The Mynns' Mystery

“Ideas, these, sir, which sound strange; but to which colour is given by the assertion now made that the person in question is not the true George Harrington, but an impostor.”

Saul Harrington leaped from his seat with a horrified and startled look in his eyes, and then sank back, grasping the arms and staring wildly at the old man, his jaw dropping, but no words coming from his lips.

“Yes, I surprise you, of course,” continued the old lawyer, in his calm, unruffled, legal manner.

Saul Harrington uttered a gasp, as he seemed to make a tremendous effort to master his emotion.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he cried, “you surprise me terribly. Then – then – if he is an impostor the property would naturally fall to me.”

“No,” said the lawyer, as Saul sat back in his chair, with his teeth set and a peculiarly rigid aspect in his face, “the property only comes to you in the event of George Harrington’s death without issue.”

“Yes,” said Saul, in a hoarse whisper.

“And we do not know that George Harrington dead.”

“No, no; of course not,” said Saul hastily. “I begin to see now why you summoned me back. But – impostor – my cousin – the man I left here, accepted by you all?”

“Yourself included, Mr Saul,” said the lawyer gravely.

“Yes, of course – of course – his proofs of identity – of course.”

“They were very strong, Mr Saul, and upon the strength of them he has obtained from the estate ten thousand pounds in hard cash, and he has disappeared.”

“But it is impossible! An impostor?” said Saul hoarsely. “No, no, no; you do not think so.”

“My position forbids me to offer an opinion. At least, I consider it does, sir.”

“But what proofs have you?” cried Saul, who seemed to be recovering himself. “You are keeping something back. Who says that George Harrington is an impostor?”

“I say the man who called himself George Harrington is a rank impostor, sir,” said a firm voice at the doorway; and all turned to see the speaker standing there, a little in advance of Doctor Lawrence.

“You!” cried Saul, springing up, and looking so ghastly pale and drawn of countenance, that he seemed to have aged ten years.

“Yes, I do, sir.”

“And – may I ask – who – you are?” said Saul, speaking with terrible effort.

“Yes! I am George Harrington, come here to claim my rights.”

Chapter Thirty One

An Invitation Declined

“Come, Mr Saul, sir, drink a little more of this,” said Doctor Lawrence; and he held a glass to the young man’s lips, as he lay back on the sofa, where he had been lifted, for the words he had heard uttered had so strange an effect upon him that he had stood staring wildly for a few moments, and then uttered a sudden, low cry, and fallen heavily upon the carpet.

“Better now,” he said, drinking with avidity; and then sitting up quite calm and connected. “A sudden fit of giddiness. I have been travelling night and day. I have not eaten; and the suddenness of this news completely overset me. Very absurd, of course.”

“No, sir; quite natural,” said the doctor quietly.

“Yes,” said Saul, with a peculiar laugh, “in a girl; but not in a strong man.”

“And now, if you will take my advice,” said the doctor, “you will partake of some refreshment, and leave all further discussion of this business till another day.”

“No,” said Saul hoarsely, “I must have all this cleared up before I go.”

“Well, we can arrange that,” said Gertrude smiling. “I will tell Denton to see that you have a room made ready; sleep here to-night.”

“Sleep? here?” cried Saul quickly. “No, thank you; I shall get back to town.”

“Far wiser to stay, sir,” said the doctor quietly.

“No. You will be going back; I’ll go with you.”

“As you like,” said the doctor; and at that moment Mrs Hampton whispered to Gertrude as they stood apart.

“You asked him – to stay!”

“Yes,” said Gertrude, with her eyes full of perplexity. “I cannot tell how it was, but I do not feel afraid of him now.”

She started almost as she spoke, for an angry voice behind exclaimed:

“Well, sir, why are you looking at me like that?”

“For the simple fact that I was eager to see what kind of man my cousin Saul might be.”

“Your cousin, sir. You have to prove that yet,” cried Saul excitedly.

“Of course; of course! Don’t be put out about it, or I shall begin to think you did not want me to come back.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen?” cried Mr Hampton, “pray let us have calmness and discretion; there are ladies here.”

“Yes; I am quite cool; and I beg their pardon.”

“But may I ask why you are here this evening, sir,” said the lawyer. “I thought, after our last meeting, it was decided that you should wait patiently.”

“Yes, sir; I promised against myself. Self has mastered me. I called on Doctor Lawrence; found he was coming down. I could not keep away. I beg pardon all the same.”

