George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

“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.

Chapter Eleven.

Attached Friends.

“Odd, isn’t it, George, old boy?”

“More than odd, Saul, old man.”

“When I first saw you I said to myself, ‘This fellow’s an impostor,’ and I felt savage—there, I can give it no better word.”

“And when I clapped eyes on you, I said to myself, ‘This chap will do anything he can to rob me of my rights, and is as jealous as a Turk because that little girl smiled at me.’”

“And I haven’t done all I could to keep you out of your rights?”

“Not you, Saul.”

“I’ve done all I could to help you get them, haven’t I?”

“That you have, old man.”

“And as to being jealous about you and Gertie, why, the thing’s absurd.”

“Of course it is. Take some more whiskey. Plenty more where that came from.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Saul, taking up bottle and glass, as they sat together in the handsomely furnished old study at The Mynns. “Jealous? Ridiculous, when the old man had settled beforehand that you were to marry her. I say, old chap,” continued Saul, resting the neck of the bottle on the rim of the glass, and looking across the table with a leer, “how are you getting on with her?”

“What’s that to you? Take some whiskey and another cigar,” said the other roughly.

“Oh, beg pardon. Didn’t know I was touching on dangerous ground,” said Saul. “I’m mum.”

They had both been drinking far more than they could bear sensibly, for Saul had dined there that night, and the wine had been pretty abundant both during and after the dinner. Then they had adjourned to the study to smoke, have coffee and brandy, and then the whiskey had become the order of the night.

“Well,” said the host, “why don’t you help yourself and pass the bottle?”

“Because it’s empty,” said Saul, pushing the bottle from him.

“Oh, we’ll soon cure that,” said the young man, rising and going to a cabinet, out of one of whose drawers he took a couple of large keys. “Been down in the cellar, I suppose?”

“I? Never,” said Saul.

“Then you shall come now. It will surprise you.”

“Oh, no, it will not,” said Saul, rising. “Nothing here surprises me. You’re a lucky dog, George; but there, I don’t envy you, old fellow, for you deserve to have it. You’re so generous and true.”

“That’s right, old chap,” cried Saul’s host, clapping him on the shoulder. “I want to be generous; what’s the use of having plenty and keeping it all locked up?”

There was a tap at the door.

“Come in.”

The old housekeeper entered timidly.

“I only came to see if you wanted anything, sir, before I go to bed.”

“Eh? Why, what time is it?” said her master, pulling out his magnificent gold watch by its nugget chain. “Half-past ten. All right; go to bed, Denton, old girl. I don’t want anything else. I’ll lock the door when Mr Saul goes. Yes, I do; I want a candle.”

“Candle? Yes, sir.”

The old woman hurried out, and returned directly with a lighted chamber candle, which she set down, looked uneasily from one to the other, and left the room, shaking her head as she crossed the hall.

“I say, George, what a watch!” cried Saul. “You are going it.”

“Going it be hanged! That’s the watch I had made in New York and sent over for a present to the old man, and he never used it, but saved it up for me. I only got it the other day, after all the confounded legal business was at an end. I seemed to be kept out of my rights till all that was done. Now come and let’s get the whiskey.”

He led the way out into the hall, and through a swing door to the top of a flight of steps, at the bottom of which, in a recess, was an ordinary door of dark oak.

This he unlocked, and threw back to admit the pair to a square entry, beyond which was another door, of iron, painted stone colour, and this rattled and creaked as it was unlocked and pushed back against the wall.

“There! Something like cellars, eh? Hold up the light.”

Saul obeyed, and as the damp odour of sawdust fell upon his sense of smell, he saw that he had, right and left, bin after bin, formed in brickwork, whitewashed, and all nearly full of bottles, over each bin being the kind and age of the wine in black letters upon a white earthenware label.

“Why, I had no conception that you had such a cellar, old fellow.”

“S’pose not. It isn’t everybody who has. Needn’t stint, eh? Cellar after cellar, all through beneath the house.”

“But not all stocked?”

“Every one, and with the best of wine. Here we are.”

He stopped before a bin, and took down a bottle of whiskey. “Don’t want to see any more I suppose?”

“Oh yes, I do. Let’s see it all.”

“See it and taste too if you like. What shall it be?”

“Nothing,” said Saul grimly, as he looked intently about him. “I shall have another drop of that whiskey when we get upstairs, and then go home.”

“Good boy,” was the bantering remark. “Capital whiskey, though. Like milk. You should taste some of the stuff they sell us out in the West. Paraffin is honey to it!”

“No wish to try it, my dear sir,” said Saul, as he followed his host from cellar to cellar, the feeble light of the candle casting curious shadows on the damp, whitewashed walls, and glinting from the round bottle ends which protruded from their sawdust beds.

“I’m astounded,” said Saul, as they went on and on. “I’d no idea the old man had such a cellar of wine. He scarcely ever touched anything but a liqueur of brandy.”

“Saving it all up for me, I suppose,” said the other laughingly.

“Bring many people down here?”

“Here? Nobody. You’re the first who has been down. Place had been sealed up for years. Look at that?”

They were in the farthest cellar now, a small, low-arched, and groined place, with bins on two sides, the other being blank brick wall, whitewashed.

“Well, what is there to look at?”

“Wait till we get upstairs and I’ll show you. Had enough of it?”

“Yes,” said Saul, as he curiously scanned the liquid wealth about him, and noticed the various catacomb-like openings in which the rich amber, topaz, and ruby wine was stored.

“Come along, then. Can always give a friend a good glass of wine when he comes.”

Saul followed, noting how silent and tomb-like the place was, and how his footsteps made not the slightest sound in the thick coating of sawdust on the stone floor. Then he remarked how grotesque and strange his companion looked in the darkness, with the light sending his shadow here and there, and a strange sensation attacked Saul Harrington,—the blood flew to his head, and he saw dimly, as through a mist in which various scenes were being enacted, and all connected with the man before him—the man who stood in his way, and without whom he would have been a rich man, perhaps a happy one.

“I could have made her love me,” he muttered. “Eh?”

“I did not speak. Cleared my throat.”

“Oh, I say! what’s the matter? You look ghastly.”

“The darkness and your candle,” said Saul, smiling. “I don’t know, though; I do feel a bit giddy. Is it the smell of the wine?”

“Perhaps. Come and have the whiskey. That will soon set you right.”

The doors were carefully locked, and Saul Harrington shuddered, his brow contracted, and he seemed to be looking far away into futurity as he followed his host upstairs into the study, where the cork was drawn, fresh cigars lit, and, after placing the keys in the cabinet drawer, another was opened, and an oblong book taken out.

“Look at that, my lad. Cellar book. There you are—age and quantity of all the wines, and when laid down.”

“Wonderful care he took of all these things.”

“The old man was a trump. But look here, Saul, my lad: ‘Cellar number seven entered by bricked-up archway from number six.’ Remember number six?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do; where I spoke when you were staring at the blank wall. That’s the way into number seven. And read here: ‘Eight bins, four on each side. Three on the right, port; four on the left, sherry. The fourth bin on the right I shall fill with Madeira when I come across a good vintage. Bricked up, JH.’”

“Yes, my uncle’s writing,” said Saul, looking eagerly, and greatly attracted by the book. “That’s a bricked-up cellar, then, beyond the others?”

“Yes, with the bins also bricked-up. We’ll break through some day, Saul, and taste them.”

