"That you, Gertie?"
"Yes, uncle, dear," and the girl, who had made a brave effort to grow
calm, approached the side of a great four-post bedstead, where a large,
thin, yellow hand lay upon the white coverlet.
"That's right, my dear, don't leave me long. It's getting very near the
end, my darling."
"Oh, uncle, dearest, don't--don't talk like that," cried the girl,
throwing herself upon her knees, and passionately kissing the yellow
hand.
"Ah, that's nice, my pet--that's real. You couldn't have acted that."
"Uncle, dear," whispered the girl, as she raised herself, and gently
passed her arm beneath the neck of the gaunt, withered old man whose
head lay upon the white pillow, "it doesn't sound like you to talk so
bitterly."
"Oh, yes, it does, my dear. Why shouldn't I tell you I know you are a
dear, good, patient little darling, true as steel to the disagreeable,
miserly old hunks whom everybody hates and wishes dead. But who was
that downstairs?"
"Mr Saul Harrington, uncle."
"Damn him!"
"Uncle, dear!"
"Well, he deserves it. Do you know, Gertie, that man only says one
prayer, and that is for my death."
"Oh, uncle, you misjudge him."
"Eh? What? Has he been trying to court you again?"
Gertrude inclined her head.
"Eh? What?" cried the old man excitedly, and his deeply sunken eyes
seemed to glow. "You--you are not beginning to like him?"
"Oh! uncle, dear," sobbed the girl, "I detest him, and he frightens me."
"Ah!" ejaculated the old man, with a sigh of content followed by a low
chuckle. "A fox, that's what he is Gertie. Thinks I shall leave you
all my money, and that he'll marry you and get it to spend--a mean,
despicable, cunning fox. But I haven't left you a penny, my pet."
"No, uncle."
"But don't tell him so. I want him to be punished. He deserves it. I
helped him a dozen times, but he always turned out badly. Not left you
a penny, Gertie. Ain't you bitter against me?"
"Bitter against you who have always been like a dear father!"
"Eh? Well, tried to be, little one," said the old man as he toyed with
the girl's long, wavy dark hair. "Poor little fatherless, motherless
thing! why, of course I did. But now look here, Gertie. I'm wasting
time, and there's so little left."
"Don't say that, dear."
"But I must, my pet. And don't cry; nothing to cry for. An old man of
eighty-six going to sleep and rest, Gertie--that's all. I'm not sorry,
only to leave you, my dear. I want to live till George comes home and
marries you. You--you will marry him, Gertie?"
"If he is the good, true man you say, uncle, and he will love me, and
wish me to be his wife, I will pray God to make me a true, dutiful
companion to him for life."
"But--but you don't speak out, my child," said the old man suspiciously.
"It is because I can't, uncle, dear. The words sees to choke me. It is
such a promise to make."
"But you never cared for any one else?"
"Oh no, uncle dear. I never hardly thought of such a thing."
"No; always shut up here in the dingy old Mynns with me."
"Where I have been very happy, uncle."
"And Heaven knows I tried to make you so, my child. And you will be
happy when I'm gone--with George. For he is all I say--a true, noble
fellow. But--but," he cried, peering into the girl's eyes from under
his shaggy brows, "suppose he is ugly?"
"Well, uncle dear," said the girl with a little laugh, "what does that
matter?"
"Ay, what does that matter? But he can't be ugly, Gertie. Such a
handsome little fellow as he was when I saw him last. And he'll be a
rich man, Gertie. He shall have The Mynns and everything, for the
injury and wrong I did his father--my poor, poor boy!"
"Uncle, dear, don't reproach yourself," cried the girl, kissing the
withered forehead, as the old man's voice broke into a whimper, and his
hands trembled. "It was all a mistake."
