The Mynns' Mystery

“Good-bye?” said Gertrude.

“Yes. I am going to the Continent for a month, and I have come down to try and persuade George to go with me. Do him no end of good. Where is he?”

“I think he is in the study,” said Gertrude.

“What do you say to my scheme? Can you spare him for a fortnight?”

“Spare who for a fortnight?” said the object of their debate, entering.

“You, old fellow. I’m going to Paris, and then on to Switzerland, and back by the Rhine and Amsterdam. Come with me.”

“What, and do all the paying?”

Saul flushed up, snatched his pocket-book from his breast and tore it open.

“Well, I shan’t ask you to pay for my circular ticket anyhow,” he said, taking out a tiny book; “and here are my hotel coupons. Hang it all! how fond you men with coin are of insulting those without.”

“Well, we’re cousins,” said the other, with a sneering laugh. “All right, little one; I’ll apologise before he goes,” he continued, as Gertrude looked at him appealingly; and Saul winced as if it was painful to him to have Gertrude interfere on his behalf.

“Then you will not come?” said Saul, leaning forward to show Gertrude the tickets.

“No, thanks; I’m going to spend my last bachelor fortnight here.”

“Just as you like. Better have spent it with me. I’m sure Gertie does not want you with all her dresses to see to – what do you call it, Mrs Hampton – a trousseau?”

“I believe so, Mr Saul,” said the old lady dryly; “but when I was married, I had to do without.”

“You will not come, then,” said Saul, at last, rising.

“No, thanks; but you’ll stop to dinner.”

“No; too many little preparations to make; letters to write, and that sort of thing. If I stay, will you alter your mind?”

“No, no. In me behold a converted reprobate. I’m in training for a married man.”

“Oh, very well, then; I must be off. I’ll write to you from Paris and let you know how I’m getting on, and where I stay in case you would like to join me.”

“No fear.”

“You may alter your mind, my lad. Good-bye, Gertie. Be an obedient girl. Good-bye, Mrs Hampton. Hang it all, George! you might ask a fellow to have a drink.”

“Oh, of course. Beg pardon. I’m such a teetotaller now, that I forget other people’s wants. Eh, Gertie?”

“I am sure you have been much better lately.”

“Oh, certainly! I shall not dispute it. Come along, Saul; you are case-hardened.”

He led the way to the study, and opened the closet where he kept spirit-stand and a syphon. These and glasses he placed upon the table, while Saul watched him keenly.

“There, poison yourself, my lad,” he said laughingly.

“Oh, thanks! Pleasant way of poisoning oneself though. You’ll have a drop?”

“I? No. I’ll stick to my faith now, for Gertie’s sake.”

“Just as you like,” said Saul, pouring out a portion of whiskey, and holding the glass beneath the syphon tap, to press the handle and send a bubbling stream of mineral water into the spirit.

“Your health, old fellow!” cried Saul.

“Thanks.”

Then there was a long draught, and, as he drank, Saul stood with his right hand in his pocket.

“Splendid drink. Hah! Feel all the better for it. I say, you might give me a cigar.”

“To be sure.”

Saul watched his host as he turned toward the cabinet, and quick as thought his hand was drawn from his pocket, and what seemed to be a tiny white lozenge was dropped into the whiskey decanter.

“Ah, that looks a good weed,” said Saul, taking the cigar offered to him.

“Have any more whiskey?”

“Thanks, no,” said Saul; and he proceeded to cut off the end of the cigar, while his companion took up and replaced the decanter stopper.

“Smell gets into my nose,” he said. “Tempts one.”

Saul laughed, lit his cigar, shook hands very warmly, as he raised his eyes from the decanter, after seeing that the lozenge had melted. Then looking his companion full in the eyes, he bade him “good-bye” and was gone.

The party at dinner that night was quiet and pleasant, for the host was in his best form. Doctor Lawrence came down and exchanged glances with Hampton consequent upon the alteration they perceived; and when at last the ladies left the table there was very little drinking, the host turning from the table as if in disgust.

“A good sign, Hampton,” Doctor Lawrence whispered, as he took his leave about ten. “Patience, and all may be right yet.”

“Doubt it,” muttered the lawyer, as he returned to the drawing-room, to stand chattering till the ladies said “good-night” to him, and Gertrude crossed to where her betrothed stood with his back to the fireplace.

“Going?” he said. “Good-night, little woman – good-night.”

