched her to his breast, dropping hat and stick to have both hands free.“Mr Saul!”“My darling little girl! The devil!”The last words were accompanied by a yell of pain and horror, as he literally flung Gertrude from him, and made for the door.For there had been no warning. Unknown to Saul, and forgotten in her agitation by Gertrude, Bruno had been lying beneath the table unseen, but seeing all, till what had seemed to his dumb brute mind a cowardly attack upon his mistress, when, with one quick swing round of his head, he caught Saul by the ankle, held on for a moment, and then stood before Gertrude, uttering a low fierce growl.“That settles it,” said Saul, trying to recover his equanimity, but speaking in a low voice full of fury. “I don’t want to be hard on you, Gertie, but if that dog is here next time I come, I’ll poison him, as sure as he is alive. I’m master now, and—”He stopped short, for the old housekeeper entered the room with a card, the ring at the front door and the answering footsteps having passed unnoticed in the drawing-room.“For me, Denton?” cried Gertie, eagerly running to the old woman, and clinging to her arm.“He asked for master, miss,” whispered the old woman. “He did not know. In the dining-room, miss. It’s Master George.”A mist seemed to float before Gertrude’s eyes, but not before she had read upon the card the name:“Mr George Harrington.”
“There, Miss Gertrude,” said Mrs Denton, carefully pinning the white apron she had rolled up to guard against its falling open—the apron she had been wearing for a fortnight, “I don’t like to boast, but I think I may say that The Mynns never looked cleaner since it was a house.”
“Never, Denton.”
“And I’ve had my work to do, my dear, for servants will be servants. They’re paid so much a year, and they reckon how much they ought to do for the money, and when they’ve done that it’s hard to get them to move.”
“Well, Denton,” said Gertrude, smiling, “is it not natural?”
“Natural enough, my dear, if you’ll excuse me calling you so now you’re a grown young lady; but we don’t go by nature in service. I like to see servants take a pride in their work, and the place they’re in. I do, and I always try to make the place look better when there’s no one to watch me.”
“You’re a dear, good old soul, Denton, and I hope we may never part.”
“Till the last, miss, and the last comes to us all as it did to poor dear master. Forty years was I with him, my dear; and it don’t seem like forty weeks. Any news, my dear?”
“No, Denton,” said Gertrude, flushing slightly now.
“Well, he might have written if he has got the news, and said when you might expect him. It isn’t as if Mr Hampton hadn’t telegraphed out. And it does seem so strange. Six weeks since poor master died, and no letter. You’d be glad to hear, miss, wouldn’t you?”
“I—I—yes—I don’t know, Denton.”
“Ah well, natural enough, my dear, when you don’t know what he’s like, and he’s to be your husband. I hope he’ll turn out all poor master said about him, and make you very happy, my dear. I remember well when his poor father and mother brought him here before they sailed for America. Sad, restless gentleman, his poor father, wanting to go to foreign countries, to find gold when master used to tell him that there was more gold to be dug out of people’s pockets than ever he’d find out there. Don’t you think, my dear, that we might begin putting flowers now in young master’s room?”
“Yes, Denton, do,” cried Gertrude quickly. “He may not come for days yet, but you could renew them.”
“I mean for you to put them, my dear.”
“I?”
“Yes. There, don’t blush, my pretty,” said the old woman, smiling affectionately. “He’s to be your husband, you know, and I can see what you mean; you don’t want him to think you forward and pressing for it. Quite right, my child, but this is a particular case as we may say.”
There was a double-knock and a sharp ring, and Bruno gave token of his presence by starting out from under the table and uttering a fierce bay.
“Down, Bruno, down!” cried Gertrude, colouring deeply and then turning pale.
“That’s a strange knock, Miss Gertrude. Perhaps it’s Mr George.”
They stood listening in the drawing-room; the old woman, in her white crape cap, looking flushed and excited, and Gertrude, in her unrelieved black dress, white—even sallow—with excitement.
“What will he think of poor little insignificant me?” she said to herself; and her heart beat more and more heavily as steps were heard in the hall; then their dull sound on the carpet, the door handle rattled, and Saul Harrington marched in unannounced.
“Ah, Gertie,” he cried with boisterous familiarity. “How do, Denton? Here, keep that dog back or I shall kill him.”
“Lie down, Bruno?” said Gertrude.
“Send him out of the room.”
“He will be quite quiet now,” replied Gertrude, who longed to tell the old housekeeper to stop in the room, but dared not make so great a confession of her dread of the visitor.
“Oh, very well,” said Saul carelessly. “As long as he does not try to eat me, I don’t mind. Hah! gone,” he continued with a satisfied smile; “now we can have a chat.”
“You wished to speak to me, Mr Harrington?” said Gertrude, trying hard not to show her agitation.
“Only dropped in to see how you were, and to ask the news. Well, is my beloved relative on his way yet? When do you expect him?”
“We have not heard from Mr George Harrington yet.”
“You will open his letter, I suppose, when it comes for the old man?”
“I shall pass it on to the executors.”
“Pooh! we could read it. I say we, as I am so near a relative; but mark my words, Gertie, he’ll never come back. There, don’t cry. You never knew him, and don’t want to know him I’ll be sworn. Gertie, it’s as good as certain that he is dead, for the old man had not heard from him for quite a year, I know, and out there a man’s life isn’t worth much. Come, let’s see if you and I can’t have a little sensible talk.”
Gertrude glanced uneasily at the door, and wondered whether Mrs Denton was near. Then she heard a sigh come from beneath the table, and felt comforted, for there was help at hand.
Saul laughed as he interpreted her looks rightly.
“What a silly little bird it is,” he said banteringly, “pretending to be afraid of me on purpose to lead me on. There, I apologise for being so rough that day. I ought to have approached you more gently, but it is your fault—you are so pretty and enticing. Why, what a terrible look!”
“I have no right to forbid you this house, Mr Harrington,” said Gertrude coldly, “but I must beg of you not to refer to that terrible day again. I cannot bear it.”
“Stuff!”
“I cannot keep back the feeling that your presence shortened my poor uncle’s life.”
“You’re a little goose, Gertie,” said Saul contemptuously. “The old man threw himself into a passion about nothing, and he paid the penalty.”
Gertrude shook her head as she took up some work so as to avoid looking at the man lolling before her in an easy-chair.
“Why, you little sceptic,” cried Saul laughingly. “It was a foregone conclusion that he would pop off some day in a fit of temper—because there were no coals in the scuttle, or his beef-tea was too hot. I happened to be there, and you blame me. That’s all.”
“Pray say no more.”
“All light, I will not. Always ready to obey you, Gertie, because I want to show you that I really love you very dearly.”
Gertrude gave a hurried glance at the door, remembered the dog, and grew calm.
“I’m not going to frighten you, Gertie,” continued Saul, “but I want for us to understand our position. Never mind what the executors or any one else says, George Harrington is not coming back. He’s dead or he would have been here.”
“He has not had time yet. He was in the West—Far West, last time my uncle heard.”
“I don’t care if he was in the much farther West. Letters would have reached him, and he would have known that his grandfather was dead, and if he had known it, do you think the man is living who would not have rushed over to secure this property?”
Gertrude felt her heart sink. Not many minutes before she had felt a dread of meeting George Harrington; now that there was a possibility of Saul’s words being true, a curious feeling of sorrow attacked her, and she felt that she would give anything for the man, whose praises the old man had sung, to take her by the hand.
“Well, you might talk,” continued Saul. “I’m not going to bother you, nor to hurry things. I know I’m right. There is no George Harrington, and you are going to be my wife.”
“No, no,” cried Gertrude hastily.
“And I say yes, yes, so don’t be silly. Better than being married to a man you have never seen—some whiskey-drinking, loafing rowdy from the States, who would have ill-used you, degraded you, spent every penny the old man left, and then gone back to America, and left you to starve, if you were not already dead of a broken heart.”
Gertrude listened in silence, wondering at the strange feeling of indignation within her, and the desire to take up the cudgels on George Harrington’s behalf.
“There, I’m speaking strongly,” said Saul, changing his tone, “because, of course, I feel strongly. You have always hung back from me, Gertie, because you did not thoroughly know me. But you are beginning to know me better, and I am going to wait patiently till you lay your hand in mine, and say, ‘Saul, dear, I am yours.’”
Gertie started, and looked at her visitor with lips apart, dazed at the confident way in which he prophesied of the future.
Saul noted it, and smiled to himself.
“It’s easy enough,” he said to himself. “Only got to let ’em feel the curb, and they give in directly.”
“Patience is the thing, Gertie, dear,” he continued aloud. “I suppose it will have to be a year first. There’s all that executor business to go through, and the law will be precious slow, of course, about giving up the property to the rightful heir. I’m the rightful heir, Gertie, there’s no mistake about that, and I think I’m behaving very fairly about you. It’s plain enough, now, that I didn’t come after you on account of your prospects, isn’t it?”
He rose as he spoke with a peculiar smile on his face, and made two quick steps across to where Gertrude was seated.
Her first thought was to spring up and make for the door, but, by a strong effort of will, she mastered herself and sat perfectly rigid in her seat, meeting his eyes without flinching, with the effect of disconcerting him, for he stopped short, and began tapping the crown of his hat. Had she tried to escape, he would have caught her in his arms.
“That’s better,” he said, after an awkward pause. “I like that. You’re getting used to me, Gertie, and I tell you what, my girl, it will be a fine thing for you. Do you now what you ought to do if you are the clever girl I think you to be?”