"No, Gertie, my dear; I was a hard, bitter, passionate man, and made no
allowances for him. He would not stick to business, and he would marry
one woman when I wanted him to marry another, and I told him he'd be a
beggar all his life, and we quarrelled. Yes, he defied me, Gertie, when
I told him he would come cringing upon his knees for money, and he said
he would sooner starve. Only like yesterday," continued the old man
after a pause, "and I never saw him but once more, he came to say
good-bye, with his wife, before they sailed for what he called the
Golden West, and we quarrelled again because he disobeyed me and would
not stay. I was ready to forgive him, Gertie, if he would have stayed
and taken to business, but he wouldn't stop with the arbitrary old
tyrant, and they went and took their boy."
The old man lay silent for some minutes, raising the girl's soft little
hand to his lips from time to time. Then he startled her by bursting
into a long low laugh.
"Uncle, dear!"
"Eh? Only laughing at him, my pet--that boy George. Such a determined
little tyrant. Did what he liked with the old man. Wasn't afraid of me
a bit. A little curly-headed rascal, and as sturdy as could be. Such
eyes. Gertie; looked through you. `I don't like you, grandpa,' he
said. `You make my mamma cry.' Bless him! that he did. Ha, ha, ha! I
saw him when he was washed--a little, chubby, pink cupid of a fellow,
splashing in his tub; and there, on his little white breast, was a blue
heart with an arrow stuck in it. His father's doing after he came back
from the West--he went out first, leaving his wife. And I asked the
little chap about it. `Did it hurt much, my man?' I said. `Yeees,' he
said. `And did you cry, George?' I said. `Pa said I was to be a man
and not cry,' said the little fellow sturdily, `but I did a little, and
to did my mamma.' `Have you no feeling for your child?' I said to his
father. `Yes,' he said, `but I want to teach him how to bear pain. It
will come easier to him, father; for he will have to bear it as I have
had in my time.' Yes, Gertie, I recollect it all. That's twenty-five
years ago, and I've never seen George since. But perhaps I shall now,
for he's coming back, Gertie."
"Yes, uncle."
"Fetch me the second drawer; the keys have worked right behind."
She thrust her hand beneath the pillow, and drew out a bunch of very
bright-worn keys, before crossing the room to a tall, black oak cabinet
in the corner near the bed's head. Unlocking the glass door, she
unlocked also and took out a small shallow drawer which, evidently
according to custom, she placed across the old man's knees, afterwards
assisting him to rise, and propping him with pillows, so that he could
examine the contents.
"There," he said eagerly, as he took a handsome gold watch from its
case, the chain and seal pendant being curiously formed of natural
nuggets of gold.
The watch was of American make, and looked as new as if it had only just
left the maker's hands.
The old man's eyes looked on eagerly as the girl took and opened the
watch, the peculiar sound emitted, as she carefully re-wound it, seeming
to afford the invalid the greatest satisfaction.
"Not lost, has it, Gertie?" he said quickly.
"No, uncle, dear," said Gertie, comparing her hands with those of her
own watch.
"Nor likely to. A splendid watch, Gertie. No trashy present, that. My
boy's made of too good stuff to mar his future. But I was blind in
those days, Gertie--blind. Now read it again."
As if well accustomed to the task, the girl held the open case to the
light, and read on its glistening concave, where it was deeply engraved
with many a flourish and scroll:
James Harrington, Esq,
from his grandson.
Pure gold from the golden west.
"Pure gold from the Golden West!" said the old man, as he stretched out
his hands eagerly and ran the nugget chain through his fingers. "And I
mocked at his poor father, and told him it was all a myth. Put it away,
Gertie. George is to wear that always, my dear. I've saved it for him.
You know I've only worn it on his birthdays since."
"Yes, uncle, dear," said the girl gravely, as she replaced the watch in
its case.
"And now look here, my dear," said the old man, taking up a small
pocket-ledger and handing it to Gertie; "open at page six."
"Yes, uncle," said the girl wonderingly; and then looking at him for
further instructions.
"Do you see that?"
"Yes, uncle--entries of money, twenty-five pounds, over and over again."
"Do you know what that means?"
"No, uncle; but you are tiring yourself."
"Ay, but I shall have plenty of time to rest, Gertie, by-and-bye."
"Uncle, dear!"