He bent down smiling and kissed her, and this time she did not dash upstairs to her bedroom to bathe her cheek, but walked up slowly and thoughtfully, oppressed as it were by a strange sadness which made her look hurriedly round as if in search of some trouble or danger hovering near, and in place of sobbing wildly with horror and disgust, she sank upon her knees at her bedside to pray that strength might be given her to carry out her desires, and in that attitude she unwittingly dropped asleep.

Chapter Nineteen

A Business Interview

As the ladies left, the old lawyer glanced at his companion, and then drew his watch from his pocket and began to wind it up.

“Example is better than precept,” said his companion, drawing the handsome gold presentation-watch from his pocket, and winding it in turn.

“Don’t you ever feel afraid of being robbed of that watch, Mr Harrington?” said the old lawyer. “It must have cost a hundred.”

“The sum exactly with the nugget chain,” said the young man sharply. “No, I never feel afraid of being robbed. I could afford it, though, if I were.”

“Yes, yes; of course – of course.”

“Come into the study. I want a chat with you.”

“About more money,” muttered the lawyer, as he followed the young man down the passage to the library-like room opening upon the garden.

Here the first thing the host did was to open the window, look out for a few moments at the soft dark night, and then draw to and fasten the outer shutters, after which he closed the window.

“You know what I want, of course,” he said shortly.

“Yes, sir; I presume it is money.”

“Well, it’s my money, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes; of course; but if you would allow me – ”

“I don’t allow you,” was the sharp reply. “I want three thousand pounds within a week. You understand – within a week.”

“Consols are very low just now, Mr Harrington; would it not be advisable to wait till they go up?”

“No, sir, it would not. You understand; I want that money within a week, and the day I am married, fifteen days from this, I shall require another thousand.”

“Certainly, Mr Harrington,” said the old lawyer. “You have nothing more to say to me to-night?”

“No, sir, nothing. That’s an end to business. Now we can be sociable and friendly. Will you have a little whiskey and a cigar?”

“No, sir, thanks. I had a busy day in town and shall be glad to get to bed. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Mr Hampton, and I suppose you will not be sorry when our relations are always of a business character.”

“For some reasons, no, Mr George Harrington – for some reasons, yes,” said the old lawyer. “Good-night.”

He left the study and began to ascend the stairs, but for some reason went down again and entered the dining-room, and in the dim light given by the turned-down lamp, the portrait of his own client seemed to be gazing down at him searchingly.

With a half shiver he went back, and again began to ascend, to feel the cool night air blowing in upon him from the open staircase window.

This he closed, but did not fasten, the clasp being too high, and the window far above the ground.

“I shall be glad when I am back home,” he muttered. “What can he do with all this money? I should like to know. Who’s that?”

He started and exclaimed aloud, for he had heard a rustling sound.

“Only me, sir. I was coming down to close that window.”

“You startled me, Denton, going about like a ghost. Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.”

Then first one door closed, then another, and one door opened, that of the study, from which the occupant’s face appeared for a few moments with an intent listening air upon the stern features.

Then the door was closed again, the cabinet opened, and the cash-box taken from one of the drawers, over which the young man sat for quite half an hour, counting notes and calculating, before replacing the contents.

“I don’t like to leave it here,” he said thoughtfully. “It has been safe so far, but thieves might break through and steal, and that would be awkward. Let’s think it out over a cigar.”

He took the spirit-stand from the closet again, poured out a goodly portion of whiskey into a Venice glass, and after mildly lowering its strength with water, took a deep draught before lighting a choice cigar, whose pleasant perfume soon pervaded the room.

“Notes, notes. Gold so much better, but awkward to carry,” he muttered, and then burst into an unpleasant laugh.

“Shall I – shan’t I? Ten thousand safe, better than a hundred thousand doubtful, and who knows what Master Saul might do.”

A strange silence fell upon the place – a silence which seemed painful, for as a rule the low hollow rumble of market-wagons echoed from the high brick wall of The Mynns the night through.

That silence was broken by the smoker’s voice, as he said in a low, angry whisper:

“Saul Harrington is a coward and a cur. He dares nothing – nothing. A snarling dog who fears to bite. Why, if I had been in his place —

“Well, never mind,” he said after a pause. “But about this money – a bird in the hand is worth too in the bush, even if one is Gertrude – a pretty little innocent. Yes, that will be the best plan after all.”