“We will,” said the latter, rising hastily, and giving his head a shake, as if to clear away some mist. “What, going?”

“Yes,” said Saul huskily. “I must be off. Good-night, old fellow.”

“Good-night, Saul, old chap. I’ll let you out and lock up. Quite early. Only eleven. Better stop and have another glass.”

“No, no,” said Saul hurriedly. “Not to-night.”

“Won’t you come up and say good-night to Gertie and Mrs Hampton?”

“No. Say good-night for me.”

Saul caught up his hat and hurried away out into the gloomy suburban road.

“If you miss your train, come back,” shouted the young man.

“Yes, yes, all right,” came back out of the darkness, and then, with bent head, Saul Harrington hurried on, making his way more by instinct than sight toward the station, as he kept on muttering to himself:

“It half maddens me to see them together. Him, the wretched, coarse, drunken savage, wallowing in all that wealth. Will she marry him? I suppose so. No, no. I dared not stay. I felt as if—”

Saul Harrington looked stealthily round, and then shuddered, as he thought of the loneliness of the place, the hours they spent together, and then walked rapidly on to try and chase away the thoughts which seemed to be hunting him through the darkness of the night.

Meanwhile, George Harrington, Esq, of The Mynns, went back into the study, poured himself out another glass of the whiskey, tossed it off, and walked up into the drawing-room, where he met Gertrude, candle in hand, crossing to the door.

“Ah, Gertie, going to bed?”

“Yes, George. Good-night.”

“Good-night, pet.”

Before she could avoid the embrace, he had taken her in his arms, and kissed her, sending the blood flushing to her temples as she ran out and upstairs, fighting hard to keep back the sobs which struggled for utterance.

As she reached her own room she ran to the washstand to bathe her lips and burning cheeks, seeking to get rid of the foul odour of tobacco and spirits which seemed to cling to them. Then she flung herself upon her knees by her bedside, and buried her face in her hands, sobbing wildly for the sweet illusions of her life, in which a brave, frank young hero from the West had stood out so prominently, seemed to be fading away slowly, one by one.

Chapter Twelve.

Late for Dinner.

“Ah, Mrs Denton! What have we here?”

It was Mr Hampton who asked the question as he returned one afternoon from town, to find a van in the yard at The Mynns, and some workmen about to leave.

“The men brought down a billiard-table, sir, and have been putting it up in the west room.”

“Oh!”

The old lawyer hung up his hat and coat, and then turned to find the old lady looking at him very piteously.

“Well, Mrs Denton, what is it?”

“Nothing, sir, nothing,” said the old lady; and she sighed as she smothered down her feelings and went away.

“Humph!” ejaculated the lawyer. “Don’t like it, poor old soul.”

He went into the drawing-room, where he found Gertrude seated with his wife.

“Ah, my dear, I was afraid I was late. Not dressed for dinner?”

“No, Mr Hampton; George wished it to be an hour later.”

“Oh! Lawrence is coming, is he not?”

“Yes; and George said he should bring back Mr Saul Harrington. I think I’ll go now and dress.”

She smiled at him as he took and patted her little hand, and he followed her to the door before returning to where Mrs Hampton was seated bolt upright.

“Well?” he said.

“Well?”

“My lord out, then?”

“Yes; gone to some races or something with that beautiful Saul Harrington. He’ll make ducks and drakes of all this money.”

“He has a perfect right to it, my dear. It is his own.”

“Now, Phineas, don’t talk in that cold-blooded way. I am getting terribly uncomfortable.”

“My dear wife, I have already grown terribly uncomfortable, and I want to get back home.”

“He’s going on shockingly, Phineas. Drinks heavily, and Saul encourages him. Don’t you think we ought to do something?”

“No. Impossible.”

“About him, perhaps; but about dear Gertrude.”

“What can we do?”

“Get her away from here. I am so sick of it. It’s terrible the way he goes on. Really, I think sometimes the old man would have done better to have left his money to Saul.”

“Oh, hang it, no, my dear. We’re in for it, though. Can’t we go home?”

“Decidedly not—without Gertrude.”

“But she isn’t our child.”

“Now, if you are going to talk rubbish, Phineas, I’ve done. I know she is not our child, but is that any reason why we should shut our bowels of compassion against her?”

“No, my dear.”

“I like the girl very much, and so do you, and we’re going to do our duty.”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Then we must get her away to our place.”

“Delighted to have her.”

“She must not stay here—that’s certain; and if we get her away, perhaps she’ll escape this odious engagement.”

“To a young man with a large fortune.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, Phineas! What’s the good of a large fortune to a tipsy man? He’ll pour it all down the sink.”

“Humph! His own.”

“And break her heart in a year.”

“Poor child!”

“I know. Why, he’s bordering on delirium tremens now.”

“My dear Rachel, how can you know anything about DT?”

“Do you think I’m a fool, Phineas?”

“No, my dear, I certainly don’t.”

“Then give me credit for having eyes in my head. I’d give anything to have that cellar bricked-up.”

“I should like a few dozen of that choice port and the old East Indian sherry first.”

“Pish! You’re better without.”

“I don’t know, Rachel. And there’s a fine old Madeira, too.”

“He is quite transforming the place. Why, he’s having a horrible gaming-table set up in the west room.”

“My dear, prejudiced old wife, you have one at home, so why should not he?”

“For shame, Phineas! Nothing of the kind.”

“Why, there’s a card-table in the drawing-room, where you play rubbers of whist.”

“Well, that’s not a gambling-table. This is a—”

“Billiard-table, Rachel. Don’t talk such nonsense. I’d rather see him play billiards all day than sit drinking with Saul Harrington.”

“Oh, don’t tell me. I know better. And now mind this, we must get Gertrude away, and I shall not be happy till we do.”

“Well, I’ll think about it; but it’s a serious thing, my dear. If we get her away the marriage will not come off, and it was the old man’s wish.”

“Because he did not know what his beautiful grandson was like. There, it’s growing late, and I’ve got to change my frock.”

Mrs Hampton, who looked very nettled and upset, was half way to the door when the gate-bell rang.

“Here’s Lawrence,” said the old lawyer, going to the window, an announcement which sent Mrs Hampton off with a loud whishing sound of silk over the carpet and against the door-post, as she hurried out. “Ah, Hampton! how are you?”

“Don’t want any pills or any other medicine,” said the dry old lawyer grimly, as the doctor entered the room.

“Well, shake hands,” said the fresh comer, as he finished making a neat packet of his gloves by stuffing one in the other.

“Hands clean?”

“Bless my soul, man, yes!”

“Not been handling any contagious patients?”

“Get out! Of course not. How are things looking?” said the doctor, after a long conversation on things in general.

“Horribly.”

“You don’t say so. Well, I’m very, very sorry.”

“For little Gertrude’s sake? So am I.”

“You’ve heard something.” The lawyer nodded.

“Well, as brother executor, speak out.” The lawyer drew a long breath, screwed up his face, and half shut his eye.

“You know that there was a good balance at the bank.”

“Yes, excellent.”

“All gone.”

“The devil!”

“Yes; and he came to me three days ago about raising some more before the rents came in.”

“And you refused him, of course?”

“Refused, of course! Lawrence, you’re mad.”

“Not I, my dear sir. What do you mean?”

“If he came to you to doctor him after some long course of dissipation, would you refuse to prescribe, and drive him to some quack?”

“Why, of course not.”