All this while Saul was glaring at the speakers in a curiously excited manner, which took the doctor’s attention, and he crossed to his side.

“I don’t want to alarm you, Saul Harrington,” he whispered; “but if you do not control yourself, you will have another fit. Besides, all this will fly to your bad arm.”

“Oh, I’m calm enough now,” was the impatient reply; but as Saul spoke the veins were beginning to stand out in knots about his temples, for the visitor had crossed to Gertrude and shaken hands, while her peaceful, gratified look, and the smile she gave, as she looked up in his eyes, seemed to madden him.

“Come away,” whispered the doctor.

“What! and leave that man, that impostor, here?”

“Who said impostor?” cried the new pretender, turning sharply round. “You, sir? All right, Gertrude, I will not quarrel with him. I dare say it is natural, but not a pleasant thing for me to bear.”

“Get them both away, or we shall be having terrible trouble,” whispered Mrs Hampton in her husband’s ear.

“Yes. Gentlemen, everything connected with this matter must be left to the law of your country. The use of language tending to anger is not likely to settle matters. Mr Saul Harrington, I have explained the state of affairs to you, and you grasp all that is necessary for you to know at present.”

“You sent for me,” cried Saul fiercely, “and I decline to go and leave Miss Bellwood in company with this strange man, whose claims are preposterous.”

“Then I must appeal to you, sir,” said the lawyer. “You came down unasked; your presence is likely to cause unpleasantry; trust me that you shall have justice done, so please to go.”

“I, George Harrington, feel that I have a perfect right to be here, Mr Hampton; and I cannot help resenting the overbearing manner of my cousin.”

“George,” said Gertrude softly, as she laid her hand in his; “I believe in you.”

“Ah!” he cried, in a low, eager tone.

“Be content, and go.”

“I could not exist without seeing you,” he whispered; and the colour came warmly into her cheeks at his words. “You wish me to go?”

“Yes.”

There was a pleading look in her eyes which disarmed all resistance; and, pressing her hand, he turned to Mrs Hampton.

“Good-night,” he said; “I know I have an advocate in you. Gentlemen, good-evening. I will call at your office in the morning, Mr Hampton.”

He left the room, and, as soon as the gate was heard to clang, Gertrude signed to Mrs Hampton and they left the room, for Saul’s manner betokened another storm.

Too truly, for the next minute it broke out with uncontrolled violence – words he did not mean to utter pouring from his lips.

“It is a lie! A fraud! A base piece of cozening?” he cried. “The man is an impostor, who has come forward to rob me of my rights.”

“Your rights, Mr Saul,” said the lawyer slowly; “what are they?”

“I mean my rights as next-of-kin. Where is my cousin George? He must be found: he shall be found!”

“Stop, sir!” cried Doctor Lawrence, in a stern voice, as he caught the speaker by the shoulder. “As a physician, I know your condition better than you know it yourself. I have given you fair warning of the danger of giving way to anger like this. You will not heed my remonstrances, so now I insist upon your being calm.”

“Calm! How can a man be calm?”

“When he is goading himself on to an apoplectic fit? I don’t know, sir; but you have to be calm, or I must give you some drug that will make you.”

“No, no,” cried the young man, with a gesture full of horror.

“Then obey me. Your conduct is suicidal, and I feel as if I were assisting at a murder. You had better sleep here to-night.”

Saul turned upon him with so fierce a gesture that the doctor gave way.

“Very well; I will see you to your apartments in town. Good-night, Hampton. No fresh clue, I suppose?”

The lawyer shook his head as he walked down towards the gate with them.

“None whatever. It is a very mysterious affair; and I feel now as if we ought to place the matter in the hands of the police.”

“Feel giddy, Mr Saul?” said the doctor, for his companion had suddenly struck against his arm.

“I beg pardon, no; I nearly fell. The worst of these country places. I trod on a slug or toad, and only having one arm at liberty, I – ”

“Committed murder – involuntarily, of course,” said the doctor with a chucks. “Well, things that are in one’s way should get out of one’s way.”

Saul made no reply, but he breathed hard, went silently down the station road, and then to himself:

“Or be put out of one’s way,” and he started again as if fearful that his words had been heard.

Chapter Thirty Two

“Down, Bruno! Down!”