She shook her head. She dared not trust herself to speak, lest he should note the tremble in her voice.
“Make sure of me while you can. Not many girls have the chance of such a rich husband.”
“If he would only go,” thought Gertrude, fighting hard with the hysterical feeling which threatened to break forth in a fit of sobbing.
For she was moved more than she knew. She had grown to expect, as a part of her life, that she should marry the frank-hearted man whose praise her guardian had constantly sung. She did not love him, but there was the germ of love in her breast waiting to be warmed into life and burst forth as a blossom, while now, speaking quite with the voice of authority, Saul Harrington had come at the end of her weeks of patient watching and expectation, to announce brutally his full conviction of her betrothed’s death. Her heart sank lower and lower, as she felt how probable his words were, and how likely it was that George Harrington had fallen a victim to climate or accident, or in some encounter, leaving her helpless and alone, at the mercy of a man who would lord it in his place, and who openly avowed his intention of making her his wife—another name for what would prove to be his slave.
“Well, Gertie,” he said at last, after terrifying the poor girl by his manner, “I sha’n’t ask you to keep me to dinner to-day. Next time I come you will, won’t you?”
She looked up in his face with her eyes wild with horror and perplexity. What should she do—what could she say? She felt now that she must end her position at The Mynns by making an appeal to Doctor Lawrence or Mr Hampton, and she blamed herself for not doing so sooner. But these thoughts did not help her now, and she remained silent.
“Silence gives consent,” said Saul, laughing meaningly, as he passed his stick into the hand which held his hat, and held out his right. “I must be going now. Good-bye, Gertie.”
She rose at this, and, with a feeling of relief, held out her hand.
“Ah, that’s better,” he said, as he took it; and before the poor girl could realise her position, he had snatched her to his breast, dropping hat and stick to have both hands free.
“Mr Saul!”
“My darling little girl! The devil!”
The last words were accompanied by a yell of pain and horror, as he literally flung Gertrude from him, and made for the door.
For there had been no warning. Unknown to Saul, and forgotten in her agitation by Gertrude, Bruno had been lying beneath the table unseen, but seeing all, till what had seemed to his dumb brute mind a cowardly attack upon his mistress, when, with one quick swing round of his head, he caught Saul by the ankle, held on for a moment, and then stood before Gertrude, uttering a low fierce growl.
“That settles it,” said Saul, trying to recover his equanimity, but speaking in a low voice full of fury. “I don’t want to be hard on you, Gertie, but if that dog is here next time I come, I’ll poison him, as sure as he is alive. I’m master now, and—”
He stopped short, for the old housekeeper entered the room with a card, the ring at the front door and the answering footsteps having passed unnoticed in the drawing-room.
“For me, Denton?” cried Gertie, eagerly running to the old woman, and clinging to her arm.
“He asked for master, miss,” whispered the old woman. “He did not know. In the dining-room, miss. It’s Master George.”
A mist seemed to float before Gertrude’s eyes, but not before she had read upon the card the name:
“Mr George Harrington.”
Chapter Eight.“Mr George Harrington.”“Who’s that? What’s that?” cried Saul Harrington sharply, as he saw by Gertrude’s agitation that there was something particular on the way.“It’s Master George come, sir,” said the old housekeeper.“What?” he roared; and his face turned sallow. “Impossible!”Gertrude stood trembling, with the card in her hand, the name thereon seeming to play strange tricks, and growing larger and then dying away, till it seemed to be hidden in a mist, while a chaos of thoughts ran confusedly through her brain. At one moment she looked upon the coming of this stranger with dread, for a stranger he was to her; the next her heart began to beat, and her cheeks flushed, as she recalled that he was her affianced husband, and that he had come to protect her from this man, and that henceforth she would be safe.She was brought back to the present by the old housekeeper, who, for the second time, touched her arm.“Miss Gertrude, ma’am, don’t you hear me?” she said. “What shall I tell him?”“I—I—”“Stop!” cried Saul sharply. “You are a young unprotected girl, and as the executors are not here, Gertie, I look upon it as my duty to see after your welfare. How do we know that this is George Harrington? Let me look at that card.”He snatched the card from the trembling girl’s fingers, and scowled as he read the inscription, though he could gather nothing from that.“Here, I’ll go down and see what he’s like. It may be some impostor.”He had reached the door when Gertrude flushed up, and seemed in her decisive action to have changed from girl to woman.“Stop, Mr Harrington!” she said; “this would not be the way to welcome my poor dead guardian’s grandson, and I think it is due to me that you should refrain.”“What!” he cried, staggered for the moment by her manner and bearing, as she crossed to a writing-table. “Nonsense, girl; you know nothing of the ways of the world. I’ll meet this man, and see what he is like.”Gertrude took no notice, but wrote two telegrams, and handed them to the housekeeper.“Send them at once,” she whispered, and she turned to the door, where Saul’s hand was raised to stop her, but there was a low growl from close at hand, Saul started and shrank away, leaving the door free; but before Gertrude was half way to the room, with the dog close at her heels, Saul had followed, and entered the dining-room just as the keen-looking, sun-browned, and well-dressed man, who had stood gazing at old Harrington’s portrait, turned quickly and advanced to meet the agitated girl.“How do you do?” he said, in a sharp decisive way, as he held out both hands, Gertrude placing hers within them, to be retained, as the stranger looked at her searchingly, and evidently with satisfaction. “There you need not tell me,” he continued, “you’re Gertrude, I know. I say, quite a shock to me to come back too late. That’s the old man, I suppose?”He nodded towards the portrait as, without moving her eyes from his, Gertrude replied:“Yes, that is uncle’s—I mean dear guardian’s portrait.”“Like him?”“Oh, so very like,” replied Gertrude, “I can almost fancy sometimes he is looking down at me from the wall.”“Ah,” exclaimed the other, giving a quick glance up at the picture and back to Gertrude, whose hands he still held, and pressed warmly. “Of course I don’t remember. Quite a little shaver when I went over yonder.”Saul, who stood glowering at the pair, half mad with rage and disappointment, winced at these words, but setting his teeth hard, he said quietly:“Have you just arrived?”“Reached Liverpool last night. Came on this morning. Very rough passage. Who are you?”“I,” said Saul, forcing a smile—“well, I am—here is my card.”He did not finish his sentence, but drew a card from his case.“Mr Saul Harrington,” read the stranger. “Let’s see, I think I have heard of you?”“Well, I should presume so,” replied Saul stiffly.“I was right up the country when grandfather’s last letter came,” said the new-comer hastily, “but I got back to ’Frisco, and then across to New York, and took boat soon as I could, and here I am. Didn’t stop about much luggage, so as to be quick. Can I stay here?”“Stay here?” said Gertrude, withdrawing her hands. “Oh, yes, it is your own house.”“Ah, to be sure, I suppose so,” cried the young man sharply; and as he spoke his dark eyes were running from one to the other, and then to the dog, which kept on sniffing at him uneasily. “Won’t bite, will he?”“Oh no. Lie down, Bruno,” cried Gertrude hastily.“Don’t know so much about that,” said Saul; “he can bite sometimes.”“Well, he’d better keep his fangs out of me,” said the young man, with an involuntary movement of the hand beneath the back of his morning coat.“You’ll excuse me,” interposed Saul, taking a step forward, “but you are a perfect stranger to us, sir.”“Natural-lee,” said the young man. “Never met before, of course.”“Then will you be good enough to give me some proofs that you are the gentleman whose card you sent up.”“Eh? Proofs? Oh, yes. No, I won’t. Look here, sir, this is a curious welcome; pray, who are you?”“I gave you my card, sir.”“Yes, of course, Saul Harrington—Mr Saul Harrington. But that don’t explain—yes, it does, you’re a cousin. The old man said something about you in his last letter.”“And in the others,” said Saul sharply.“Of course.”“Have you the letters?”“I told you I had, didn’t I? Am I to show them to you?”“Stop,” cried Gertrude quietly.“Eh? Stop!” cried Saul fiercely. “How do we know that this is not an impostor?”“A what,” roared the young man fiercely.“Stop, if you please,” said Gertrude. “Mr Saul Harrington is only a visitor here, Mr George, and has no right to make such a demand of you.”“Mind what you are saying,” cried Saul angrily.“I am minding what I am saying, sir. You have no right to ask such questions.”“What? Not in your behalf?”“No, sir,” interposed their visitor sharply, as he took his cue from Gertrude; “no right at all.”“I was not speaking to you,” said Saul roughly; and the two men stood glowering at each other, Saul having rather the best of it, till Gertrude spoke hastily, in dread of a quarrel:“If there is any need for Mr George Harrington to prove his identity, it should be to Mr Hampton and Doctor Lawrence.”“Who are they?” said the young man sharply.“My dear guardians,” replied Gertrude.“Seems rather a strange thing,” said the young man, giving Gertrude a reproachful look, and then metaphorically setting up his hackles as he turned defiantly upon Saul, “that I come back to England, at my grandfather’s invitation, to my own place, and find some one, who has no right, beginning to dictate to me as to what I am to do.”“I don’t know about dictating,” said Saul, who grew more calm as the stranger became excited; “but you don’t suppose, sir, that I, as my uncle’s representative, am going to stand by and let a perfect stranger enter upon the place, and take possession. What proof have I that you are George Harrington?”