“Well, then, is it likely that I should refuse to raise him money, when I can do it for four per cent, and send him post haste to some confounded gang of scoundrels who would charge him sixty, and make him take half the money in bad wine and cigars.”

“No, no, of course not. I was wrong.”

“Hist! Here’s Gertrude.”

“Ah, my dear child,” cried the doctor, kissing her affectionately. “Why, hullo! Here’s checks! Dark marks under the eyes, too! This won’t do. Here, Hampton, you’ll have to turn out, and I must come into residence.”

“Oh, I’m quite well,” said Gertrude laughingly. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

“Are you? That’s right. Where’s Mr George?”

“Not come back yet. He said the dinner was to be kept back an hour.”

“Well, well, better appetites. And where is Mrs Hampton?”

“Here,” said that lady’s sharp, decisive voice, as, after making a hurried change of costume, she returned to the drawing-room.

“That the new fashion, Rachel?” said the lawyer drily.

“Eh? What do you mean?” and Mrs Hampton turned to one of the glasses, “Why, bless me?”

She ran out of the room, for, in her hurry, she had come down without her cap—a very stately edifice of lace and wire; and Mrs Hampton’s natural coiffure was—

Well, she was long past sixty.

The lawyer chuckled, Gertrude coloured, and began hurriedly to talk upon something irrelevant, which was kept up till Mrs Hampton returned, looking very severe, and ready to snub her husband at the first chance.

Then the conversation flagged, and at last Mrs Denton came in upon a secret mission to her young mistress, which was prefaced by the words: “Cook says.”

For it was long past the time arranged for the dinner.

An hour passed, and then another, during which space of time Mrs Denton appeared four times. But at the last Mrs Hampton spoke out.

“I’m quite sure, Gertrude, dear, that Mr Harrington would not wish us to wait longer. It’s nine o’clock, and Doctor Lawrence has to go back to town.”

“Yes, you lucky sojourners here—I have.”

“And I am famished,” continued Mrs Hampton. “Depend upon it, Harrington and Mr Saul have forgotten us, and are dining together somewhere else.”

“Would you have the dinner up, then?” faltered Gertrude, whose countenance plainly told of the shame and annoyance she felt.

“If you don’t, my dear, Lawrence and I are going out to have a debauch on buns,” said the lawyer merrily.

“And cook says, Miss Gertrude, that—”

“Yes, yes, Denton; have the dinner up directly.”

Five minutes later they were in the severe-looking dining-room, partaking of burnt soup, dried fish, overdone entrées, and roast joints that were completely spoiled, while all the time the stern countenance of the old man gazed down from the canvas on the wall.

The dinner was naturally a failure, and her elders noted how Gertrude struggled to keep up appearances, but with ear attent and eyes constantly turning towards the door.

“Well,” said the doctor, in the course of conversation, “it is late, certainly, but I don’t know but what I like it. It seems going back to the pleasant old times.”

“Ah, when the day’s work was done, and one settled down to a comfortable supper.”

“Like to have been a lawyer; a doctor’s work is never done.”

“Pray don’t fidget so, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, as they left the gentlemen to their wine.

“Do you think there is anything the matter, Mrs Hampton?”

“No, my dear, of course not,” was the quick reply, while to herself the stern-looking old lady said, “Yes, and far too much.”

In due time, after a chat over the slate of affairs, the gentlemen rose to go to the drawing-room.

“Yes, Hampton,” said the doctor, “I agree with you; she ought to leave here at once; and—By George! I did not know it was so late. I must be getting back.”

“Eleven o’clock?” exclaimed the lawyer, referring to his watch.

“And if I don’t mind I shall miss my train. Come to say good-night, my dear. Later than I thought.”

“Going, Doctor Lawrence?” said Gertrude uneasily; and she looked at him with her eyes full of trouble.

“Yes; time and trains, you see. Hullo!”

There was the stopping of some vehicle at the gate, a loud ring of the great bell, and Bruno shot from beneath one of the couches, to utter a loud bark.

“Hark!” exclaimed Gertrude, who was pale and trembling, as voices were heard shouting hurriedly, some one calling loudly as the front door was opened.

“He’s pretty late,” said the doctor jocosely. “By George! I shouldn’t wonder if he has come in the station-fly. It shall take me bark.”

“Oh, Doctor Lawrence!” said Gertrude, running to the door; “there has been some accident. I am so glad you are here.”

“Your plan won’t work, Hampton,” said the doctor to himself. “She’s fond of him, after all;” and he followed the others into the hall.

Chapter Thirteen.

George Harrington’s Accident.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Saul Harrington, confronting them. “Perhaps you ladies had better go back to the drawing-room.”

“What is the matter?” said Gertrude quickly.

“Oh, nothing much. Harrington was taken ill, and I got him to lie down, but he didn’t seem to get any better, so I thought it better to order a fly and have him driven home. But, my dear Miss Bellwood, you had better retire.”

There was a tone in his voice which seemed to say, “For goodness sake don’t,” and he hugged himself as Mrs Hampton said shortly:

“I always thought women were most useful when anyone was ill.”

“Here! Hi! Somebody! Curse you! Let go, will you!” came from down by the gate.

“He’s a little delirious, I think,” said Saul hastily. “The fly-man is holding him back on the seat. Mr Hampton, are there any men about? We want help.”

“Yes, two old men and a young man, Mr Saul. Come along, Lawrence; let’s get him in.”

Gertrude gave the doctor a piteous look.

“Don’t be alarmed, my dear,” he said kindly. “I’ll soon bring him round. Leave him to us.”

He followed the lawyer down to the gate, as Saul lingered for a moment to whisper to Gertrude:

“He’s right, don’t be alarmed. It is not serious,” and he smiled to himself as he hurried after the others.

“What a kind, considerate man Mr Saul is,” said Mrs Hampton sarcastically. “Humph!”

She stopped to listen, as quite a disturbance came from the gate.

“Is—is it an accident, Mrs Hampton?” whispered Gertrude.

“Yes, my dear. I don’t think there is any doubt about that.”

“Look sharp, please,” came in a voice full of remonstrance, as the gentlemen hurried down to the gate, to find a desperate struggle going on in the fly, where the driver was seated with his head tucked down upon his chest to avoid blows, while he held his fare tightly round the waist. “Ah, that’s better. Take hold of his fisties, somebody. He’s reg’lar mad.”

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed Saul, seizing one of the struggling man’s arms, while Doctor Lawrence got hold of the other, and between them they drew the sufferer out of the fly on to his knees by the gate.

“That’s better,” said the fly-man. “Lucky I’ve got my quiet old mare. He gave such a jump once, he startled even her.”

“Here, lend a hand,” said the doctor sharply, as his patient began to struggle furiously, and tried to fling them off, “all of you. We’re four. We’ll take a wrist each, Hampton. You two young men take an ankle apiece.”

“Why, that’s same as they does the sojers when they’re a bit on,” said the fly-man.

“No, no,” cried the doctor. “The other way. Not face downwards.”

The patient was in a sitting position on the gravel, laughing idiotically, and trying to troll out portions of a song, but as he felt himself seized and lifted from the ground his whole manner changed: he struggled furiously, his face became distorted, and he burst forth into a tirade of oaths and curses directed at all in turn.

“Steady, guv’nor!” said the fly-man, as he held on tightly to one leg. “Steady, you ain’t a swimming. Kicks out like a frog.”