“No, Denton; he does not seem to get better,” said Gertrude, as she knelt beside Bruno in the stable, the dog resting his muzzle in her hand, while he blinked patiently; and, from time to time, uttered a very human sigh.

“Oh, but he is better, my dear, and gradually growing stronger. He ate quite a big basin of bread and milk this morning.”

“So cruel to injure a poor dumb beast like that.”

“Yes, my dear; but I’ll be bound to say Bruno left his mark upon whoever it was, and serve him right.”

The dog whined uneasily, and opened his eyes to stare about him, as if he had been half dreaming, and imagined there was something near.

“Poor Bruno, then?” said Gertrude caressingly. “Denton, doesn’t all this seem very strange to you about – about – ”

“Master George, my dear? Well, yes; but I can hardly forgive myself for thinking that other was the darling little fellow I was so proud to have in the house. But there, we are all right now.”

Gertrude signed.

“Why, my dear, you oughtn’t to do that. Now, if it was the other, with his dreadful ways of sitting up with Mr Saul over the whiskey, and the finding him asleep in his chair at seven o’clock in the morning, you might sigh.”

“Hush, Denton,” said Gertrude colouring, as she softly laid down the dog’s heavy head, with the effect that the poor beast whined.

“Now, I tell you what I should do if I were you, Miss Gertie,” continued the old woman. “Dogs are a deal like human beings when they’re ill.”

“What do you mean, Denton?”

“Why, poor Bruno has been shut up in this dark stable and wants fresh air. If I were you, I should go and get a book, and then lead the dog right down to the bottom of the garden, to the old seat under the yew hedge, and you could read in the shade while he lies down in the sun.”

“Denton, you ought to have been a duchess,” cried Gertrude; “you dear, clever old thing. Lie still, Bruno, and I’ll be back directly.”

Full of her idea, Gertrude ran into the drawing-room for a book; told Mrs Hampton, who was writing letters, what she was about to do; and, catching a sunshade from the hall-stand, she was back in the stable before five minutes had elapsed.

It was no easy task, though, to get the dog down to the bottom lawn. The poor beast, evidently in a drowsy way, approved of the change; but at the end of every few yards he lowered his head, and stood as if going to sleep on his outstretched legs. At such times Gertrude felt disposed to give up; but invariably as she came to this determination the dog seemed to revive, and slowly followed her again.

The old rustic chair was reached at last, and Bruno lay down, in the full sunshine, upon the soft turf; while his mistress settled herself in a well-clipped nook of the great yew hedge, which separated the bottom of the garden from the meadows, across which ran a footpath, forming a short cut to the station.

The flies troubled the dog a little, but he was soon apparently sleeping, basking in the sun; though the opening of one eye every time a leaf was turned over by his mistress told that he never lost consciousness.

Gertrude read a page or two of her book, and then began reading page after page of her life; and there was a curious feeling of wonderment as she went on, thinking of Saul’s advances, and the horror with which they had inspired her; then of the coming of him who called himself George Harrington, the man she had tutored herself that it was her duty to love, with the result that the chivalrous being she had expected to see had completely disillusionised her; and her duty had become a pain.

She wondered, as she thought of his embraces, of the drink-poisoned breath, and the horror of his self-inflicted illness, and what followed. It was all oppressive and strange. It had seemed as if her life was to be one long act of self-devotion, with clouds surrounding her, and her heart aching painfully over the fate from which there seemed to be no escape.

Then, all at once, in a way that seemed to frighten her, the sunshine had burst the clouds, and dazzled her with its effulgence. She felt a strange kind of joy, that the hero she had painted in her heart could not even compare with the frank, manly, chivalrous fellow who had come and boldly declared the other to be an impostor.

“Was this the first dawning of love?” she asked herself, as the warm blood mantled in her cheeks; and she wondered whether it was unmaidenly and strange to think so warmly of the man who had been selected to be her husband.

She had just come to the conclusion that it would be possible to love such a one as this, when there was a faint rustling sound beyond the hedge, as of a footstep in the grass, and a voice said thoughtfully:

“I wonder whether she ever comes down here.” A low, deep growl from Bruno followed; and, without thinking that her words might be heard, Gertrude cried:

“Down, Bruno! down!”

Chapter Thirty Three

Master’s Stick

“I beg your pardon. Really, Miss Bellwood, I did not expect to find you here.”

“Mr – ”

“Harrington,” he said, as she paused. “You need not be afraid to call me by that name; and George. They are mine, indeed.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr Harrington.”