"Ah, don't you cry. Listen, Gertie. I wanted to try him--George. I'm
a suspicious old man, and I said when he sent me that watch, a year
after his father and mother died, `It's a sprat to catch a herring!'
Ha, ha, ha! and I waited and wrote to him--such a lie, Gertie--such a
lie, my dear."
"Uncle!"
"Yes, the biggest lie I ever told. I wrote and told him that things had
gone wrong with me--so they had, for I had lost two hundred and fifty
pounds by a man who turned out a rogue--and I begged George to try and
help his poor old grandfather in England for his father's sake, and
might I sell the watch."
"And what did he say, uncle?" cried Gertrude eagerly.
"He sent me a hundred pounds, Gertie, in an order on a London bank; and
he said if I ever sold that watch he would never forgive me, for it was
his father's wish that he should send it as a specimen of the gold I had
disbelieved in. A hundred pounds, Gertie, and ever since, for four
years now, he has sent me twenty-five pounds every quarter."
"Then he thinks you are poor?"
"Yes, he did till I sent to him to come home. But I invested every
penny, Gertie, and there is the interest; and now what do you say? Is
he a true man--good enough to love?"
"Oh, uncle--yes!" cried the girl, with the tears glittering in her eyes.
"Yes, my darling, a worthy husband for you; one who will love and
protect you when I'm gone."
"But, uncle, dear--" faltered the girl.
"Yes--yes?"
"Does--does he know?"
"That he is to marry you? Yes. He knows by now that he is a rich man,
or will be when I'm gone, and that he has the sweetest, truest little
wife waiting for him here. Put the book away; you and Mr Hampton know
everything. Lock up the cabinet and put the keys under the pillow
again; and some morning, when you find I'm too fast asleep to wake
again, take the keys and keep them for my dear boy."
"Oh, uncle, dearest!" sobbed the girl.
"God bless you, my pet! But I put it off too long. I may not see my
boy again. That's right; quite under the pillow, dear. Thank you.
Kiss me, not as your uncle, but as James Harrington, the grim old man
who told your father and mother he would protect their little girl, and
has tried to do his duty by her."
Gertrude raised the withered hand, and held it to her lips, as, after
removing the pillow, the old man lay back, tired out, and slept calmly
and peacefully. And, as she watched him, she thought of her position
there in that great house a dozen miles from town. How she had grown up
with no young companions save those she had encountered at school, and
how the time had glided away. How of late the old man who had adopted
her had begun to talk of his approaching end, and chilled her at first
with horror till she grew accustomed to his conversation; but never
chilling her so much as when Saul Harrington, the old man's nephew, had
begun to make advances to her--advances which filled her with disgust
and dread.
She shivered as she thought of the scene in the dining-room that day;
and, like a black cloud, the idea arose as to what her fate would be if
the old man, hanging, as it were, on the brink of eternity, should pass
away, leaving her alone.
There was Mrs Denton, the old housekeeper, and there were Mr and Mrs
Hampton, old Harrington's confidential solicitor and his wife, friends
both--Mrs Hampton, in her harsh, snappish way, always meaning to be
most kind. And then there was the doctor. Yes; and Bruno. But still,
she would soon be alone, and at the mercy of Saul Harrington, a man whom
she had always dreaded when he came to pester his uncle for money.
Then came a change in her musings, and she began to picture the man who
had been selected for her husband, and the warm blood came and went in
her cheeks as she found herself wondering what he would be like, what he
would think of her, and whether, under the circumstances, her future
would be happy.
She bent down and covered her face with her hands, as she sat listening
to the old man's faint, regular breathing, and seemed to see the
bright-eyed, sharp-witted child who had made so great an impression on
her guardian. Then the blue tattooed heart upon his little white skin
stood out before her mind's eye, and she half shuddered as she thought
of the pain the brave child must have suffered under his sea-going
father's whim.
And, as she thought and thought, wondering what her future would be, she
was so intent that she did not hear the door open, and a footstep cross
the carpet, the first suggestion of another presence being a hand laid
lightly upon her shoulder, and she started into wakefulness to encounter
the mocking countenance of Saul.