“Don’t let go, whatever you do,” said the doctor.

“Not I, sir. I’ll hold on. My! he have had his whack. We can do a bit of a swear here in England, but these American gents could give any of us fifty out of a hundred.”

“Be silent, man!” said the lawyer sternly, as they neared the flight of stone steps leading up to the front door. Then aloud, “Rachel, take Miss Bellwood to the dining-room and stay there.”

Mrs Hampton took Gertrude’s hand, but she was quietly repulsed, and the girl stood just inside the hall, as the sick man was carried up the stone steps, and then into the study, where they placed him on a couch, from which he tried to struggle up, cursing and blaspheming all the time.

“Had you not better go, Gertrude?” whispered Saul, as he left the other three holding his companion down.

She paid no heed to his words, but stood holding Mrs Hampton’s wrist, gazing down at the struggling brute.

“Here you, Mr Saul, get something—a table cover will do, or a rope. We must tie him down. Better go, Miss Gertrude. I’ll get him calm after a bit.”

Gertrude made no reply even to this, but stood gazing as if fascinated, and shuddering slightly as she heard the coarse, ruffianly language and blasphemies directed at all in turn.

“This settles it,” said Mrs Hampton to herself, as, in obedience to a summons, Mrs Denton brought in a couple of sheets, and then stood weeping silently and wringing her hands, as she saw the doctor deftly fold the sheets, and passing one across the struggling man’s chest, give place to Saul, who knelt upon his friend, while the broad bandage was tightly secured right under the couch.

A second band was fastened across his legs, and then Mr Hampton turned to the fly-man, who stood smiling at the scene.

“Thankye, sir,” he said, touching his forehead. “Like such a job every day. Lor’,” he said to himself, as he went down the gravel path to the iron gates, “when gents does go it, they does go it and no mistake. That must be champagne, that must; beer and gin wouldn’t never make me like him.”

“Now,” said the doctor, as soon as the fly-man had driven off, “I must have this got from the nearest chemist’s. Under the circumstances, Mr Saul, I must ask you to go and fetch it. They’ll be shut up for the night, but I must have the drugs.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Doctor Lawrence, by ‘under the circumstances.’ If you think I am to blame for my friend, George Harrington’s illness, you are sadly mistaken. It is an attack of Western or swamp fever, I presume.”

“Undoubtedly,” said the doctor drily.

“Bring the whiskey,” shouted the prisoner, in a hoarse yell.

“May I ask you to fetch this medicine, Mr Saul?” said the doctor again.

“Certainly,” replied Saul; and as he took the paper, he gave Gertrude an imploring look, that changed to one of sympathy as he passed out.

The look was lost upon Gertrude, whose eyes were fixed upon the struggling, blaspheming man bound on the couch, and who could only be kept in his place by Mr Hampton sitting upon him. She had been entreated, again and again, to leave the room, but had refused as if determined to see all.

“Nasty fit,” said the doctor coolly, as he gave the lawyer a peculiar look.

“Yes. I never saw a worse.”

“Here,” cried the patient, with a hoarse roar. “Get some whisk’. Throat’s like—like—what you call it. Hullo, old mother ’Ampton, you there! Where’s old Saul?”

He burst out into an idiotic fit of laughter, and looked from one to the other.

“Where’s Gertie?” he cried at last; “where’s little lassie? Fesh her here. Got t’headache. She’s good f’readache. Curse you, what are you doing. Let’s get up.”

There was another fierce struggle, but the bandages held firm, and he lay panting for a time.

“Man must joy self sometimes. Ah, there you are, little one. It’s all right—it’s all right.”

His eyes closed, and he lay passive for quite a quarter of an hour, the doctor watching every change, and at last joining his entreaties to those of Mrs Hampton.

“You had better go, Gertrude, my dear. You can do no good. I shall stay here by him—perhaps all night. He’ll be better in the morning.”

“Never better to me,” thought Gertrude, as she looked wistfully in the doctor’s eyes. But she shook her head and intimated that she should stay.

“But it is not a fit scene for you, my child,” whispered Mrs Hampton tenderly.

“I cannot help it, I may be of use. Doctor Lawrence,” she said aloud, piteously, as with a faint hope that she might be deceived, and that she was unjust in attributing the trouble to drink, “are such fits likely to return?”

“Eh? Hum! Well, really, my dear, it all depends upon the patient himself. Ah! here’s Mr Saul.”

“Eh? Saul?” yelled the patient. “Where’s old Saul? More whiskey. Ah, would you!”

He burst out into such a torrent of tall swearing as is said to be peculiar to the mule-drivers of the Far West, and Gertrude shuddered as the hot words came pouring forth.

“That’s right, Mr Saul. Now, Mrs Denton, a wine-glass, and a little cold water, please.”

These were obtained, and as the chink of bottle against glass was heard, the patient shouted aloud, and strained to sit up and reach the glass held out to him, and whose contents he swallowed instantly.

“What’s that?” he shouted; “not whisk— That you, Saul boy. Come here—come—”

He stopped short, uttered a furious oath, and made a bound to set himself free, but sank back inert and lay staring in a ghastly manner at the ceiling.

The doctor laid his hand upon his patient’s heart, felt his pulse, and then bent down over him anxiously.

“Here,” he said quickly, “where is that prescription, Mr Saul?”

“The prescription, sir? Here,” was the reply; and Saul took it from his breast-pocket.

Doctor Lawrence glanced at it quickly, and seemed satisfied, but turned to his patient again, as if the effects of his dose made him uneasy.

“He’ll be better soon, Gertrude, dear,” whispered Mrs Hampton, as she drew her away to the embayed window, and stood with her half hidden by the curtains, but with Saul Harrington’s eyes watching them keenly. “Don’t be alarmed, my dear, at the violence of the attack.”

“I am not alarmed,” said Gertrude slowly, and in a deep, sad voice, “and I am not deceived, Mrs Hampton.”

“What do you mean, my dear?”

“That I never saw any one behave like that before. Mrs Hampton, dear, I am not the child you think me. Do you suppose I do not know that this is the effect of drink?”

There was a dead silence for a few moments, broken only by the stertorous breathing of the man upon the couch.

“I wished to spare you pain, my poor darling,” said Mrs Hampton affectionately, as she drew the weeping girl to her breast. “But you see now it is impossible for you to wed this man. Gertrude, my child, you must come home with me, and give up all thoughts of poor old Mr Harrington’s wishes. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And you will not be tempted by the money to sacrifice yourself like this.”

“No,” said Gertrude gently. “No money would tempt me, but it was my poor guardian’s great wish that I should be the wife of the boy he worshipped.”

“But, my—”

“Hush, Mrs Hampton. He was not always like this, but generous, chivalrous, and true. Mrs Hampton, I can see my duty here. It will be no sacrifice, but a labour of love.”

“What? You will not stay here?”

“Yes, and will be his wife.”

“What? You love him, then?”

“No, I think not yet; but I shall bring him patiently back to that which he was when he used to help my poor guardian—win him back to a truer life.”

“Gertrude?”

“If I can do that, I shall fulfil the wishes of the dead.”

“Rachel, take Miss Gertrude away. Hampton, Mr Saul, I must have more help here,” said the doctor in a low, stern voice, as he bent over the man upon the couch, and then in a hoarse, excited whisper he exclaimed:

“Good God! He’s dying!”

Chapter Fourteen.