“Proof? Didn’t I send up my card?”“Card!” cried Saul contemptuously.“Oh, if that isn’t enough I can give you plenty more proofs,” cried the young man quickly.“Stop, Mr George Harrington,” said Gertrude, warmly espousing his cause. “Mr Saul Harrington assumes too much. I am my guardian’s representative at The Mynns till his grandson comes and takes possession. I decline, then, to let you be treated in this uncalled-for way.”“Thank you, my dear, thank you,” cried the young fellow sharply. “Now, Mr Saul Harrington, what have you got to say to that?”“Gertrude, you’ll repent this,” cried Saul, whose jealous rage and disappointment swept away the calm manner he had assumed.“Perhaps so. But if she does, I suppose it’s no business of yours, sir. He has no right to bully you, has he, my dear?”Gertrude flinched a little at this over-friendly, familiar way; but she thought to herself that George Harrington had led a rough life out in the West, and it was well meant. She could not help leaning, too, towards the man who had, she felt, a right to champion her, and he had come now to protect her and defend her against one whom now she literally loathed.She replied then eagerly:“None whatever, Mr George. This is your home, too, and he has no right to interfere upon your taking possession.”She held out her hand to him, and looked him frankly in the eyes, as she said quickly:“I’m very glad you have come.”“Thank ye, my dear, thank ye. I’m rather rough, but you must not mind that. Been hunting, and gold-digging, and living in camp. Soon rub off the corners. It’s very nice and kind of you to speak so well as you have.”He took the hand she held out, drew it through his arm, and kept it in quiet possession, as he turned with an insolent look of triumph upon Saul.“Now, Mr What’s-your-name, do you live here?”“No,” said Saul sharply, and he returned the other’s defiant look, and felt hard pressed to keep back his jealous rage as he saw Gertrude rest calmly, with her hand in that of the new-comer. “No—not yet,” he added to himself.“Well, then, my dear sir, as I do—in future—and as I have come a very long journey, and am tired and hungry, and want to talk to miss here, perhaps you’ll be good enough to take your hat and get out.”Saul’s eyes flashed, and his cheeks became of an uglier pallor, as he listened to this speech, which bore a strong resemblance to that of one of the late Mr Chucks, the boatswain, of “Peter Simple” fame. For it was all refinement at the beginning, and wandered off into argot that was the very reverse.“I am not accustomed to be ordered out of this house, sir,” said Saul in a low voice, full of suppressed rage; “and I refuse to go until I have seen your credentials.”“What!”“And I’m not going to be bullied,” said Saul. “Your cowboy manners don’t frighten me; and if it wasn’t for the lady here, whom, in spite of her preference for an utter stranger, I am bound to protect, I’d just take you and show you how to behave in an English house.”“Would you, sir? Then look here. Out in the West, from where I came, we have no policemen and magistrates at every corner, ready to do all our dirty work. We do it ourselves, and carry with us all that is ready and necessary for the job.”He advanced menacingly towards Saul; and as he took his first step, his hand dropped Gertrude’s, and he put it behind him.“George Harrington! For Heaven’s sake?”“Yes, yes, of course,” he cried laughingly, taking her hand, laying it upon his arm, and stroking it gently. “I forgot. He riled me, and I felt as if I was back among the roughs out yonder. There, I don’t want to quarrel, Mr Saul Harrington. I suppose we are uncles and cousins or something of the kind. Shake hands, and let’s have a glass of something to show we are not bad friends. I suppose there is something in the house—eh, my dear?”“Yes, but—”“Look here, sir,” cried Saul, ignoring the proffered hand, “I am not frightened by your Yankee, bullying ways, and I tell you what it is—”Saul Harrington did not tell the new-comer what it was, for the door opened, and Doctor Lawrence came in hastily.“What’s the matter?” he cried. “Some one ill?”“Yes, old gentleman,” said the stranger banteringly. “This chap—Mr Saul Harrington I think he calls himself—has got a fit.”Doctor Lawrence gazed sharply at the speaker, and then placed his glasses upon his nose, as Gertrude withdrew her arm and hurriedly crossed to the doctor’s side.“Yes, sir,” cried Saul fiercely, “a fit of indignation. I refused to—”“Oh, look here, let’s have an end of this. I don’t know who you are, old gentleman.”“My name is Lawrence.”“Well, then, Mr Lawrence—Oh, I know; you are my grandfather’s executor.”“One of them, sir.”“Well, I’ve come home at my grandfather’s wish, and I find he’s dead, and this man ready here to bully, and order, and insist upon my showing my papers.”“Hum, my dear, don’t be alarmed,” said the doctor quietly; and then he turned to the last speaker. “You come as a stranger, sir, and it will be quite necessary for you to give ample proof that you are Mr George Harrington.”“Of course, old gentleman, of course.”“To me and my colleague, Mr Hampton; but I think Mr Saul Harrington might have waited till those who have a right to question come upon the spot. Lucky I came down.”“You got my telegram?” said Gertrude.“Telegram? No, my dear. I left home two hours ago. Now, Mr Saul, what have you to say?”“Oh, I do not want to interfere,” said Saul quickly. “But there was no one here to protect Miss Bellwood.”“Surely she needed no protection?” said the doctor, looking from one to the other.“How do you know that, sir, when a man comes here assuming to be my cousin.”“Assuming!” cried the new-comer very fiercely.“Yes, assuming, sir. You refused to show any credentials.”“Oh, no, I didn’t, and I don’t. But when a fellow begins to bully me, and to come the high-handed, I hit back. Look here, Mr Lawrence, has this Mr Saul Harrington any right to insist upon my clearing up to him?”“None whatever, sir.”“That’s enough. As to my refusing—not such a fool. Only we learn too much out in the West to begin opening out to every one who says, ‘I’m the proper moral custom-house officer: give up your keys.’”“I only interfered as the executors were not present,” said Saul Harrington. “If this gentleman is what he professes to be, I shall only be too glad to give him the hand of welcome.”“Thank ye for nothing. Now then, I’m hungry, so don’t let’s have any more jaw.”
“Who’s that? What’s that?” cried Saul Harrington sharply, as he saw by Gertrude’s agitation that there was something particular on the way.
“It’s Master George come, sir,” said the old housekeeper.
“What?” he roared; and his face turned sallow. “Impossible!”
Gertrude stood trembling, with the card in her hand, the name thereon seeming to play strange tricks, and growing larger and then dying away, till it seemed to be hidden in a mist, while a chaos of thoughts ran confusedly through her brain. At one moment she looked upon the coming of this stranger with dread, for a stranger he was to her; the next her heart began to beat, and her cheeks flushed, as she recalled that he was her affianced husband, and that he had come to protect her from this man, and that henceforth she would be safe.
She was brought back to the present by the old housekeeper, who, for the second time, touched her arm.
“Miss Gertrude, ma’am, don’t you hear me?” she said. “What shall I tell him?”
“I—I—”
“Stop!” cried Saul sharply. “You are a young unprotected girl, and as the executors are not here, Gertie, I look upon it as my duty to see after your welfare. How do we know that this is George Harrington? Let me look at that card.”
He snatched the card from the trembling girl’s fingers, and scowled as he read the inscription, though he could gather nothing from that.
“Here, I’ll go down and see what he’s like. It may be some impostor.”
He had reached the door when Gertrude flushed up, and seemed in her decisive action to have changed from girl to woman.
“Stop, Mr Harrington!” she said; “this would not be the way to welcome my poor dead guardian’s grandson, and I think it is due to me that you should refrain.”
“What!” he cried, staggered for the moment by her manner and bearing, as she crossed to a writing-table. “Nonsense, girl; you know nothing of the ways of the world. I’ll meet this man, and see what he is like.”
Gertrude took no notice, but wrote two telegrams, and handed them to the housekeeper.
“Send them at once,” she whispered, and she turned to the door, where Saul’s hand was raised to stop her, but there was a low growl from close at hand, Saul started and shrank away, leaving the door free; but before Gertrude was half way to the room, with the dog close at her heels, Saul had followed, and entered the dining-room just as the keen-looking, sun-browned, and well-dressed man, who had stood gazing at old Harrington’s portrait, turned quickly and advanced to meet the agitated girl.
“How do you do?” he said, in a sharp decisive way, as he held out both hands, Gertrude placing hers within them, to be retained, as the stranger looked at her searchingly, and evidently with satisfaction. “There you need not tell me,” he continued, “you’re Gertrude, I know. I say, quite a shock to me to come back too late. That’s the old man, I suppose?”
He nodded towards the portrait as, without moving her eyes from his, Gertrude replied:
“Yes, that is uncle’s—I mean dear guardian’s portrait.”
“Like him?”
“Oh, so very like,” replied Gertrude, “I can almost fancy sometimes he is looking down at me from the wall.”
“Ah,” exclaimed the other, giving a quick glance up at the picture and back to Gertrude, whose hands he still held, and pressed warmly. “Of course I don’t remember. Quite a little shaver when I went over yonder.”
Saul, who stood glowering at the pair, half mad with rage and disappointment, winced at these words, but setting his teeth hard, he said quietly:
“Have you just arrived?”
“Reached Liverpool last night. Came on this morning. Very rough passage. Who are you?”
“I,” said Saul, forcing a smile—“well, I am—here is my card.”
He did not finish his sentence, but drew a card from his case.
“Mr Saul Harrington,” read the stranger. “Let’s see, I think I have heard of you?”
“Well, I should presume so,” replied Saul stiffly.
