"No!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the doctor, half rising. Then sitting down again he exclaimed, "Well!" took out his pocket-handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and then, without disguise, sat quietly wiping away the tears.

"To my nephew, Saul Harrington, one hundred pounds a year, raised as hereinafter specified by a Government annuity."

Saul frowned and looked down at the carpet, though it was all he had dared to expect, and he listened eagerly to the next clause which left an annuity of one hundred per annum to the testator's dear adopted child, Gertrude Bellwood, with the hope that she would fulfil his wishes. In conclusion, as Saul was trying to recover from the shock of knowing that Gertrude had spoken the truth, came the clauses dealing with the remainder of the old man's wealth, which was left unconditionally with certain sums and their interest, sums remitted from the United States, "to my grandson, George Harrington, in the hope that he will dutifully fulfil my wishes expressed to him in the last letter I sent to America."

The other parts of the will, with its appointment of "my old friends, Doctor Lawrence and Phineas Hampton, to be my sole executors," seemed to consist of the ringing of bells in Saul Harrington's ears as he still sat gazing down at the carpet when all was over.

"My congratulations, Lawrence," said the old lawyer, smiling.

"My dear Hampton, I don't know how to be sufficiently grateful. And, my dear Miss Gertrude, I cannot take this. Ten thousand pounds, and you only left with a hundred a year. Look here, Hampton. Now, no nonsense.

I shall only take some of this money--half. The other I insist upon making over to Miss Gertrude here as her dowry."

"Can't be done. Shan't be done," said the old lawyer gruffly.

"Lawrence, we've known each other twenty years."

"Yes, we have."

"Then don't be a fool."

"And not at his side when he died," said the doctor, nodding his head.

"My dear Miss Gertrude, I feel as if I am robbing you."

"You don't know how glad I am, Doctor Lawrence," cried Gertrude, laying her hands in his. "Dear uncle always liked you, and I felt sure he would leave 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 ap.r.o.n she had rolled up to guard against its falling open--the ap.r.o.n 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 c.r.a.pe 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.