He rose hastily, took a Bradshaw from the shelf, and rapidly turned over the leaves; but as he did so the lamp went out.

Chapter Twenty

The Master is Late

“Hadn’t we better begin breakfast. Mr Hampton?” said Gertrude.

“Oh, don’t hurry, my dear. Mr Hampton is not going to town by the early train. What a lovely morning! Perhaps he has gone for a walk.” The ladies walked to the window and Mr Hampton turned his newspaper and coughed loudly, as he glanced at the breakfast-table, afterwards making a wry face as he felt sundry twinges suggestive of Nature’s demands for food.

A quarter of an hour slipped by, and then the old housekeeper, who kept to the same simple old fashion adopted by her late master, whose household had consisted of Denton, a housemaid, cook, and gardener, entered the dining-room.

“Shall I bring up the ham, Miss Gertrude?”

“Perhaps you had better go and knock at Mr Harrington’s door. He may have dropped asleep again.”

The old woman went out, and at the end of five minutes she came back, looking pale and scared.

“I – I can’t make him hear, miss,” she said. “Do you think he is ill?”

“Gone for a walk,” said the old lawyer sharply.

“I – I don’t think he has gone out, sir,” faltered the old lady. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going up to his room.”

“And be told to mind my own business – eh? Thanks; no.”

He gave the newspaper a vicious shake, and a blow in the middle to double it up for a fresh reading.

“Shall I go up, Gertrude, my dear?” said Mrs Hampton.

“If you would not mind. He may, perhaps, be a little unwell.”

“To be sure, my dear. I’ll go.”

The lawyer’s wife left the room, and without a moment’s hesitation walked along the passage to the study, entered and looked round.

“Yes,” she said to herself, as she took up the whiskey decanter, and held it at arm’s length. “How temperate and self-denying we are. Essence of sick headache, and he has drunk every drop.”

To give colour to Mrs Hampton’s theory, besides the empty condition of the decanter, a peculiar odour of spirits filled the room, causing the old lady’s nostrils to dilate, and the corners of her lips to go down as she hurried out.

“And they hardly ever will open a window,” she muttered, as she stood in the hall, hesitating. “But I said I would go up,” she continued, and ascending quickly she paused before the door of the bedroom she sought.

“Mr Harrington!” she cried, as she gave a few sharp raps with her bony knuckles.

No answer.

“Mr Harrington!”

The taps were louder, but there was no reply.

“I thought as much,” she muttered. “Broken out again, and in a regular drunkard’s sleep. No; it’s an insult to sober people’s rest to call it sleep – stupor. Oh, my poor girl, my poor girl! If I could only save you from being this dreadful man’s wife.”

“Mr Harrington!” she cried again, after a pause; but all was still. Then the taps she had previously given upon the door became heavy thumps. “Mr Harrington, are you coming down to breakfast?”

“Is anything the matter, ma’am?” said the old housekeeper coming slowly up the stairs.

“Yes, Mrs Denton; no, Mrs Denton; yes, Mrs Denton. I mean nothing serious, but it’s very dreadful.”

The old housekeeper shook her head; and the tears stood in her eyes as she walked to the end of the wide passage, and descended to the embayed window looking upon the garden, where she used her apron to flick off some white powdery dust from the sill.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, “it is very dreadful. I know what you mean. Poor dear master liked his two or three glasses of port after his dinner, but that was all. Unless any one was ill you never saw a drop of spirits about the place, while now it’s brandy and whiskey, and soda and seltzer, as is a pair of shams, not to make the spirits weaker, but to coax people on to drink more.”

“You think the same as I do then, Denton?” whispered Mrs Hampton.

“It don’t take any thinking, ma’am. Look at his nose and his cheeks. People don’t have those public-house signs on their fronts without going very often into the cellar. Oh, my dear ma’am; you’re a woman – I mean a lady.”

“Only a woman like yourself, Denton.”

“Then don’t – pray don’t stand by with your hands crossed and see that poor darling child sold into such a bondage as this.”

“What do you mean, Denton?”

“Well, there, ma’am, if you’re offended, you must be, but I shall speak the honest truth.”

“Go on, Denton.”

“I mean letting poor Miss Gertrude be married to such a man as Master George.”

“What am I to do, Denton?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I’ve been down upon my bended knees to her, but she turns away. She don’t like him – that’s the wonder of it – and yet she will have him.”