“I was right up the country when grandfather’s last letter came,” said the new-comer hastily, “but I got back to ’Frisco, and then across to New York, and took boat soon as I could, and here I am. Didn’t stop about much luggage, so as to be quick. Can I stay here?”
“Stay here?” said Gertrude, withdrawing her hands. “Oh, yes, it is your own house.”
“Ah, to be sure, I suppose so,” cried the young man sharply; and as he spoke his dark eyes were running from one to the other, and then to the dog, which kept on sniffing at him uneasily. “Won’t bite, will he?”
“Oh no. Lie down, Bruno,” cried Gertrude hastily.
“Don’t know so much about that,” said Saul; “he can bite sometimes.”
“Well, he’d better keep his fangs out of me,” said the young man, with an involuntary movement of the hand beneath the back of his morning coat.
“You’ll excuse me,” interposed Saul, taking a step forward, “but you are a perfect stranger to us, sir.”
“Natural-lee,” said the young man. “Never met before, of course.”
“Then will you be good enough to give me some proofs that you are the gentleman whose card you sent up.”
“Eh? Proofs? Oh, yes. No, I won’t. Look here, sir, this is a curious welcome; pray, who are you?”
“I gave you my card, sir.”
“Yes, of course, Saul Harrington—Mr Saul Harrington. But that don’t explain—yes, it does, you’re a cousin. The old man said something about you in his last letter.”
“And in the others,” said Saul sharply.
“Of course.”
“Have you the letters?”
“I told you I had, didn’t I? Am I to show them to you?”
“Stop,” cried Gertrude quietly.
“Eh? Stop!” cried Saul fiercely. “How do we know that this is not an impostor?”
“A what,” roared the young man fiercely.
“Stop, if you please,” said Gertrude. “Mr Saul Harrington is only a visitor here, Mr George, and has no right to make such a demand of you.”
“Mind what you are saying,” cried Saul angrily.
“I am minding what I am saying, sir. You have no right to ask such questions.”
“What? Not in your behalf?”
“No, sir,” interposed their visitor sharply, as he took his cue from Gertrude; “no right at all.”
“I was not speaking to you,” said Saul roughly; and the two men stood glowering at each other, Saul having rather the best of it, till Gertrude spoke hastily, in dread of a quarrel:
“If there is any need for Mr George Harrington to prove his identity, it should be to Mr Hampton and Doctor Lawrence.”
“Who are they?” said the young man sharply.
“My dear guardians,” replied Gertrude.
“Seems rather a strange thing,” said the young man, giving Gertrude a reproachful look, and then metaphorically setting up his hackles as he turned defiantly upon Saul, “that I come back to England, at my grandfather’s invitation, to my own place, and find some one, who has no right, beginning to dictate to me as to what I am to do.”
“I don’t know about dictating,” said Saul, who grew more calm as the stranger became excited; “but you don’t suppose, sir, that I, as my uncle’s representative, am going to stand by and let a perfect stranger enter upon the place, and take possession. What proof have I that you are George Harrington?”
“Proof? Didn’t I send up my card?”
“Card!” cried Saul contemptuously.
“Oh, if that isn’t enough I can give you plenty more proofs,” cried the young man quickly.
“Stop, Mr George Harrington,” said Gertrude, warmly espousing his cause. “Mr Saul Harrington assumes too much. I am my guardian’s representative at The Mynns till his grandson comes and takes possession. I decline, then, to let you be treated in this uncalled-for way.”
“Thank you, my dear, thank you,” cried the young fellow sharply. “Now, Mr Saul Harrington, what have you got to say to that?”
“Gertrude, you’ll repent this,” cried Saul, whose jealous rage and disappointment swept away the calm manner he had assumed.
“Perhaps so. But if she does, I suppose it’s no business of yours, sir. He has no right to bully you, has he, my dear?”
Gertrude flinched a little at this over-friendly, familiar way; but she thought to herself that George Harrington had led a rough life out in the West, and it was well meant. She could not help leaning, too, towards the man who had, she felt, a right to champion her, and he had come now to protect her and defend her against one whom now she literally loathed.
She replied then eagerly:
“None whatever, Mr George. This is your home, too, and he has no right to interfere upon your taking possession.”
She held out her hand to him, and looked him frankly in the eyes, as she said quickly:
“I’m very glad you have come.”
“Thank ye, my dear, thank ye. I’m rather rough, but you must not mind that. Been hunting, and gold-digging, and living in camp. Soon rub off the corners. It’s very nice and kind of you to speak so well as you have.”
He took the hand she held out, drew it through his arm, and kept it in quiet possession, as he turned with an insolent look of triumph upon Saul.
“Now, Mr What’s-your-name, do you live here?”
“No,” said Saul sharply, and he returned the other’s defiant look, and felt hard pressed to keep back his jealous rage as he saw Gertrude rest calmly, with her hand in that of the new-comer. “No—not yet,” he added to himself.
“Well, then, my dear sir, as I do—in future—and as I have come a very long journey, and am tired and hungry, and want to talk to miss here, perhaps you’ll be good enough to take your hat and get out.”
Saul’s eyes flashed, and his cheeks became of an uglier pallor, as he listened to this speech, which bore a strong resemblance to that of one of the late Mr Chucks, the boatswain, of “Peter Simple” fame. For it was all refinement at the beginning, and wandered off into argot that was the very reverse.
“I am not accustomed to be ordered out of this house, sir,” said Saul in a low voice, full of suppressed rage; “and I refuse to go until I have seen your credentials.”
“What!”
“And I’m not going to be bullied,” said Saul. “Your cowboy manners don’t frighten me; and if it wasn’t for the lady here, whom, in spite of her preference for an utter stranger, I am bound to protect, I’d just take you and show you how to behave in an English house.”
“Would you, sir? Then look here. Out in the West, from where I came, we have no policemen and magistrates at every corner, ready to do all our dirty work. We do it ourselves, and carry with us all that is ready and necessary for the job.”
He advanced menacingly towards Saul; and as he took his first step, his hand dropped Gertrude’s, and he put it behind him.
“George Harrington! For Heaven’s sake?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he cried laughingly, taking her hand, laying it upon his arm, and stroking it gently. “I forgot. He riled me, and I felt as if I was back among the roughs out yonder. There, I don’t want to quarrel, Mr Saul Harrington. I suppose we are uncles and cousins or something of the kind. Shake hands, and let’s have a glass of something to show we are not bad friends. I suppose there is something in the house—eh, my dear?”
“Yes, but—”
“Look here, sir,” cried Saul, ignoring the proffered hand, “I am not frightened by your Yankee, bullying ways, and I tell you what it is—”
Saul Harrington did not tell the new-comer what it was, for the door opened, and Doctor Lawrence came in hastily.
“What’s the matter?” he cried. “Some one ill?”
“Yes, old gentleman,” said the stranger banteringly. “This chap—Mr Saul Harrington I think he calls himself—has got a fit.”
Doctor Lawrence gazed sharply at the speaker, and then placed his glasses upon his nose, as Gertrude withdrew her arm and hurriedly crossed to the doctor’s side.
“Yes, sir,” cried Saul fiercely, “a fit of indignation. I refused to—”
“Oh, look here, let’s have an end of this. I don’t know who you are, old gentleman.”
“My name is Lawrence.”
“Well, then, Mr Lawrence—Oh, I know; you are my grandfather’s executor.”
“One of them, sir.”
“Well, I’ve come home at my grandfather’s wish, and I find he’s dead, and this man ready here to bully, and order, and insist upon my showing my papers.”
“Hum, my dear, don’t be alarmed,” said the doctor quietly; and then he turned to the last speaker. “You come as a stranger, sir, and it will be quite necessary for you to give ample proof that you are Mr George Harrington.”
“Of course, old gentleman, of course.”
“To me and my colleague, Mr Hampton; but I think Mr Saul Harrington might have waited till those who have a right to question come upon the spot. Lucky I came down.”
“You got my telegram?” said Gertrude.
“Telegram? No, my dear. I left home two hours ago. Now, Mr Saul, what have you to say?”
“Oh, I do not want to interfere,” said Saul quickly. “But there was no one here to protect Miss Bellwood.”
“Surely she needed no protection?” said the doctor, looking from one to the other.
“How do you know that, sir, when a man comes here assuming to be my cousin.”
“Assuming!” cried the new-comer very fiercely.
“Yes, assuming, sir. You refused to show any credentials.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t, and I don’t. But when a fellow begins to bully me, and to come the high-handed, I hit back. Look here, Mr Lawrence, has this Mr Saul Harrington any right to insist upon my clearing up to him?”
“None whatever, sir.”
“That’s enough. As to my refusing—not such a fool. Only we learn too much out in the West to begin opening out to every one who says, ‘I’m the proper moral custom-house officer: give up your keys.’”
“I only interfered as the executors were not present,” said Saul Harrington. “If this gentleman is what he professes to be, I shall only be too glad to give him the hand of welcome.”
“Thank ye for nothing. Now then, I’m hungry, so don’t let’s have any more jaw.”