Doctors Agree.

The anxiety was terrible for a short time, during which the sick man seemed to be suffering from acute spasms, which made his limbs contract, and drew the muscles of his features in a way that was painful to behold.

Mr Hampton had started off at once for assistance, and Saul placed himself at Doctor Lawrence’s disposal, holding or supporting the patient as his convulsions took the form of a desire to throw himself upon the floor, or of sinking back off the couch.

“You must have given him too strong a dose, doctor,” said Saul at last, as the sufferer lay ghastly-looking, and, for the moment, still.

His eyes were closed, his teeth set, and his fingers tightly clenched, while the sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks seemed to be those of one suffering from a long and painful illness, and not of a young man but a few hours before in the full tide of health.

“No,” said the doctor thoughtfully, “it was the correct quantity. The only thing I can see is that the chemist must have made some terrible mistake. Ha!” he ejaculated at last, as he sat holding his patient’s hand, “that’s better. The paroxysms of pain have passed away, and—”

He was speaking too soon, for the sufferer suddenly uttered a wild cry, and began to writhe and struggle upon the couch, groaning and kicking with pain, and apparently unconscious of the fact that Gertrude was kneeling at his side, holding one of his cold, damp hands.

The pain passed off, though, after a time, and, livid-looking, and with eyelids and fingers twitching, he lay once more apparently exhausted, till finally his breathing grew regular and faint in the calm sleep of exhaustion.

About this time the second doctor arrived with Mr Hampton, and the room was cleared for the two medicoes to have their consultation.

The great dining-room looked gloomy in the extreme, lit by a hand-candlestick, which had been brought in from the hall; and its occupants stood listening, Mr Hampton and Saul apart, Mrs Hampton and Gertrude together, waiting eagerly for permission to re-enter the study, where, as Gertrude walked to the dining-room door from time to time, all seemed to be terribly still.

It was when returning agitatedly from one of these visits to the open door that she happened to glance upward to where her old guardian’s portrait hung upon the wall, and it was as if the whole of the feeble light from the candle had become focussed upon the grim features of the stern old man, whose eyes met hers in a questioning manner, and to Gertrude it seemed as if they asked her to do her duty by the erring man.

At last the opening of the study door was heard, followed by hushed voices in the hall, and the local doctor took his departure.

“Well?” said Saul eagerly.

“Mr Herbert agrees with me, Mr Saul. Of course, under the circumstances, I submitted my prescription to him. He agreed that it was correct, and he joins with me in my opinion as to the cause.”

Saul looked at him inquiringly, and it fell to Gertrude’s lot to ask the question as to the cause of the terrible suffering.

“The chemist must have made some grievous mistake, my dear, through being disturbed so late at night.”

“But he will be better soon?”

“He is better now, my child; and it will, perhaps, be a lesson to him,” he added to the lawyer, as they returned to the study, where the patient had sunk into the deep sleep produced by the drug the doctor had administered; the terribly potent chemical he had also taken having exhausted its strength.

“Nothing can be better than this,” said Doctor Lawrence. “And now, if you people will all go to bed, it will be the kindest thing for my patient.”

“But he must not be left,” said Gertrude in a quiet, decided tone.

“He is not going to be left,” replied the doctor. “I shall stop with him, and if anybody is needed I will soon call some one.”

“But you must have some one to sit up with you, Mr Lawrence,” said Mrs Hampton.

“Yes; I will sit up with him,” cried Saul eagerly. “It was not my fault, but I feel a little guilty about his being so ill; and it is too late to go back to town.”

“Very well,” said the doctor quietly, “you can sit up with me;” and they kept vigil by the young man’s side.

Chapter Fifteen.

Friendly Advice.

It was a fortnight before the sufferer was about again, and during that period Gertrude had begun to look more hopefully upon her future, for, though peevish and fretful to a degree, Mr George Harrington, so Mrs Hampton said, showed the better side of his character.

Saul came twice a week to see the invalid, and at the end of the fortnight was down at The Mynns and out in the garden with him.

“If that confounded, meddling old doctor had left me alone, Saul, old fellow, I should have been all right after a good sleep.”

“Doubtful,” said Saul, smiling.

“Well, nearly all right. I suppose I had been having a little too much.”

“Little! I should have been sorry to have taken half.”

“Ah, well, never mind that. I’m all right again now, only I feel as if I should like to prosecute that chemist for his blunder.”

“He deserves it,” said Saul; “but you couldn’t do anything. It was an accident, that’s all.”

“But, confound the man! he swears, so Lawrence says, that he made the prescription up quite correctly.”

“Perhaps your system will not bear the particular drug he prescribed.”

“My system won’t bear molten lead poured into it,” said the young man tartly. “Hang it! I felt as if I was being burned up.”

“You recollect the sensations, then?”

“Recollect! Why, it sobered me in an instant, and I felt all the time as if the end had come.”

“But it had not, my dear old fellow,” cried Saul enthusiastically. “And as soon as the doctor gives you leave, we’ll have a snug, quiet little dinner together somewhere, and forget all the past.”

“No,” said the other quietly, “I must settle down now, and drop all this fast life. I’ve got to mend and marry little Gertrude.”

Saul’s countenance changed.

“Hallo! what’s the matter? You haven’t taken a dose of the doctor’s medicine, have you?”

“I? No; absurd!”

“Why, you look as white as chalk.”

“Reflection of your sickly face, I suppose,” said Saul, with a forced laugh, “or else I turned pale at the idea of your marrying.”

“Why?”

“Such a loss to bachelors’ society.”

“Don’t be alarmed; I may break out again now and then; but if I do, don’t let old Lawrence touch me.”

“No; that was unfortunate. But look here, George, have you thought any more about that investment?”

“No, how could I—upset like this? Here, I’m faint. Ring that bell.”

Saul touched the hand-bell, and Mrs Denton came hurrying down.

“Here, old girl, bring some whiskey-and-soda.”

Mrs Denton lifted the corner of her apron, and began to pleat it.

“I beg your pardon, sir; the doctor said—”

“Hang the doctor! He didn’t say my friends were to choke with thirst. Bring the brandy, and be quick. Strange thing one can’t do what one likes in one’s own place. What were you saying, Saul?”

“About that investment.”

“What do I want with investments?” said the convalescent shortly. “I’ve plenty of money.”

“I should have thought you were the very man who did want investments, only getting three per cent, for your money.”

“Think about yourself,” was the gruff rejoinder.

“Well, I was not thinking about myself over that, or I should have asked you to lend me the coin.”

“No, I say, don’t,” cried the other, laughing. “We are such good friends, Saul, and I should offend you if you did ask.”

“Don’t be alarmed. I’ve enough for my wants,” said Saul gruffly.

“Glad to hear it. Then on a little more generous over paying your share when we are out.”

Saul winced.

“Turn for turn, you know.”

“If I’m so mean you shouldn’t go out with me; and next time I suggest an investment to you, tell me of it.”

“There, don’t cut up rough, man. That’s right, old girl; put it down here.”

“Please don’t let master drink, Mr Saul, sir,” whispered the old housekeeper.

Saul gave her a meaning nod and look, and the old lady went back to the house satisfied, while Saul drew his chair from the shadow of the great lilac to get nearer the table.

“I suppose I may,” he said.

“May! Of course; open a bottle for me, too, and don’t be stingy with the whiskey.”

“But are you sure that it will not hurt you?”