“Yes, Denton; that’s the wonder of it. She’s little and weak, and yet she’s stronger than all of us put together with poor old Mr Harrington’s wishes at her back.”

“But you, ma’am – she believes in and likes you. Many a time she’s come to me, years ago, and told me how you’ve scolded and found fault with her about her manners, and when I’ve said you were very cantankerous – ”

“Oh, you said that of me, did you, Denton?”

“Yes, ma’am, to speak the truth, I have said so; but she always spoke up for you, and said you talked to her like a mother.”

“Yes, Denton; I tried to.”

“Then,” cried the old woman fiercely, “why don’t you talk to her like a mother now, and save the poor child from such a terrible fate.”

“You think it will be a terrible fate, Denton?”

“Do you believe in young men who can’t keep from the drink now, and who make the poor old house smell of whiskey from top to bottom, mending because they’ve got pretty young wives?”

“I want to be charitable, Denton.”

“Then prove it, ma’am, by saving my poor dear young lady from being the wife of a sot.”

“Is anything the matter, Mrs Hampton?” said Gertrude.

“No, my dear, only that wicked, idle man is so fast asleep that we cannot wake him.”

“Never mind,” said the old lawyer, who had followed Gertrude out into the hall. “Better let him have his sleep out. Come, my dear, and have pity on me.”

“Yes, Mr Hampton, we will not wait any longer. Denton, pray see that some fresh breakfast is ready on a tray, to bring up directly your master comes down.”

“Yes, miss, I will,” said the old woman; and then in an undertone to Mrs Hampton, as the old lawyer said something to Gertrude: “Do, do, pray, ma’am, try and stop it. I’d sooner help to lay the poor dear out for her last sleep than help to dress her to go to church with Master George.”

Mrs Hampton went down the flight of stairs to the breakfast-table, looking exceedingly comic.

Hers was a peculiar face at the best of times; and now it was at its worst, for her spirit was greatly troubled on Gertrude’s behalf, and she was trying to smile and look cheerful.

Her husband saw it and made matters worse.

“Gertrude, my dear,” he said in a whisper his wife could hear, “for goodness’ sake give her a cup of tea; she’s bubbling over with acidity.”

“No, I am not, Hampton, and don’t be absurd.”

“Certainly not, my dear. Excuse me, Miss Gertie, may I begin?”

He was already placing a slice of ham upon his plate with a delicately cooked egg reposing in its midst, but he recollected himself and passed it across to his wife.

“Thanks, no,” she said with quite a hoarse croak. “Dry toast.”

Gertrude was of the same way of thinking. Only the lawyer made a hearty breakfast hastily, and then started for town.

“No, no, don’t you ladies move,” he said. “Finish your breakfasts. Apologise to George Harrington for me. Back in good time.”

He did not realise that the other occupants of the breakfast-table had been forcing themselves to swallow a few morsels, so as to keep up appearances; and as the door closed their eyes met, and Gertrude could contain herself no longer, but burst into a passion of tears.

“Hush, hush, my darling?” whispered Mrs Hampton, taking her to her breast. “Don’t take on about it. There, there, there; I want to play a mother’s part to you, and I’m only a clumsy imitation; but, indeed, Gertie, I want to advise you for the best.”

“Yes, I know you do,” whispered the poor girl, as she struggled hard to be composed. “But tell me you don’t think there is any reason for George being so late.”

For answer Mrs Hampton kissed her on the brow.

“You do not speak. It is cruel of you to be silent.”

“Do you wish me to speak out?”

“Yes, even if I do not agree with you,” cried Gertrude, flushing up as if ready to defend her betrothed.

“Then, my dear, I do.”

“Tell me – what?”

“I am George Harrington’s guest, Gertrude; then I am the trusty friend of the girl I have known and loved ever since she was a child.”

“Yes, yes, indeed you are; I know that; only you are so bitter against George.”

“Gertie, my dear,” said the old lady, leading her to the couch and sitting down with old Harrington’s face seeming to smile down upon them, “if I feel bitter against George Harrington it is from love for you.”

“Yes, yes; but try not to be unjust. Think of the life he has been forced to lead.”

“I can think only of my little girl’s life that she will have to lead.”

“Why do you speak like this?” panted Gertrude, who looked like some frightened bird, ready to struggle to escape.

“I may be hard and unjust, my child, but I judge by what I see.”

“See! What have you seen this morning?”

“I have been in the study. It smells as a room does where men have passed the night drinking.”

“But after the change – after the promises.”