Chapter Nine.Proofs of Identity.The new-comer was furnished with refreshment, and at the end of a couple of hours, after a long talk between Saul and Doctor Lawrence, the visitor rejoined them, just as there was a loud ring, steps, and, to Gertrude’s great delight, the lawyer entered the room.“Who’s this?” said the young man sharply. “My fellow executor—Mr Hampton,” said the doctor. “Hampton, this is Mr George Harrington.”“Oh, indeed,” said the old lawyer, setting down a very glossy silk hat, and depositing a new pair of black kid gloves therein. “Good-morning, my dear Miss Gertrude. Sit down, sir, pray.”“Thank ye.”“Mr Saul Harrington, are you going to stay to this little conference?”“Certainly, sir. You know it concerns me very closely.”“Ye-es,” said the lawyer, “true. Mr George Harrington?”“Yes, sir. Mr Hampton, I am George Harrington.”“You will excuse me, I am sure.”“Oh, yes, old gentleman, go ahead.”“You see Doctor Lawrence and I are the late Mr Harrington’s executors, and we have a duty to perform. In the pursuit of that duty we shall have to ask questions that may seem impertinent.”“Oh, I don’t mind. Quite right. I’ll answer, only let’s get it done. Here! I like dogs,” he said softly to Gertrude, as he patted his leg, chirruped, and Bruno wagged his tail, trotted toward him, and then turned off, and went to the other side of where Gertrude was seated. “Ha, ha, ha! Dog wants to hear first whether I am the genuine article.”Saul watched him closely, and the doctor and lawyer exchanged glances, as if satisfied by the bluff nonchalant manner of the claimant, who raised his eyes now, and looked long and searchingly at the portrait whose eyes met his.“Will you be good enough, sir, to tell me whose son you are?”“Eh? George and Isabel Harrington’s.”“And when you were born?”“No! Hang it all, sir, that’s a poser. Can’t recollect being born.”The lawyer raised his eyebrows.“Somewhere about five-and-twenty years ago, I believe; but I’ve led such a rough life out there, that you mustn’t ask me any questions about dates or books.”“Can you tell me anything about your childhood?”“Oh, yes. Father had a ranche, and he went gold-digging, and prospecting, and we had an old nigger servant, who used to wash and cook and do everything; and a half-breed chap, half Indian, half Englishman, who used to take me out in the woods; and old Jake, that was the nigger, used to give me rides on his back.”“But I mean about your earlier life.”“No; can’t go back any farther than that.”“You remember your grandfather, of course?”“Eh? No, how should I remember a man I never saw?”There was a pause here, and the young man looked sharply from one to the other, as the old lawyer cleared his throat.“Will you be good enough to tell us any little act that you can recall.”“Well, I haven’t a very good memory, gentlemen, but I’ve got a few notes and letters in my pocket-book.”“Ha! documentary evidence,” said the lawyer, brightening up, as the young man took a well-worn letter-case from his pocket.“Here’s the old man’s letter to me about a watch I sent him.”Gertrude’s face, which had seemed pained and full of anxious care brightened at this, and Saul bit his lip.“To be sure—yes,” said the lawyer, passing the letter to Doctor Lawrence, who smiled and nodded.“Then here are a few notes I made about some remittances I sent home.”“To be sure—yes,” said the lawyer, eagerly scanning the pencilled entries in the book. “Anything else, my dear sir?”“There are some letters in one of the pockets, and the last one I received is there, telling me to come back, and what I was to do. But don’t read that aloud,” he said, smiling, as he fixed his eyes meaningly upon Gertrude’s, making her lower her lids and turn scarlet, while Saul, who missed nothing, ground his teeth. “Private, that letter is, gentlemen, please.”“Yes, yes, yes,” said the doctor, nodding pleasantly at Gertrude; who felt at the moment as if she would have given anything to have had with her an elderly woman friend.“All very satisfactory, Mr George Harrington,” said the old lawyer gravely; “but, unpleasant as it may seem, we must go a little further, please.”“Come,” said the young man, smiling, “you acknowledge me as George Harrington, then?”“Alapsus lingua—a mere slip of the tongue. Now, sir, can you give us any other proof. Have you brought any letters of introduction from well-known people in the States?”“I have brought you a letter of introduction from my grandfather, gentlemen—several.”“Yes, yes. Quite right. But any others?”“Good Heavens, gentlemen, I have been for months hunting in the wildest parts of the North West, fighting bears; always on the watch to save myself from Indians; and when at last I got your letter at Laramie City, I came home. Letters from people in the States! Why, I never thought of such a thing.”“No, he would not,” said the doctor quietly.“By the way, gentlemen, as I am to come into some property now, I ought to make a will.”“A most wise proceeding, sir,” assented the old lawyer.“Then will you two gentlemen agree to be my executors?”“Really, sir, I—”“Because no man could have a more careful pair.”“You are complimentary, sir. Doctor Lawrence and I are only doing our duty.”“Of course, of course. Well, gentlemen, I’ve shown you my grandfather’s letters, etcetera, and I am George Harrington. That’s all I have got to say.”“But—you’ll excuse me. We are rather awkwardly placed. We ought to have some other proof of your identity. My dear Miss Gertrude, have we any of Mr George Harrington’s letters?”“I think there are some among my guardian’s papers.”“Stop a moment—I forgot. Here’s my watch, with my initials engraved upon the case, and to be sure—why, what a dunderhead I am!”Saul, who had been undergoing a torture of change—doubt and hope—watched the young man’s actions as he passed his hands behind his neck, and for a few moments seemed to be trying to unfasten something.“That’s it,” he said, as he undid the clasp of a thin gold chain, and drew out chain and locket, both gold, and pressing a spring at either end, the locket flew open back and front, to display two daguerreotype heads. “Know them Mr—Mr—”“Hampton,” said the old lawyer, taking the locket, and examining it carefully, and looking long at the two faces before handing them to Doctor Lawrence. “What do you say to those?”The Doctor examined the locket as carefully as his colleague, while Saul looked on with an intense interest as he waited for the next remark, and the claimant of the estate chirruped carelessly to the dog.“As far as I can recollect them,” said Doctor Lawrence, at length, “I should say these are the miniatures of Mr and Mrs George Harrington, but I only saw them once.”“Well,” said the young man, smiling, as he held out his hand for the locket, “satisfactory?”“Quite, sir,” said the old lawyer, handing back the locket.“Looks girlish,” said its recipient, “but I always wear it round my neck. Shouldn’t like to lose that. Now, gentlemen, any more questions to ask?”“One more, sir,” said the old lawyer. “My dear Gertrude Bellwood, may I ask you to leave us for a few minutes. You may have some orders to give.”Gertrude started to her feet, and was making for the door, when Saul rose to open it, but his rival was quicker, darting before him, and smiling at the girl as she passed out, more agitated and excited than she had ever felt before.“Now, gentlemen, what’s the next piece of cross-examination which this culprit is to bear?”“I have—we have—but one more question to ask, sir,” said the old lawyer. “It is in our instructions, drawn out by my old and esteemed client, a year before his death. If you can answer that to our satisfaction, I for one shall be perfectly satisfied.”“And I,” said the doctor; then to himself, “as far as your being the right man is concerned.”“Very good, gentlemen,” was the smiling reply; “let’s see if I can oblige you.”The words were light, but there was a peculiar intensity in the speaker’s eyes, and a slight twitching about the corners of his lips, which a close observer would have detected.“Have you not some birth-mark about you?” said Doctor Lawrence.“No, sir, as far as I am aware—none.”“No peculiar marks about your person?”“I have the scar of a bullet-wound in the shoulder—the entrance and exit. I believe it went through my scalp.”“Scapular,” said the doctor, smiling.“Yes—the blade-bone.”“Anything else?”“An ugly seam or ridge on the skull where I had a chop from an Indian axe; and a knot here in my right arm, where it was broken and mended again.”“Is that all, sir?”“No; one other mark—a trifle done some time or another—here on my breast. Like to see it, gentlemen?”“Ha!” ejaculated the old lawyer. “If you are Mr George Harrington, sir, you have the figure of a heart tattooed upon your breast—a heart transfixed by an arrow.”“That anything like it, gentlemen?” said the young man, unbuttoning his vest, and throwing open the flannel shirt he wore, to show, plainly marked upon his white skin, the figure described.“Like it, sir?—yes,” said the old lawyer. “Mr George Harrington, welcome home, sir, and I hope we may be the best of friends.”“And I add my congratulations, and the same wish, Mr George Harrington,” said the doctor, shaking one hand as his colleague shook the other; “but,” he added to himself, “as to the friendship, I have my doubts.”“And now it is my turn, Cousin George,” said Saul Harrington, advancing with extended hand. “I apologise for playing the British bulldog to you, but you were a stranger, and you will be the last to blame me for showing a bold front in defence of your patrimony.”“To be sure, Cousin Saul. How are you, old fellow? Stop and let’s all dine together. No more business to-day, I hope. Let’s have a glass of wine—champagne—and, Cousin Saul, suppose you and I have a good long talk over a cigar.”“We will,” said Saul, as they stood hand in hand, eye gazing into eye, and, singularly enough, with similar thoughts agitating each breast.For the successor to the estate left by the original of the picture on the wall said to himself:“If we were out in some parts of the West, Saul Harrington, any office would find it a bad spec to insure your life.”And Saul thought:“If this man had not come back, I was master here—of the house, of the money, and of—”He stopped and gazed hard across the room, for at that moment, looking flushed and handsome, Gertrude stood hesitating at the doorway, as if asking if she might come in.“Yes,” said Saul to himself, and as if in conclusion of his unfinished thought, “and of you, too.”
The new-comer was furnished with refreshment, and at the end of a couple of hours, after a long talk between Saul and Doctor Lawrence, the visitor rejoined them, just as there was a loud ring, steps, and, to Gertrude’s great delight, the lawyer entered the room.
