The Mynns' Mystery. Fenn George Manville

you something handsome in his will.”

      “Hah!”

      It was a long, low expiration of the breath from Saul Harrington, who was too deep in thought to hear what was going on, as, with hands down in his pockets, he gazed down fixedly at the carpet.

      “And if George Harrington dies, I succeed to everything. Yes,” he said to himself, “I should be master here. Get out! Beast!”

      He said these last words aloud, for the dog was sniffing at his legs, and all the time it seemed as if the portrait of old James Harrington was the old man himself, gazing down sternly from the wall at his plotting nephew.

      “Yes, if he dies – if he dies – I shall be master here.”

      Chapter Seven

      Ready for the Heir

      “There, Miss Gertrude,” said Mrs Denton, carefully pinning the white apron she had rolled up to guard against its falling open – the apron she had been wearing for a fortnight, “I don’t like to boast, but I think I may say that The Mynns never looked cleaner since it was a house.”

      “Never, Denton.”

      “And I’ve had my work to do, my dear, for servants will be servants. They’re paid so much a year, and they reckon how much they ought to do for the money, and when they’ve done that it’s hard to get them to move.”

      “Well, Denton,” said Gertrude, smiling, “is it not natural?”

      “Natural enough, my dear, if you’ll excuse me calling you so now you’re a grown young lady; but we don’t go by nature in service. I like to see servants take a pride in their work, and the place they’re in. I do, and I always try to make the place look better when there’s no one to watch me.”

      “You’re a dear, good old soul, Denton, and I hope we may never part.”

      “Till the last, miss, and the last comes to us all as it did to poor dear master. Forty years was I with him, my dear; and it don’t seem like forty weeks. Any news, my dear?”

      “No, Denton,” said Gertrude, flushing slightly now.

      “Well, he might have written if he has got the news, and said when you might expect him. It isn’t as if Mr Hampton hadn’t telegraphed out. And it does seem so strange. Six weeks since poor master died, and no letter. You’d be glad to hear, miss, wouldn’t you?”

      “I – I – yes – I don’t know, Denton.”

      “Ah well, natural enough, my dear, when you don’t know what he’s like, and he’s to be your husband. I hope he’ll turn out all poor master said about him, and make you very happy, my dear. I remember well when his poor father and mother brought him here before they sailed for America. Sad, restless gentleman, his poor father, wanting to go to foreign countries, to find gold when master used to tell him that there was more gold to be dug out of people’s pockets than ever he’d find out there. Don’t you think, my dear, that we might begin putting flowers now in young master’s room?”

      “Yes, Denton, do,” cried Gertrude quickly. “He may not come for days yet, but you could renew them.”

      “I mean for you to put them, my dear.”

      “I?”

      “Yes. There, don’t blush, my pretty,” said the old woman, smiling affectionately. “He’s to be your husband, you know, and I can see what you mean; you don’t want him to think you forward and pressing for it. Quite right, my child, but this is a particular case as we may say.”

      There was a double-knock and a sharp ring, and Bruno gave token of his presence by starting out from under the table and uttering a fierce bay.

      “Down, Bruno, down!” cried Gertrude, colouring deeply and then turning pale.

      “That’s a strange knock, Miss Gertrude. Perhaps it’s Mr George.”

      They stood listening in the drawing-room; the old woman, in her white crape cap, looking flushed and excited, and Gertrude, in her unrelieved black dress, white – even sallow – with excitement.

      “What will he think of poor little insignificant me?” she said to herself; and her heart beat more and more heavily as steps were heard in the hall; then their dull sound on the carpet, the door handle rattled, and Saul Harrington marched in unannounced.

      “Ah, Gertie,” he cried with boisterous familiarity. “How do, Denton? Here, keep that dog back or I shall kill him.”

      “Lie down, Bruno?” said Gertrude.

      “Send him out of the room.”

      “He will be quite quiet now,” replied Gertrude, who longed to tell the old housekeeper to stop in the room, but dared not make so great a confession of her dread of the visitor.

      “Oh, very well,” said Saul carelessly. “As long as he does not try to eat me, I don’t mind. Hah! gone,” he continued with a satisfied smile; “now we can have a chat.”

      “You wished to speak to me, Mr Harrington?” said Gertrude, trying hard not to show her agitation.

      “Only dropped in to see how you were, and to ask the news. Well, is my beloved relative on his way yet? When do you expect him?”

      “We have not heard from Mr George Harrington yet.”

      “You will open his letter, I suppose, when it comes for the old man?”

      “I shall pass it on to the executors.”

      “Pooh! we could read it. I say we, as I am so near a relative; but mark my words, Gertie, he’ll never come back. There, don’t cry. You never knew him, and don’t want to know him I’ll be sworn. Gertie, it’s as good as certain that he is dead, for the old man had not heard from him for quite a year, I know, and out there a man’s life isn’t worth much. Come, let’s see if you and I can’t have a little sensible talk.”

      Gertrude glanced uneasily at the door, and wondered whether Mrs Denton was near. Then she heard a sigh come from beneath the table, and felt comforted, for there was help at hand.

      Saul laughed as he interpreted her looks rightly.

      “What a silly little bird it is,” he said banteringly, “pretending to be afraid of me on purpose to lead me on. There, I apologise for being so rough that day. I ought to have approached you more gently, but it is your fault – you are so pretty and enticing. Why, what a terrible look!”

      “I have no right to forbid you this house, Mr Harrington,” said Gertrude coldly, “but I must beg of you not to refer to that terrible day again. I cannot bear it.”

      “Stuff!”

      “I cannot keep back the feeling that your presence shortened my poor uncle’s life.”

      “You’re a little goose, Gertie,” said Saul contemptuously. “The old man threw himself into a passion about nothing, and he paid the penalty.”

      Gertrude shook her head as she took up some work so as to avoid looking at the man lolling before her in an easy-chair.

      “Why, you little sceptic,” cried Saul laughingly. “It was a foregone conclusion that he would pop off some day in a fit of temper – because there were no coals in the scuttle, or his beef-tea was too hot. I happened to be there, and you blame me. That’s all.”

      “Pray say no more.”

      “All light, I will not. Always ready to obey you, Gertie, because I want to show you that I really love you very dearly.”

      Gertrude gave a hurried glance at the door, remembered the dog, and grew calm.

      “I’m not going to frighten you, Gertie,” continued Saul, “but I want for us to understand our position. Never mind what the executors or any one else says, George Harrington is not coming back. He’s dead or he would have been here.”

      “He has not had time yet. He was in the West – Far West, last time my uncle heard.”

      “I