"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."