“Who’s this?” said the young man sharply. “My fellow executor—Mr Hampton,” said the doctor. “Hampton, this is Mr George Harrington.”
“Oh, indeed,” said the old lawyer, setting down a very glossy silk hat, and depositing a new pair of black kid gloves therein. “Good-morning, my dear Miss Gertrude. Sit down, sir, pray.”
“Thank ye.”
“Mr Saul Harrington, are you going to stay to this little conference?”
“Certainly, sir. You know it concerns me very closely.”
“Ye-es,” said the lawyer, “true. Mr George Harrington?”
“Yes, sir. Mr Hampton, I am George Harrington.”
“You will excuse me, I am sure.”
“Oh, yes, old gentleman, go ahead.”
“You see Doctor Lawrence and I are the late Mr Harrington’s executors, and we have a duty to perform. In the pursuit of that duty we shall have to ask questions that may seem impertinent.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Quite right. I’ll answer, only let’s get it done. Here! I like dogs,” he said softly to Gertrude, as he patted his leg, chirruped, and Bruno wagged his tail, trotted toward him, and then turned off, and went to the other side of where Gertrude was seated. “Ha, ha, ha! Dog wants to hear first whether I am the genuine article.”
Saul watched him closely, and the doctor and lawyer exchanged glances, as if satisfied by the bluff nonchalant manner of the claimant, who raised his eyes now, and looked long and searchingly at the portrait whose eyes met his.
“Will you be good enough, sir, to tell me whose son you are?”
“Eh? George and Isabel Harrington’s.”
“And when you were born?”
“No! Hang it all, sir, that’s a poser. Can’t recollect being born.”
The lawyer raised his eyebrows.
“Somewhere about five-and-twenty years ago, I believe; but I’ve led such a rough life out there, that you mustn’t ask me any questions about dates or books.”
“Can you tell me anything about your childhood?”
“Oh, yes. Father had a ranche, and he went gold-digging, and prospecting, and we had an old nigger servant, who used to wash and cook and do everything; and a half-breed chap, half Indian, half Englishman, who used to take me out in the woods; and old Jake, that was the nigger, used to give me rides on his back.”
“But I mean about your earlier life.”
“No; can’t go back any farther than that.”
“You remember your grandfather, of course?”
“Eh? No, how should I remember a man I never saw?”
There was a pause here, and the young man looked sharply from one to the other, as the old lawyer cleared his throat.
“Will you be good enough to tell us any little act that you can recall.”
“Well, I haven’t a very good memory, gentlemen, but I’ve got a few notes and letters in my pocket-book.”
“Ha! documentary evidence,” said the lawyer, brightening up, as the young man took a well-worn letter-case from his pocket.
“Here’s the old man’s letter to me about a watch I sent him.”
Gertrude’s face, which had seemed pained and full of anxious care brightened at this, and Saul bit his lip.
“To be sure—yes,” said the lawyer, passing the letter to Doctor Lawrence, who smiled and nodded.
“Then here are a few notes I made about some remittances I sent home.”
“To be sure—yes,” said the lawyer, eagerly scanning the pencilled entries in the book. “Anything else, my dear sir?”
“There are some letters in one of the pockets, and the last one I received is there, telling me to come back, and what I was to do. But don’t read that aloud,” he said, smiling, as he fixed his eyes meaningly upon Gertrude’s, making her lower her lids and turn scarlet, while Saul, who missed nothing, ground his teeth. “Private, that letter is, gentlemen, please.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said the doctor, nodding pleasantly at Gertrude; who felt at the moment as if she would have given anything to have had with her an elderly woman friend.
“All very satisfactory, Mr George Harrington,” said the old lawyer gravely; “but, unpleasant as it may seem, we must go a little further, please.”
“Come,” said the young man, smiling, “you acknowledge me as George Harrington, then?”
“Alapsus lingua—a mere slip of the tongue. Now, sir, can you give us any other proof. Have you brought any letters of introduction from well-known people in the States?”
“I have brought you a letter of introduction from my grandfather, gentlemen—several.”
“Yes, yes. Quite right. But any others?”
“Good Heavens, gentlemen, I have been for months hunting in the wildest parts of the North West, fighting bears; always on the watch to save myself from Indians; and when at last I got your letter at Laramie City, I came home. Letters from people in the States! Why, I never thought of such a thing.”
“No, he would not,” said the doctor quietly.
“By the way, gentlemen, as I am to come into some property now, I ought to make a will.”
“A most wise proceeding, sir,” assented the old lawyer.
“Then will you two gentlemen agree to be my executors?”
“Really, sir, I—”
“Because no man could have a more careful pair.”
“You are complimentary, sir. Doctor Lawrence and I are only doing our duty.”
“Of course, of course. Well, gentlemen, I’ve shown you my grandfather’s letters, etcetera, and I am George Harrington. That’s all I have got to say.”
“But—you’ll excuse me. We are rather awkwardly placed. We ought to have some other proof of your identity. My dear Miss Gertrude, have we any of Mr George Harrington’s letters?”
“I think there are some among my guardian’s papers.”
“Stop a moment—I forgot. Here’s my watch, with my initials engraved upon the case, and to be sure—why, what a dunderhead I am!”
Saul, who had been undergoing a torture of change—doubt and hope—watched the young man’s actions as he passed his hands behind his neck, and for a few moments seemed to be trying to unfasten something.
“That’s it,” he said, as he undid the clasp of a thin gold chain, and drew out chain and locket, both gold, and pressing a spring at either end, the locket flew open back and front, to display two daguerreotype heads. “Know them Mr—Mr—”
“Hampton,” said the old lawyer, taking the locket, and examining it carefully, and looking long at the two faces before handing them to Doctor Lawrence. “What do you say to those?”
The Doctor examined the locket as carefully as his colleague, while Saul looked on with an intense interest as he waited for the next remark, and the claimant of the estate chirruped carelessly to the dog.
“As far as I can recollect them,” said Doctor Lawrence, at length, “I should say these are the miniatures of Mr and Mrs George Harrington, but I only saw them once.”
“Well,” said the young man, smiling, as he held out his hand for the locket, “satisfactory?”
“Quite, sir,” said the old lawyer, handing back the locket.
“Looks girlish,” said its recipient, “but I always wear it round my neck. Shouldn’t like to lose that. Now, gentlemen, any more questions to ask?”
“One more, sir,” said the old lawyer. “My dear Gertrude Bellwood, may I ask you to leave us for a few minutes. You may have some orders to give.”
Gertrude started to her feet, and was making for the door, when Saul rose to open it, but his rival was quicker, darting before him, and smiling at the girl as she passed out, more agitated and excited than she had ever felt before.
“Now, gentlemen, what’s the next piece of cross-examination which this culprit is to bear?”
“I have—we have—but one more question to ask, sir,” said the old lawyer. “It is in our instructions, drawn out by my old and esteemed client, a year before his death. If you can answer that to our satisfaction, I for one shall be perfectly satisfied.”
“And I,” said the doctor; then to himself, “as far as your being the right man is concerned.”
“Very good, gentlemen,” was the smiling reply; “let’s see if I can oblige you.”
The words were light, but there was a peculiar intensity in the speaker’s eyes, and a slight twitching about the corners of his lips, which a close observer would have detected.
“Have you not some birth-mark about you?” said Doctor Lawrence.
“No, sir, as far as I am aware—none.”
“No peculiar marks about your person?”
“I have the scar of a bullet-wound in the shoulder—the entrance and exit. I believe it went through my scalp.”
“Scapular,” said the doctor, smiling.
“Yes—the blade-bone.”
“Anything else?”
“An ugly seam or ridge on the skull where I had a chop from an Indian axe; and a knot here in my right arm, where it was broken and mended again.”
“Is that all, sir?”
“No; one other mark—a trifle done some time or another—here on my breast. Like to see it, gentlemen?”
“Ha!” ejaculated the old lawyer. “If you are Mr George Harrington, sir, you have the figure of a heart tattooed upon your breast—a heart transfixed by an arrow.”
“That anything like it, gentlemen?” said the young man, unbuttoning his vest, and throwing open the flannel shirt he wore, to show, plainly marked upon his white skin, the figure described.
“Like it, sir?—yes,” said the old lawyer. “Mr George Harrington, welcome home, sir, and I hope we may be the best of friends.”
“And I add my congratulations, and the same wish, Mr George Harrington,” said the doctor, shaking one hand as his colleague shook the other; “but,” he added to himself, “as to the friendship, I have my doubts.”
“And now it is my turn, Cousin George,” said Saul Harrington, advancing with extended hand. “I apologise for playing the British bulldog to you, but you were a stranger, and you will be the last to blame me for showing a bold front in defence of your patrimony.”
“To be sure, Cousin Saul. How are you, old fellow? Stop and let’s all dine together. No more business to-day, I hope. Let’s have a glass of wine—champagne—and, Cousin Saul, suppose you and I have a good long talk over a cigar.”
“We will,” said Saul, as they stood hand in hand, eye gazing into eye, and, singularly enough, with similar thoughts agitating each breast.
For the successor to the estate left by the original of the picture on the wall said to himself:
“If we were out in some parts of the West, Saul Harrington, any office would find it a bad spec to insure your life.”
And Saul thought:
“If this man had not come back, I was master here—of the house, of the money, and of—”
He stopped and gazed hard across the room, for at that moment, looking flushed and handsome, Gertrude stood hesitating at the doorway, as if asking if she might come in.