“Hurt! No; it does me good.”

He lay back watching Saul, who poured out a very liberal quantity of whiskey into a tall glass.

“That enough?” he said.

“Well, no—little drop more.”

Saul tilted a half wine-glass more into the tumbler before proceeding to open a bottle of soda-water, and pretending to be too intent to note that the convalescent took a goodly sip of the raw spirit in the glass.

“There,” said Saul, as the cork he set free flew out with a loud and he trickled the effervescent water into the tumbler, “that ought to do you good, old fellow.”

“It will,” said his companion, taking a deep draught with the more enjoyment because it was forbidden.

“And if you like to alter your mind, and invest that money—two thousand—I’ll still see that you have the chance, in spite of your sneers.”

“Ah, just you be bad as I have been, Saul, my lad, and perhaps you’ll be snaggy and sneery. By George! that seems to send life through your veins. What did you say the company was?”

“Company be hanged! Am I the sort of fellow to persuade a man to invest in some visionary company with dividends in futuro? Solid mercantile affair, as you can find out for yourself in the city.”

“Ah, well, we’ll see about it. Pass that decanter.”

Saul pushed the little cut-glass vessel across the table, and the convalescent was in the act of taking it, when a hand was laid upon his and held it fast.

Chapter Sixteen.

For Gertrude’s Sake.

“Beg pardon, Miss Gertrude, could I speak to you for a minute?”

“You will excuse me a moment, Mrs Hampton?”

“Oh, of course, my dear. Don’t stand upon ceremony with me.”

Gertrude rose with an anxious expression of countenance, and followed the old housekeeper from the room.

“Is anything the matter, Denton?”

“No, my dear, only that Master George rang for the spirits, and I’ve taken ’em down the garden where they’re sitting under the big cedar.”

“They?”

“Yes, my dear, Mr Saul’s there. He saw him in the garden, I s’pose, and didn’t come up to the house. And I thought, perhaps, a word from you might keep him out of temptation, my dear; for them spirits do tempt him.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll go, Denton,” said Gertrude quickly; and she hurried down the garden, her steps inaudible on the closely shorn lawn, and came round behind the bushes in time to lay her hand upon that of the would-be suicide.

“What the dev—”

“George, dear.”

“Oh, it’s you, Gertie. Well, what’s the matter?”

“Mr Saul Harrington,” said the girl, flushing, as she turned upon the visitor, “have you forgotten Doctor Lawrence’s words?”

“I? Oh, no,” said Saul uneasily, “but doctors exaggerate, and dear George here is all the better for a refreshing draught.”

“It is not true,” she retorted angrily. “George, dear, indeed, indeed it is not good for you.”

“Nonsense, my darling,” he cried, drawing her to him so that she stood close to his chair, and he placed his arm about her waist. “You are too particular. Here, just a little more.”

“No, no,” said Gertrude fiercely. “You are so much better now. Don’t, don’t! for my sake, don’t?”

“Hang it! I want only one glass,” he began angrily, with his brow growing knotty with a network of veins. “Don’t be so confoundedly—”

“George, dear, for my sake,” she whispered.

The change was magical.

“Ah, well, then, I will not, pet. But it would not have hurt me.”

Saul Harrington’s countenance was a study during this colloquy; his face grew more sallow, and a peculiar nervous twitching set in about the corners of his eyes. At one time he seemed to be suffering intense agony, but by an effort he preserved his calmness, and a faint, sardonic smile played about his lips, as his companion assumed the manner of one betrothed toward Gertrude, but those lips looked white all the same.

“Don’t—for my sake, don’t,” he said to himself, unconsciously repeating the girl’s words. “It makes me feel half mad.”

“All right,” said the convalescent. “I’ll take care, then, Gertie. Do you hear, Saul? Spirit except in homoeopathic doses is tabooed, so tempt me not.”

“I tempt you,” said Saul, laughing merrily, but with the vocal chords horribly out of tune; “I like that. My dear Gertrude, here is a man from the States, who has been in the habit of taking whiskey as we take milk; he has been leading me into all kinds of excesses, playing Mephistopheles to me till I have had hard work to keep out of trouble, and then he turns upon me and says, ‘tempt me not.’”

“Don’t talk about it, please,” said Gertrude imploringly.

“Not I, you happy pair,” said Saul, rising, and again laughing unpleasantly as he took up his glass.

“Here’s a speedy and a happy union to you both.”

He drained his glass, and set it down in silence, as Gertrude’s face crimsoned, and then grew pale, while the master of The Mynns frowned.

“Isn’t that what you English people call bad taste?” he said sourly.

“Surely not, my dear boy. I am only Cousin Saul, and have a right to banter a little. There, I’m off back to town.”

“I thought you were going to stay and have a hand at cards, and I want to have a game at billiards on the new table.”

“Cards, billiards? For shame, man, when the lovely Thais sits beside you. Why don’t you take the good the gods provide you?”

“Eh? What do you mean. Hang it all, don’t begin quoting poetry to a fellow. What does he mean, Gertie? Oh, I see. Very good. But that’s all right. She and I understand one another, and we shall have plenty of time to court after we’re married. Eh, Gertie?”

“I must go back to Mrs Hampton now,” said Gertrude gravely.

“Hang Mrs Hampton! How glad I shall be to see her back. But don’t tell her, Gertie.”

She gave him a sad look, and bent down to whisper:

“Remember.”

“Yes, I’ll remember,” was the reply, as her hand was caught and held for a few moments before she could withdraw it.

Saul Harrington’s teeth gritted together as he drew in his breath hard.

“The jade!” he said to himself. “Womanlike. It means diamonds and carriages, does it, my cunning little schemer? Well, we shall see.”

He watched her furtively as she went off slowly; but he could not see the tears welling up to her eyes and brimming over, as with bended head she returned to the house, and in place of going upstairs directly, went into the dining-room, to stand for a few minutes with hands clasped gazing up at the searching eyes of the picture; and her lips moved as she whispered softly:

“It is so—so hard, dear; but for your sake I will, and bring him back to what you wish him to be.”

“Bless her little heart!” said the master of The Mynns, with a sneering laugh, which made Saul start. “Nice little lassie, isn’t she? Do you know, old fellow, I believe you wish you were in my shoes.”

“Bah!”

“There, you look it again. But it’s no good, Saul, my son. It was the old man’s wish, and that’s sacred to her, and, besides, she has taken to me wonderfully. I’m sorry for you, but it’s fate, my boy, fate.”

“Your fate?”

“Yes. But never mind, old boy. I’ll stand by you, and it’s something to make up for your disappointment.”

“Disappointment, man! What disappointment?”

“Yours,” said the other mockingly. “That settles it. You’re a clever fellow, Saul Harrington, but a wretched failure at hiding your feelings.”

“Or else you are a little too clever at divining,” retorted Saul.

“Perhaps so, old fellow. But never mind that. I’ve made up my mind about that investment.”

“And you decline.”

“No; I shall sell out or raise, or do something; and you may tell your friends to do what is necessary.”

“You mean it, George?”

“Of course, I mean it. You have not known me long, but you ought to have seen by now that I never play over money matters. By the way, shall you bring some one here to settle the business?”

“No, I shall take you to the city.”

“When?”

“Oh, not for a week or so. There will be papers to prepare—a sort of transfer.”

“Well, hadn’t I better do it all through old Hampton?”

“If you do, the business will never come off.”