“The whiskey decanter was empty. I know it was full yesterday morning, for I saw Mrs Denton carry it in.”

“Ah!” sighed Gertrude.

“And this morning the man you have promised to marry is lying in a drunken sleep.”

“You do not know that,” cried Gertrude excitedly.

“I know enough to make me say once more – Gertrude, I am a childless old woman, and I love you as Mr Hampton loves you in his peculiar way, which is a good deal like mine – rough and clumsy, but very honest and true.”

“Dearest Mrs Hampton!” cried Gertrude, throwing her arms about the old lady’s neck; “as if I did not know how good, and kind, and loving you have always been.”

“Then listen to me once more, my darling, before it is too late. I do not look like the sort of woman who can talk about love, but I can, and I know what love is.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” faltered Gertrude.

“And I know that you do not love George Harrington.”

A pause.

“And George Harrington does not love you.”

“He told me he did – very dearly, Mrs Hampton, and if – if – I do not love him as I ought to do, I shall try so very, very hard to make him a true and loving wife.”

“Trying is no use, my dear. Love comes and goes of itself. You may make yourself friends with any one, but you cannot make yourself love.”

“Not when he loves me?” cried Gertrude.

“So much, my child, that only a short time before he is married to you, he goes and plays the swine.”

“Mrs Hampton!” cried Gertrude indignantly.

“Very well, then, my dear, I will not speak like that. It is too blunt and strong. He goes then – after promising everybody, and in disobedience to Doctor Lawrence’s orders, and quite soon after a dangerous attack of delirium tremens, brought on by drink – and takes that which has compelled him to keep his bed this morning.”

“But he may be ill, Mrs Hampton.”

“He is ill, my dear, and with an illness which brings on a craving he cannot control.”

“Oh?” sighed Gertrude, covering her face with her hands.

“He madly goes and makes himself the slave of a terrible master, who will ruin health, and pocket – destroy him utterly.”

“You are too severe, Mrs Hampton,” faltered Gertrude.

“Not a bit, my dear.”

“He said he would not take more than Mr Hampton might, or you.”

“That will not do, my dear,” said the old lady calmly. “My husband treats wine and spirits as his slaves, and makes them obey him. I do the same. George Harrington sets what the teetotallers call the great God Alcohol up on a pedestal, and grovels before it in his insane worship.”

“But he is growing so much better, Mrs Hampton.”

“No, my dear. He is only professing to do so. He is the slave and he will go lower and lower. I say then, even with the great wealth he has inherited, is this man the suitable partner of your future?”

“I want to defend him,” sighed Gertrude to herself, “but she masters me – she masters me.”

“Then listen to me, my dear, before it is too late. Do one of two things – come to us, where you shall be as our child, or, if you prefer it, set up a little simple home of your own, with poor old Denton, who would gladly accept this plan; you will not be well off, but you will be happy – yes, I say happy,” cried the old lady, looking up defiantly at the portrait, which had caught her eye, and seemed to be gazing searchingly at her. “Ah, you may look, but you are only canvas and paint; and if you were alive you would not throw this poor child into the arms of a drunken man.”

“Mrs Hampton, what are you saying?” cried Gertrude, looking up and shivering, as she realised that the old lady was addressing the picture on the wall.

“The plain, honest, simple truth, my dear. Come, come, be advised by me.”

“No, no; it is impossible,” murmured Gertrude.

“Not a bit of it, my child. Think of your future. He will not reform.”

“He will – he will.”

“He will not. He can’t. He hasn’t it in him. Gertie, my dear, you may fight for him, but he is a shifty bad man, and I don’t believe in him a bit.”

“This is too cruel.”

“It is kindness though it gives you pain, my dear. Some men might repent and alter, but I have studied George Harrington from the day he came to the house, and I cannot find the stuff in him to make a better man.”

“I should make him a better man, Mrs Hampton,” said Gertrude proudly.

“You would worry yourself into your grave, Gertrude, and if you marry him, I shall order my mourning at once, for you do not, and never will love him.”

“Now you are laughing at me,” said Gertrude, brightening up, and taking the old lady’s withered hands in her soft, plump little palms. “It is impossible to follow out your proposal, and I shall marry George Harrington for my dear uncle’s sake.”

“And be a wretched woman for life.”

“No, Mrs Hampton; even at the worst, I shall have the happy consciousness of having done my duty; but there will be no worse. I shall win.”