“Yes,” said Saul to himself, and as if in conclusion of his unfinished thought, “and of you, too.”
Chapter Ten.Two Warnings.Time soon slips by.“Nonsense, my dear! why should we study the world? You know what my grandfather said.”“Yes, George,” said Gertrude, with a peculiarly troubled look in her eyes.“And very wisely; and as soon as you like to say you are ready, why, I am, and the world may go and hang itself.”The troubled look in Gertrude’s eyes deepened, for the free and easy manner of her betrothed shocked her.“You don’t dislike me, Gertie?” he said, laughing.“No; oh, no,” she replied, looking at him wistfully.“I know,” he cried, taking her hand. “You have only, as we may say, known me a month, and you think me too rough and ready to show so much of the American camp-life; but that will soon wear off. You are such a good, gentle little thing, you’ll soften me, and it will be all right.”“Going out, George?”“Yes; I promised to run down to Greenwich with Saul Harrington. Not a bad fellow when you know him better. I say, how long are Mr and Mrs Hampton going to stay here?”“I don’t know, George.”“It’s to play propriety, I suppose.”“Mrs Hampton has always been very kind to me, and I know it inconveniences her to be here.”“Then let her go.”“She has asked me to go and stay with her, George.”“Then don’t go. I see: let her stay here. I’m rather sick of all this prudery, though. Better name the day, Gertie, and let’s get it over.”“No, no; not yet, George. Give me a little time.”“Well, well, I won’t be hard upon you, and I do want to see a little London life before that comes off.”He left the room, and Mrs Hampton, a tall, severe-looking lady in black silk, came slowly in, gazing at the dreamy-eyed girl, who did not seem to note her presence, as she took up some work, sat down in an easy-chair, and began to knit.“Young, an enormous fortune, but I pity her,” said the elderly lady to herself.At the same moment Gertrude was pitying herself, and struggling against her own wishes.“I have read too much, I suppose,” she said to herself, “and have formed romantic ideas, and consequently George seems so different from what I pictured him to be. He is so rough and common in his ways; but what could I have expected, after the life he has led? But don’t be afraid, uncle, dearest,” she murmured. “I am going to be your dutiful child—I am going to be his wife; and I shall try so hard to wean him from anything that is not nice, and we shall be very happy, I am sure. Does he love me?”Gertrude had a hard riddle to solve there, and she sat gazing thoughtfully before her for some time.“I think so. He is always very gentle and kind to me, and he seems to wish for our marriage to take place soon; but somehow or other he cares more for Saul Harrington’s company than mine. It seems strange—very strange,” he said thoughtfully. “Saul Harrington is always coming here, too, now, and it does not seem as if he were attracted by me, but to be always with George; and I mistrust him—I mistrust him.”Gertrude’s thoughts were interrupted by her companion, who, after watching her in a fidgety manner for some time, suddenly dropped her work in her lap, raised a great knitting-pin in a menacing way as if to defend herself against attack, and said, in a harsh, strident voice:“And he told me I was an old goose.”“Mrs Hampton! Who did?”“Mr Hampton, my dear; last night, when we went to bed.”“Mr Hampton!”“Ah, you don’t understand, my dear; but I have been thinking it all over, and it’s my duty and I will. Mr Hampton said I was not to interfere—that I was to stay here as long as you wished, and then that you had better come and stay with us.”“It is very kind of you, Mrs Hampton,” faltered Gertrude.“Nonsense, child—only civility; and, of course, I want to do what’s right by you. As I told Hampton, it wasn’t right for you to be alone here in the house, and only Denton with you. A very good old woman, but only Mrs Denton; so of course we came, and I know you’ve always looked upon me as an incubus.”“Indeed, you do not think so.”“Well, p’r’aps not, my dear; but I’m a very pernickerty body, and not always pleasant to deal with. However, that’s neither here nor there. Like Doctor Lawrence does, Mr Hampton and I feel a kind of parental interest in you, my dear, and we want to see you happy.”“I am sure you do,” said Gertrude, kissing the acid-looking old lady.“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, beaming, as she threw her gaunt arms about Gertrude, and gave her two sounding kisses. “And now, my dear, goose or no goose, I’ve watched everything, and I’m going to speak out.”“You alarm me, Mrs Hampton.”“Yes, that’s my way. I always do alarm people most when I want to be kindest. Now look at me: I’m a very unpleasant-looking body, ain’t I? and I’ve got a terrible temper, but do you know Hampton and I have been married forty-three years, and never had an angry word?”“I always knew you were a very happy pair, Mrs Hampton.”“And we are, my dear; but, Gertie Bellwood, are you two going to be a happy pair?”“I hope so—oh, I’m sure so!” cried Gertrude, with the tears in her eyes. “I shall try so hard to make him happy.”“That settles it.”“Mrs Hampton!”“Yes, my dear; that settles it. If you’ve got to force yourself to be happy, and will have to try so hard, why, it will all be a failure, so give it up.”“But Mr Harrington’s wishes!”“Bother Mr Harrington’s wishes! He was a good eccentric old man, but he didn’t know everything. He quarrelled with his son because they were both obstinate, and when he grew older he repented, and made up his mind to do to his grandson what he had omitted to do to his son. He has made him rich, and to make him happy he told you to marry him: but it will not do, my dear—it will not do.”“Mrs Hampton!”“I can’t help it, my child. Marry in haste and repent at leisure; but you shan’t run headlong into misery without Rachel Hampton saying a word of warning.”“I feel that it is my duty to the dead,” cried Gertrude.“Duty! Ha! Then you love some one else—not that dreadful Saul Harrington?”“Oh, no, Mrs Hampton.”“Thank goodness! You gave me quite a turn. Then it’s some other young man?”“Indeed, no.”“Are you sure? Don’t be afraid to confess to me. Yes, you are sure. I can read you like a book. My dear, you don’t love anyone else, and you don’t love George Harrington.”“But I shall—I am sure I shall.”“No. You can’t grow that plant, my dear. It comes up of itself, like mushrooms. You may get spawn from the best seedsmen, and make a bed and grow some leathery, tasteless things that look like mushrooms, but they’re no more like the real thing than your grown love is like the genuine article. No, my dear, it won’t do, so take my advice, give up your rich man, and come and live with us till the right one comes.”“No, no; I cannot, George Harrington expects me to be his wife, and I shall pray to God to make me all that is true and loving to the man chosen for my husband.”“Then I’ve done my duty that way, so I’m at rest. Now, about something else.”“Yes, Mrs Hampton?” said Gertrude in alarm.“Take him in hand, my dear, and try and mould him into a better shape.”“Oh, a little mixing with decent society will soon soften all that you notice.”“No, it will not, my dear. He drinks too much.”Gertrude sighed.“He gambles.”Gertrude started.“And he seems to have found a congenial spirit in that Mr Saul Harrington.”Gertrude shook her head sadly.“I’m a matter-of-fact woman, my dear, and I speak out sometimes, and I’m going to speak out now. I hate Mr Saul Harrington, and you’d better take a few lessons from me, and hate him too.”Gertrude looked at her in a bewildered way.“Oh, come, that won’t do; you are going to marry Mr George?”“Yes, Mrs Hampton.”“And you are going to devote yourself to making him a good young man?”“Yes.”“Then you must put your hand to the plough with a will; and the first thing to do is to wean him away from Saul Harrington.”“But how?”“Woman’s wit, my dear. Make him love you, and think there’s no happiness to be found anywhere in the world except by your side.”A rosy flush came into Gertrude’s cheeks, but it faded away, and left them pale, while the sad look of perplexity that was growing there became more pronounced.“Do you understand?”“Yes, Mrs Hampton,” said Gertrude, with a sigh.“That’s what I did with Mr Hampton, and I don’t look the sort of woman, do I?”“Pray don’t ask me such questions. But surely Mr Hampton was never at all—”“Wild, my dear? No, but he was growing too fond of his whist, and I—”“Yes, Mrs Hampton; you—”“Well, my dear,” said the old lady, kissing her affectionately, “I played a trump card. There, I’m going for my walk now. Will you come?”“Not to-day. Mrs Denton here wants to see me.”“Yes, if you please, Miss Gertrude,” said the old woman, who had tapped at the door and entered.“Well, I’ll go and get on my things, and if you have done when I’ve dressed, I’ll wait for you. You ought to have your walk.”“Yes, Denton?” said Gertrude, as soon as they were alone.“I’ve come to ask you, my dear, if I may speak out.”“Of course.”“Then I will, for I’ve had charge of you ever since you were such a little dot. Miss Gertrude, my dear, it won’t do.”“Denton?”“I’m seeing too much, my dear, and if poor master was alive he’d say what I say, ‘It won’t do.’”“What do you mean?” cried Gertrude, with her heart beating wildly.“Master George is no husband for you, my dear, no more than Mr Saul is. Drink, and smoke, and cards, and bets. No, no, no, my dear, darling child; never mind the money, and the purple, and the fine linen. You’ve got your hundred a year, and I’ve got my annuity, as shall be yours, so let’s go and take a cottage and live together; for if I stay here much longer, and see what’s going on, it will break my heart.”And in proof of her earnestness the old lady sank upon her knees and covered her face with her apron, sobbing violently in spite of comforting words, till there was the rustle of silk upon the stairs, when she rose from her knees, kissed Gertrude quickly, and hurried out of the room.Gertrude did not go for a walk, but sat alone thinking about her future life, and the clouds grew darker and seemed to close her in.
Time soon slips by.