Bruno uttered a low, ominous growl.

“Your dog does not like me,” he said.

“You are a stranger.”

“At present; but not for long, I hope.”

“Quiet, Bruno!” she said, to hide her confusion. “He has been hurt very much. I brought him out here for a change.”

“Lucky dog,” he said; and then in dread lest it might be considered an impertinence: “How was he hurt? Run over – a kick?”

“No, poor fellow; somebody must have struck him a terrible blow on the head.”

“Indeed! That’s bad. Let me look at him. I understand a good deal about dogs.”

“You do?” cried Gertrude eagerly.

“Oh, yes. I have been in the wilds, sometimes for months, with no other companion than a dog. May I come through? There is quite a gap here.”

“A gap? Then let me bring Bruno to you,” she said hastily.

He smiled as he said to himself, “this is a strange position;” and he appreciated the maiden delicacy which prompted the words, and stood religiously on the field side of the hedge as Gertrude coaxed the dog to follow her.

Bruno rose painfully and walked to the gap, where he suddenly seemed to revive, for he growled fiercely, set up his ruff, and began to look eagerly about, snuffling loudly the while.

“Down, Bruno!” cried Gertrude excitedly. “He does not like you. He might bite.”

“He had better not,” cried the young man merrily. “Dogs must not bite friends – his mistress’ friends,” he added meaningly; and, as through the slightly broken opening in the yews he saw Gertrude shrink, he continued hurriedly: “no, it is not at me, but at something about the grass. Oh, I see, he has found a broken stick.”

For as he spoke, the dog had ferreted out of the long grass, at the foot of the hedge, a broken walking-stick – the upper part of a strong oaken cudgel, whose top was a heavy root knob, over which he growled savagely.

“Why, Bruno, what’s the matter?” cried Gertrude. “Perhaps you had better go.”

“Oh, no; I don’t like to be afraid of a dog; and, besides, I think they have nous enough to know when you mean well by them. Here, old chap, let’s look at your head.”

Bruno ceased growling, and raised his muzzle with the stick across his mouth, as the young man parted the yew bushes and knelt down.

“Yes, Bruno – good dog – friends,” said Gertrude nervously.

“He does not quite believe it yet,” said the young man. “Suppose you shake hands with me.”

She hesitated a moment as she looked in his eyes, but they were so frank and pleasant to gaze upon that she halted no longer, but placed her hand in his, and then tried to snatch it back in alarm, but it was pinioned tightly in a warm, firm pressure.

“There Bruno,” he said, “your mistress and I are friends, and she will never have one more faithful and true. Now, old fellow,” he added, loosing the hand, “let’s have that stick. Good dog. What are you growling at?”

He took the stick from the dog, threw it down, and then quietly laid his hand upon his head; then placed the other on the side, and the dog whimpered softly.

“Hurt you, old fellow? well, I’ll be more gentle, but I must examine you. Poor lad, then. Why, you have been in the wars. You ought to be dead.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Gertrude.

“I only meant the blow was bad enough to have killed him. Do you know how serious it is?”

“I know it was a dreadful cut, but it is healing now.”

“Cut? The poor dog’s skull is fractured. A regular crack. Has he seemed stupid and dull?”

Gertrude could not answer for a few moments for the sob that choked her; and, as the impromptu surgeon looked up in her eyes he saw that they were brimming over.

“Oh, if they would only weep like that for me,” he thought; and directly after, “no, I should be very sorry.”

“I – I did not know he was so bad,” she faltered.

“But it is mending all right. Yes. Hold still, old fellow; I won’t hurt you much. That’s right. Oh, yes, he’s mending capitally; but it would be better if the hair were cut away a little from the wound. Knife? No. I suppose you could fetch me a pair of scissors?”

“I have a pair,” cried Gertrude eagerly, producing a tiny embroidery pair from a case.

“Capital! but, I say, my great ugly thumb and finger would not go into those holes. Could you – ? No, it would be such a nasty task.”

“I should not consider it a nasty task to do anything to help my poor dog,” she said quickly.

“Then you shall do it. There, cut boldly between my fingers. Don’t be afraid. That nasty, matted hair frets the wound. That’s right; capital! Now, there again, and there. Hurt, Bruno? Never mind, old chap; don’t flinch. That will do.”

