CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

A GENTLEMAN TO SEE GERTRUDE.

"Great Heavens! my child, what is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing, Mr Hampton," cried Gertrude. "Something touched my hand. Oh, Bruno, you bad dog, how you frightened me!"

The cry brought Mrs Denton to the door, and she hurried away directly to return with a light, just as the dog set up another mournful howl which echoed dismally in the gloomy ranges of cellars.

As the light shone in, the old woman holding it high above her head, Gertrude was clinging to the old lawyer's arm, and the dog was crouched in the sawdust close to the broken bottle of port, whose rich contents had made a broad stain upon the floor.

"Well," said the old man, "I must not scold you, my dear, for being startled, but you made me jump. Come along."

"No, no," said Gertrude hastily. "You must reach down another bottle of port."

"What, after we have wasted one!" Gertrude responded by taking the candle from Mrs Denton's hand, and fetching another bottle from the bin, the dog following her uneasily, whining and tottering on his legs, and showing great unwillingness to follow, till Gertrude coaxed him back to his bed in the corner of the hall, after the cellar had been duly locked up, and the keys replaced in the cabinet drawer.

"I suppose we must blame George Harrington for upsetting us, and making us so nervous," said Mrs Hampton, with a forced laugh, as Gertrude re-entered the drawing-room; "but, good gracious, child! there's a dress! You look as if you had been committing a murder."

Gertrude turned ghastly pale, and looked down at her soft, light dress, which was splashed and stained in great patches with the wine.

"Mrs Hampton!"

"What a stupid thing to say, my dear," cried the old lady excitedly.

"Don't take any notice of it. There, let's go to dinner."

That meal was not a success, for every one seemed troubled and nervous, one infecting the other, but no allusion was made to the absentee, till they were seated alone over dessert, when, as the old lawyer sipped his claret, he said suddenly:

"You are right. I've been thinking it over. Saul Harrington's invitation was too much for him. He repented of his refusal, and has gone off after him."

"Yes," said Mrs Hampton, "that's it."

Gertrude was silent. Her thoughts seemed to enchain the power of speech.

"Don't look so troubled about it, my dear. He is a bachelor yet, and is making use of his last few days or weeks of freedom. We shall be having a letter from him soon. Con--bless that dog! Are you going to keep him in the house all night, my dear?"

"I did mean to, Mr Hampton," said Gertrude, as a low, piteous, moan-like howl came from the hall.

"Like my impudence to speak," muttered the old lawyer; "seemed to think I was at home."

"He shall be taken to the stables, poor fellow," said Gertrude, rising.

"Mrs Hampton, shall we go to the drawing-room?"

"To be sure, my dear. And Hampton, don't stop long."

"No, my love," said the old man gallantly, holding open the door; "and when I come up I hope we are to have some music."

This was promised, and the lawyer returned to his seat, filled his gla.s.s, held it up brow high, looked full at the portrait of his old client, and nodded gravely.

"Your health, Harrington, old friend," he said; and he half emptied his gla.s.s, and set it down.

"Absurd thing to wish a dead man health," he continued, as he gazed full at the portrait. "Ought to have said welfare. Hallo! What's that?"

He turned his face to the door, and sat listening to a faint whining, and the pattering of claw-armed feet on the floor.

"Humph! Poor brute, getting him to the stables, I suppose. Better there."

Then, as silence once more reigned in the place, he sat back, and gazed up at the portrait.

"You meant well, old friend," he said, "but you understood the care of money better than the workings of human nature. James Harrington, you understood laying down good wine, too; but, between ourselves, you made as bad a will as ever I helped to draw up."

"Ah," he continued, after a pause, "you may look as stern as you please; you know I'm telling the truth, and I shall do everything I can to upset your plans."

He nodded, and sat sipping his wine.

"A scamp!" he said. "But one might have expected some good in him, perhaps, such as tempted him to send the old man money, but an utter, reckless scoundrel at heart. I loathe him, and he must not be allowed to marry our poor little girl. It would be too cruel."

There was another sip or two of wine taken, as the old man gazed thoughtfully before him.

"No; he has not gone with Saul Harrington, but on some expedition of his own. Well, I can do nothing in that direction--I wish I could; but the money is his, and he has a right to spend it as he pleases. A pity, though--a pity. Eh?"

"Coffee, sir."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Denton. Yes; thank you."

The old man helped himself to sugar and milk, before taking the cup from the tray, when he found the housekeeper's eyes fixed upon him pleadingly.

"Yes, Denton; you wanted to say something."

"Oh, yes, sir--so much. You knew master so well and he trusted in you."

"Not so much as I could have wished, Denton, but what is it?"

"Can't you do something, sir?"

"Something, Denton?"

"Something to persuade my poor dear young mistress; to alter her mind.

There, sir," cried the old woman, changing her tone from one of pleading to one of anger and dislike, "I'd sooner see the poor child in her grave than Master George's wife."

The old lawyer looked at her gravely for a few moments, and was about to speak out as he felt, but directly after, with the cultivated caution of his profession, he said slowly: "We must see, Mrs Denton--we must see."

Then, swallowing his coffee at a draught, he set down the cup, and placing his hands behind him, as if to preserve his balance, he left the room.

Denton stood looking after him till he was gone, and then turned, and gazed up at the portrait.

"Oh, master," she half sobbed, "you ought to have known better--you ought to have known better. She'll marry him unless something is done, and all to please you."