“Nonsense, my dear! why should we study the world? You know what my grandfather said.”
“Yes, George,” said Gertrude, with a peculiarly troubled look in her eyes.
“And very wisely; and as soon as you like to say you are ready, why, I am, and the world may go and hang itself.”
The troubled look in Gertrude’s eyes deepened, for the free and easy manner of her betrothed shocked her.
“You don’t dislike me, Gertie?” he said, laughing.
“No; oh, no,” she replied, looking at him wistfully.
“I know,” he cried, taking her hand. “You have only, as we may say, known me a month, and you think me too rough and ready to show so much of the American camp-life; but that will soon wear off. You are such a good, gentle little thing, you’ll soften me, and it will be all right.”
“Going out, George?”
“Yes; I promised to run down to Greenwich with Saul Harrington. Not a bad fellow when you know him better. I say, how long are Mr and Mrs Hampton going to stay here?”
“I don’t know, George.”
“It’s to play propriety, I suppose.”
“Mrs Hampton has always been very kind to me, and I know it inconveniences her to be here.”
“Then let her go.”
“She has asked me to go and stay with her, George.”
“Then don’t go. I see: let her stay here. I’m rather sick of all this prudery, though. Better name the day, Gertie, and let’s get it over.”
“No, no; not yet, George. Give me a little time.”
“Well, well, I won’t be hard upon you, and I do want to see a little London life before that comes off.”
He left the room, and Mrs Hampton, a tall, severe-looking lady in black silk, came slowly in, gazing at the dreamy-eyed girl, who did not seem to note her presence, as she took up some work, sat down in an easy-chair, and began to knit.
“Young, an enormous fortune, but I pity her,” said the elderly lady to herself.
At the same moment Gertrude was pitying herself, and struggling against her own wishes.
“I have read too much, I suppose,” she said to herself, “and have formed romantic ideas, and consequently George seems so different from what I pictured him to be. He is so rough and common in his ways; but what could I have expected, after the life he has led? But don’t be afraid, uncle, dearest,” she murmured. “I am going to be your dutiful child—I am going to be his wife; and I shall try so hard to wean him from anything that is not nice, and we shall be very happy, I am sure. Does he love me?”
Gertrude had a hard riddle to solve there, and she sat gazing thoughtfully before her for some time.
“I think so. He is always very gentle and kind to me, and he seems to wish for our marriage to take place soon; but somehow or other he cares more for Saul Harrington’s company than mine. It seems strange—very strange,” he said thoughtfully. “Saul Harrington is always coming here, too, now, and it does not seem as if he were attracted by me, but to be always with George; and I mistrust him—I mistrust him.”
Gertrude’s thoughts were interrupted by her companion, who, after watching her in a fidgety manner for some time, suddenly dropped her work in her lap, raised a great knitting-pin in a menacing way as if to defend herself against attack, and said, in a harsh, strident voice:
“And he told me I was an old goose.”
“Mrs Hampton! Who did?”
“Mr Hampton, my dear; last night, when we went to bed.”
“Mr Hampton!”
“Ah, you don’t understand, my dear; but I have been thinking it all over, and it’s my duty and I will. Mr Hampton said I was not to interfere—that I was to stay here as long as you wished, and then that you had better come and stay with us.”
“It is very kind of you, Mrs Hampton,” faltered Gertrude.
“Nonsense, child—only civility; and, of course, I want to do what’s right by you. As I told Hampton, it wasn’t right for you to be alone here in the house, and only Denton with you. A very good old woman, but only Mrs Denton; so of course we came, and I know you’ve always looked upon me as an incubus.”
“Indeed, you do not think so.”
“Well, p’r’aps not, my dear; but I’m a very pernickerty body, and not always pleasant to deal with. However, that’s neither here nor there. Like Doctor Lawrence does, Mr Hampton and I feel a kind of parental interest in you, my dear, and we want to see you happy.”
“I am sure you do,” said Gertrude, kissing the acid-looking old lady.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, beaming, as she threw her gaunt arms about Gertrude, and gave her two sounding kisses. “And now, my dear, goose or no goose, I’ve watched everything, and I’m going to speak out.”
“You alarm me, Mrs Hampton.”
“Yes, that’s my way. I always do alarm people most when I want to be kindest. Now look at me: I’m a very unpleasant-looking body, ain’t I? and I’ve got a terrible temper, but do you know Hampton and I have been married forty-three years, and never had an angry word?”
“I always knew you were a very happy pair, Mrs Hampton.”
“And we are, my dear; but, Gertie Bellwood, are you two going to be a happy pair?”
“I hope so—oh, I’m sure so!” cried Gertrude, with the tears in her eyes. “I shall try so hard to make him happy.”
“That settles it.”
“Mrs Hampton!”
“Yes, my dear; that settles it. If you’ve got to force yourself to be happy, and will have to try so hard, why, it will all be a failure, so give it up.”
“But Mr Harrington’s wishes!”
“Bother Mr Harrington’s wishes! He was a good eccentric old man, but he didn’t know everything. He quarrelled with his son because they were both obstinate, and when he grew older he repented, and made up his mind to do to his grandson what he had omitted to do to his son. He has made him rich, and to make him happy he told you to marry him: but it will not do, my dear—it will not do.”
“Mrs Hampton!”
“I can’t help it, my child. Marry in haste and repent at leisure; but you shan’t run headlong into misery without Rachel Hampton saying a word of warning.”
“I feel that it is my duty to the dead,” cried Gertrude.
“Duty! Ha! Then you love some one else—not that dreadful Saul Harrington?”
“Oh, no, Mrs Hampton.”
“Thank goodness! You gave me quite a turn. Then it’s some other young man?”
“Indeed, no.”
“Are you sure? Don’t be afraid to confess to me. Yes, you are sure. I can read you like a book. My dear, you don’t love anyone else, and you don’t love George Harrington.”
“But I shall—I am sure I shall.”
“No. You can’t grow that plant, my dear. It comes up of itself, like mushrooms. You may get spawn from the best seedsmen, and make a bed and grow some leathery, tasteless things that look like mushrooms, but they’re no more like the real thing than your grown love is like the genuine article. No, my dear, it won’t do, so take my advice, give up your rich man, and come and live with us till the right one comes.”
“No, no; I cannot, George Harrington expects me to be his wife, and I shall pray to God to make me all that is true and loving to the man chosen for my husband.”
“Then I’ve done my duty that way, so I’m at rest. Now, about something else.”
“Yes, Mrs Hampton?” said Gertrude in alarm.
“Take him in hand, my dear, and try and mould him into a better shape.”
“Oh, a little mixing with decent society will soon soften all that you notice.”
“No, it will not, my dear. He drinks too much.”
Gertrude sighed.
“He gambles.”
Gertrude started.
“And he seems to have found a congenial spirit in that Mr Saul Harrington.”
Gertrude shook her head sadly.
“I’m a matter-of-fact woman, my dear, and I speak out sometimes, and I’m going to speak out now. I hate Mr Saul Harrington, and you’d better take a few lessons from me, and hate him too.”
Gertrude looked at her in a bewildered way.
“Oh, come, that won’t do; you are going to marry Mr George?”
“Yes, Mrs Hampton.”
“And you are going to devote yourself to making him a good young man?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must put your hand to the plough with a will; and the first thing to do is to wean him away from Saul Harrington.”
“But how?”
“Woman’s wit, my dear. Make him love you, and think there’s no happiness to be found anywhere in the world except by your side.”
A rosy flush came into Gertrude’s cheeks, but it faded away, and left them pale, while the sad look of perplexity that was growing there became more pronounced.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs Hampton,” said Gertrude, with a sigh.
“That’s what I did with Mr Hampton, and I don’t look the sort of woman, do I?”
“Pray don’t ask me such questions. But surely Mr Hampton was never at all—”
“Wild, my dear? No, but he was growing too fond of his whist, and I—”
“Yes, Mrs Hampton; you—”
“Well, my dear,” said the old lady, kissing her affectionately, “I played a trump card. There, I’m going for my walk now. Will you come?”
“Not to-day. Mrs Denton here wants to see me.”
“Yes, if you please, Miss Gertrude,” said the old woman, who had tapped at the door and entered.
“Well, I’ll go and get on my things, and if you have done when I’ve dressed, I’ll wait for you. You ought to have your walk.”
“Yes, Denton?” said Gertrude, as soon as they were alone.
“I’ve come to ask you, my dear, if I may speak out.”
“Of course.”
“Then I will, for I’ve had charge of you ever since you were such a little dot. Miss Gertrude, my dear, it won’t do.”
“Denton?”
“I’m seeing too much, my dear, and if poor master was alive he’d say what I say, ‘It won’t do.’”
“What do you mean?” cried Gertrude, with her heart beating wildly.
“Master George is no husband for you, my dear, no more than Mr Saul is. Drink, and smoke, and cards, and bets. No, no, no, my dear, darling child; never mind the money, and the purple, and the fine linen. You’ve got your hundred a year, and I’ve got my annuity, as shall be yours, so let’s go and take a cottage and live together; for if I stay here much longer, and see what’s going on, it will break my heart.”
And in proof of her earnestness the old lady sank upon her knees and covered her face with her apron, sobbing violently in spite of comforting words, till there was the rustle of silk upon the stairs, when she rose from her knees, kissed Gertrude quickly, and hurried out of the room.
Gertrude did not go for a walk, but sat alone thinking about her future life, and the clouds grew darker and seemed to close her in.