“Because it is too risky.”

“Hampton will say it is.”

“Ah, well, we shall see about that.”

They stayed talking for long enough in the garden, and then went into the house to play billiards till dinner time, when Saul proposed leaving, but was overruled, and he stayed to keep up the principal part of the conversation, and in spite of all that his friend had said, he masked his own feelings so admirably as to throw whoever suspected him off guard.

“I’m going to persuade George to come up soon,” he said; “and I’m going to beg for a little music, Gertie.”

He said this as he held the door open for the ladies to pass out. But he did not keep his word, for the gentlemen sat long over their coffee, and then adjourned to the study.

“Don’t fidget, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, over their tea. “Mr Hampton is going to stay down to the last, and he’ll speak out if George attempts to take too much.”

Gertrude felt pleased, and yet hurt for her betrothed’s sake, but she said nothing, only felt that all was going on as she could wish, while down in the study the two young men exchanged glances which seemed in each case to say:

“Old Hampton’s down here on guard over the whiskey-bottle.”

“I may smoke,” said the young host, aloud.

“Of course, my dear sir,” said the old lawyer placidly, “of course; but you must not indulge in what Mr Saul Harrington here is taking with impunity.”

“Never mind. I shall be quite right soon, and then I can set you all at defiance. Oh, by the way, Mr Hampton, my funds at the bank are low. I want you to place two thousand pounds more to my credit.”

The old lawyer knit his brows a little, but received his orders calmly enough.

“Am I to dispose of those A Shares, Mr Harrington?”

“Yes, that will do; they bring in no interest worth having.”

“It shall be done, sir. But it will be nearly a fortnight before the transfer can be made.”

“That will do. There is no hurry. Shall we join the ladies now?”

“By all means.”

About an hour later Saul Harrington took his leave, looking friendliness personified, as he promised to be down again soon.

“And disabuse your mind of those fancies, George,” he said, as they walked down to the gate.

“What fancies?”

“About Gertie. Had it been as you say, I had a couple of years for my siege. To show you that you are wrong, I want you to make me a promise.”

“What is it?”

“Let me be best man at your wedding.”

“I was going to ask you.”

“Then that’s settled. Good-night. I’ll put matters in train for the investment.”

“Thanks, do; you see I am in earnest.”

“It takes some thinking out,” said Saul, as he walked slowly toward the station, cigar in mouth, “but it’s worth working for. Poor miserable idiot! And he believes he’s cleverness refined.”

“I don’t quite see through Master Saul’s game,” said the object of his thoughts, as he lit a fresh cigar, and after walking up and down the path a few times, went into the study, where he threw himself upon a couch, and lay looking through the soft wreaths of smoke.

“He’s as jealous as a Turk, and he’d do anything to come between me and little Gertie. But, poor little lass, she’s caught—limed. That’s safe enough. The brute! He led me on and on that night, over that bad champagne, and hardly touched it himself. Wanted to show me up here; and it only made the little darling fonder of me. He’s plotting, but he’s a shallow-brained ass, and one of these days I shall come down upon him a crusher. Now, what does he mean about that money. I don’t want to lose two thousand, but would with pleasure to get him out of the way, for he’s like a lion in one’s path, and I never feel sure. Next heir, eh? Next heir. And my coming kept him out of the cake.”

“Well, Master Saul Harrington,” he said, after a pause, “you may be very clever, but one gets one’s brains edged up a bit out in the West, and if you mean mischief over that money, pray, for your own sake, be careful, for two can play at that game.”

He rose slowly and marched across to the cabinet, one of whose drawers he unlocked; and as he stood with his back to the window, a dimly-seen face appeared at a short distance from one of the panes, and was made more indistinct by a tuft of the evergreen which grew at the side, and half behind which the owner of the face was concealed.

The watcher gazed eagerly in, but was unable to make out whether the occupant of the room was examining letters or counting over money—the latter suggested itself as correct.

But he was wrong, for the possessor of The Mynns was slowly and carefully thrusting cartridge after cartridge into the chambers of a large revolver, one which had been his companion far away in the West.

“‘A friend in need is a friend indeed,’” he said, as he closed the drawer. “It may be imagination, but when one has a fortune, a goodly home, and a pretty girl waiting to call one ‘hub,’ a fellow wants to live as long as he can. If it’s fancy, why, there’s no harm done.”

As he spoke, the face at the window was still watching, but so far from the pane as to be invisible from within.

Chapter Seventeen.

Legal Advice.

“Hullo! What do you want? Never sent for you.”

“No,” said Doctor Lawrence gruffly, “I came without,” and he seated himself in one of the old, worn, leather covered chairs in the lawyer’s private room at Lincoln’s Inn.

“But I’m right as a trivet, Lawrence, and if I was not, I should not consult you.”

“I know that. You never did.”

“Well, you never came to me about your legal affairs.”

“Of course I did not. If I had we should never have remained friends.”

“Humph! Then you think I should have ruined you.”

“Well, you think I should have poisoned you.”

“There! get out. What’s the matter, Lawrence?”

“I’ve come to consult you.”

“You have? Then hang it all, old chap, I’ll have jaundice or gout next week.”

“About The Mynns’ affairs.”

“Oh! Then I’ll keep quite well. What’s the matter now?”

“Sit down, Hampton, and let’s talk quietly, old fellow, as friends.”

The old lawyer sat down, took a penknife from a drawer, and throwing himself back in his chair, began to pare his nails.

“Well, what is it?” he said.

“I’m very uncomfortable about the state of affairs down yonder.”

“So am I, and I get no peace of my life.”

“How’s that?”

“The wife!”

“Oh! Shouldn’t have married.”

“Too late to alter that now.”

“But what do you mean?”

“Mean? Why, of course, situated as we were, the wife agreed to poor little Gertrude’s wishes, and stayed at The Mynns to play propriety till those two were married; and now I want to get home to my own fireside, but we seem regularly stuck, and the worst of it is, we are unwelcome visitors.”

“Yes, I saw that.”

“Then can you imagine a more unpleasant position for a well-to-do old chap like myself; staying at a house where your host always shows you that you are not wanted?”

“No. It is hard; and for unselfish reasons.”

“I wouldn’t stop another hour with the rowdy Yankee scoundrel, only Mrs Hampton says I must.”

“For Gertrude’s sake, of course.”

“Oh, hang your of ‘course,’” cried the lawyer angrily.

“Call yourself a friend! Why don’t you advise me to go?”

“Can’t,” said the doctor, putting his hat upon the top of his cane, and spinning it slowly round.

“Don’t do that, man. It fidgets me.”

The doctor took his hat off the cane meekly, and set it on the table, after which he laid his cane across his knees, and began to roll it slowly to and fro, as if he were making paste.

“I say, Lawrence,” cried the old lawyer querulously, “don’t do that. You give me the creeps.”

The doctor meekly laid his stick beside his hat, and put his hands in his pockets.

“Look here,” he said, “what about that poor girl?”

“Well, what about her?”

“Are we to standstill and see her throw herself away upon this wretched man?”

“Can you show me a way out of the difficulty? If so, for goodness’ sake speak out.”

“Your wife! Cannot she influence her?”

“No. She has done everything. The poor girl looks upon it as a duty to the old man, and to his grandson; and she has made up her mind.”

“Tut—tut—tut—tut—tut!”

“She believes that she can bring the fellow round to a better way of life.”

“I don’t, Hampton.”