They were busy together, kneeling on either side of the dog for quite five minutes, before they raised their eyes and looked at each other, their faces only separated by a dog’s width, and Gertrude’s eyes fell beneath the admiring glance which seemed to thrill her.

“I am very grateful to you for what you have done.”

“Don’t name it. I am very glad.”

“But will he get well?”

“Oh, yes. It will take some little time, of course, but animals have a wonderful faculty for healing up. There, old chap, your case is attended to. No fees and no bills, thank you. Do you know, I believe he understands all about it. Hardly flinched, and I know I must have hurt him a good deal.”

“He has always been so patient while I bathed his head, and bandaged the cut.”

“Yes; he knows. There, old chap, you’ll know me again, eh?”

Bruno licked the hand which took hold of his muzzle, and whined softly.

“See that, Miss Bellwood?”

“Yes, it is his way of thanking you for what you have done.”

“No, I think not. It is his way of showing you that I am not an impostor. No dog would make such friends with a rogue.”

“Are we not giving him the credit of having too much sense?” said Gertrude archly.

“Ah, well, perhaps so; but I thank him for giving me this interview. I thought I should like a look round the old place – that is why I came down; and – yes, I can’t be a sham – I did hope that I might catch a glimpse of you. Good-bye.”

He held out his hand again.

“Good-bye,” she said slowly and sadly; and she once more timidly placed her hand in his, when he raised it to his lips.

The next moment he was gone, and Bruno uttered a growl, picked up the stick once more, and carried it to the house, Gertrude walking meditatively before him, and asking herself whether she had done right in talking as she had with such a comparative stranger. Her meditations were broken by the voice of Mrs Denton.

“Why, Bruno, good dog, where did you get that stick? Broken too. I’ve missed that for weeks; it’s the one poor dear master used to use when he walked round the garden. Oh, dear, and broken, too. How it does seem to bring him back.”

But Bruno refused to part with the broken stick, and carried it with him into the stable, where he laid it in the straw beneath his muzzle.

Someone felt worse and yet better for that walk down the garden.

Perhaps more than one.

Chapter Thirty Four

Mr Blank’s Theory

Mr Hampton was seated in his dingy office in Lincoln’s Inn one morning, when the clerk announced Doctor Lawrence and another gentleman, who were shown in, the old lawyer frowning as he found who the other gentleman was.

“You, sir?” he said rather shortly.

“Yes, my dear executor,” said the young man laughing. “I am sorry to be such a nuisance to you, but I am growing impatient.”

“Very well, sir; very well; and so am I; and as you have called this morning, let me tell you that you have rewarded my friendly disposition towards you by taking a mean advantage and going down to The Mynns, again and again, like a spy upon the camp.”

“Gently, my dear sir, gently. I confess to going down to The Mynns partly by design, but it was by accident I met Miss Bellwood.”

“Accident?” exclaimed the old lawyer.

“Yes, sir, accident; and even if it had not been, please have a little mercy. Put yourself in my place. I came over here eager to succeed to my estate, and to see the lady I was to marry. I saw her and I need not say was charmed with my grandfather’s choice. There, I say it openly, I love her as the sweetest, most innocent girl I ever met; but instead of all going well, I am greeted as an impostor, and told that the young lady betrothed to me is engaged to another gentleman, my alter ego.”

“Yes, yes, yes; we know all that, sir, ad nauseum,” cried the old lawyer.

“Humph! quotation for quotation,” muttered Doctor Lawrence.

“You must wait, sir. You must wait.”

“My dear Hampton,” said the doctor, “don’t you think that we might sympathise a little more with our young friend?”

“I do not acknowledge that this gentleman is our friend,” said the lawyer sternly.

“No, sir; and it does not seem to me that you are in any hurry to acknowledge me,” said the young man laughing.

“Indeed, sir,” said the lawyer tartly. “I can only repeat my words – you must wait.”

“Can’t wait any longer, sir. You could not if you were in my case.”

“I only ask you to wait till Mr George – ”

“Till this man comes back,” interposed the other. “He will not come back.”

“What authority have you for saying that?”

“Never mind, sir. I have been having a chat with Doctor Lawrence this morning, and he agrees with me.”

“I am not going to allow myself to be influenced by what you and Doctor Lawrence have agreed to,” said the lawyer sharply.

“Don’t be angry with me, old chap.”

“But you make me angry, sir. Once more, you must wait.”

“I cannot afford to.”