“No more do I.”

“Think she loves him?”

“No. Not a bit. She doesn’t dislike him though, for he can make himself agreeable when he chooses.”

“Then she will marry him?”

“Not a doubt about it, doctor.”

There was a pause, broken by the lawyer doubling his fist and striking the table so heavy a blow that there was a cloud of pungent dust directly after in the doctor’s nostrils, and he sneezed violently again and again.

“Oh, you old fool!” cried the lawyer.

“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, blowing his nose upon a great yellow silk handkerchief. “It was your dust.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean for not letting the brute die when you had him in your hands. It would have been a blessing for everybody.”

“Saul Harrington included, eh? I wonder what he would have given me to have let him die.”

“Five thousand at least!”

“Don’t talk nonsense, man. Let’s see if we cannot do something.”

“We can do nothing, sir. The wedding-day is fixed, and the poor little girl is going to swear she will love, honour, and obey a scoundrel, who will break her pretty little heart while she sees him squander away that magnificent estate.”

“It’s very, very terrible,” said Doctor Lawrence thoughtfully; “and I came here this morning in the hope that as co-executors we might do something to save the girl, even if we cannot save the estate.”

“There’ll be nothing to save in half-a-dozen years, if he goes on as he’s going now. In the past three months there are ten thousand pounds gone spang!”

“Spent?”

“Heaven knows! Gambled away, I suppose. I have to keep on selling stock, regardless of losses, and I do the best I can for him. If the applications were made to some shady firm, they’d plunder him wholesale.”

“It’s very sad,” said the doctor, meekly.

“Sad, sir! It’s criminal. I don’t know what he does with it all, but, between ourselves, Lawrence, I’ve a shrewd suspicion that he is remitting a good deal to the States.”

“What for?”

“How should I know, sir? To pay old debts, perhaps. Ah, it’s a sorry business.”

“But surely we can do something.”

“Bah!”

“Now, don’t be angry, Hampton. If it was a leg or a wing diseased, I should know what to do, but in these legal matters I am a perfect child.”

“You are, Lawrence, you are.”

“Well,” said the doctor tartly, “knowing that, I came to you, as a legal light, to give me your opinion. Do you mean to tell me that we, as old Harrington’s executors, cannot interfere to stop this man from wasting his substance and wrecking the life of that poor girl?”

“Yes, sir, I do, plump and plain. Our duties were limited to seeing that, after all bequests were paid, this gentlemanly young fellow from the Far West had all the money his old lunatic of a grandfather left him.”

“But—”

“There, butt away till you break your skull, if you like, against the stone wall of the law. I, as a lawyer, can do nothing, but perhaps you can—as a doctor.”

“In heaven’s name, then, tell me what, for I feel heartbroken to see the way things are going.”

“Kill him.”

“What?”

“I mean as you nearly did before, and blamed the chemist.”

“My dear Hampton, surely you acquit me of that business.”

“Oh, yes, if you like, but if I were you I’d get him into such an awful state of health that he should not want to spend money, and, as to wedding, that’s the last thing he should think of.”

“Absurd! absurd!” cried Doctor Lawrence angrily. “You non-professional men get the maddest notions into your heads.”

“Very well, then, try that.”

“Try what?”

“That which you were hinting about—madness.”

“What?”

“Can’t you contrive to make it appear that the man is non compos mentis. Then we lawyers could come in and get some one appointed to administer the estate—I mean a judge would do that.”

“My dear Hampton, I came to you for good advice, and you talk trash to me.”

“I’ve told you—trash or not—the only way of getting out of the difficulty, and I can do no more,” said the lawyer pettishly. “There, Lawrence, old fellow, we will not quarrel over this unfortunate affair. We can do nothing but look on and advise. George Harrington will tell us to go to Jericho if we say a word; and as to the lady, when a good, pure-minded young girl takes it into her head that it is her duty to do something or another, the more you preach at her, and try to get her to think as you do, the more she looks upon you as a worldly-minded old sinner, and persists in going her own gait. I can only see one thing to do.”

“Yes? What is it?” cried the doctor.

“Ram a lot of legal jargon into the scoundrel, and frighten him into making ample settlements on the poor girl, tying it down so that he can’t touch it, nor she neither, except as payments fall due. Then she’ll be safe when he dies of delirium tremens, or gets killed in some drunken brawl.”

“You think you can manage that, Hampton?” cried the doctor eagerly.

“Yes, I fancy I can contrive that, but if he proves to be obstinate, you must help me.”

“In any way I can.”

“That’s right. Well, then, you’ll have to bring him nearly to death’s door.”

“What?”

“Not near enough to make your conscience uneasy, but just enough to make him soft and workable. Sick men are the ones to make their wills, I can tell you. A hale, hearty man is as obstinate as a bull.”

“Look here, Hampton, if you expect me to degrade my noble profession by aiding and abetting in any dishonourable act, you are confoundedly mistaken, sir, and I wish you a very good morning.”

The doctor seized his hat and stick, put on the former with a bang which threatened injury to the skin of his forehead, and was going out of the room when he received a slap on the back, and faced round fiercely, to find the lawyer smiling as he held out his hand.

“What a confounded old pepper-box you are, Lawrence! Hang it, man! who wants to do anything dishonourable? Do you think I do? Now, after knowing me all these years, do you think it likely?”

“No,” cried the doctor, slapping his hand loudly into that of his friend; “but you shouldn’t look so serious when you are cracking a joke.”

“That’s the perfection of joking, my dear boy. Seriously, though, I shall try and force him into making heavy settlements upon that poor girl.”

“By all means do; and I’d give something if we could break off the match.”

“What do you say to forging a new will, forbidding the banns—eh?”

The doctor looked into the dry and mirthful countenance before him, shook his head, and went to the door.

“See you at dinner at The Mynns on Wednesday, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes,” said the lawyer, “for certain. We live there now, and if it was not for poor little Gertrude, I should be very glad when emancipation day came.”

Chapter Eighteen.

Saul’s Invitation.

Mr Hampton was quite right; Gertrude had nerved herself to the sacrifice, and looked forward to the wedding-day, although with apprehension, still with something akin to eagerness.

“But you don’t love him, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, “and is it right for you to go to the altar like that?”

Gertrude was silent and thoughtful for some minutes before she raised her large clear eyes, and gazed full in the old lady’s face.

“Yes,” she said, “I think it is right. I shall have influence over him which will grow, and I shall then have the right to speak with authority—as his wife.”

Mrs Hampton sighed and shook her head.

“You have no faith,” said Gertrude, smiling, “I have. The real nature of which my dear guardian spoke is only hidden away, crusted over by the rough life George has led. Once we are married, he will think of his duties toward me, and he will change back to what he was.”

“Well, I hope so, my dear, for your sake, and you must forgive me because I am not so sanguine as I was at your age. I tell you what I would do first, though, if I were you.”

“Yes?”

“Get rid of Saul Harrington.”

“Yes, I should be glad to do that, and I shall try it,” said Gertrude, with a dreamy look in her eyes which changed to one of dislike and dread as a step was heard outside upon the gravel walk, and the two women looked at each other curiously.

“Talk of some one—” said Mrs Hampton at last.

At that moment the door was opened, and Saul Harrington ushered in.

“Ah, ladies,” he said cheerily, “both indoors upon a day like this. Well, I’m glad to find you at home. Come to say good-bye.”

“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.