The cry was so peculiar, and impressed its hearers so painfully, that they stood looking at each other, Gertrude with blanched cheeks, and Mrs Hampton, who had not outgrown the superstitious dread common to most natures suffering from a nervous tremor that she had not felt for years.

She was the first to speak with assumed cheerfulness.

“Why, it’s that dog,” she said. “I declare for the moment it quite startled me?”

“Yes,” said Gertrude, with her voice sounding husky and strange, “it was the dog.”

But neither moved to do what was most natural under the circumstances: to go and pat and pacify the poor animal, neither did they discuss the possibility of how it was injured, but stood listening for its next cry, and both started violently as the door was opened and Mrs Denton, white and trembling, hurried into the room.

“Did – did you hear that, Miss Gertrude?” she said in an awe-stricken whisper.

“Do you mean poor Bruno’s howl?”

“Yes, miss,” said the old woman in the same low tone of voice.

“The poor thing is in pain, I suppose.”

“No, miss, it isn’t that,” said Denton slowly. “If he was hurt, he would yelp sharply. He has got something on his mind.”

“Don’t be such a ridiculous old woman, Denton!” cried Mrs Hampton impatiently, to cover her own dread. “Dogs have no minds. They howl sometimes because it’s their nature to.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the old housekeeper respectfully, but speaking in a very slow, impressive tone; “because it is their nature to howl when they know there’s death on the way.”

“Gertrude, my dear, for goodness’ sake don’t you be superstitious. It’s absurd. It is what you have just heard – an old woman’s tale. Why, if dogs howled because there was death about, they’d pass their days doing nothing else, and wouldn’t have time even to wag their tails.”

“Denton, you are old enough to know better.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m seventy years and three months old, and I suppose I ought to know better, but I don’t.”

“There is nothing to mind, Denton,” said Gertrude gently. “Poor Bruno quite startled me for the moment, but he has settled down now, and – ”

She stopped short, for the dog again uttered the same long, low howl – a cry which sounded more impressive than the one they had heard before.

Gertrude’s face looked ghastly, and for a moment she reeled and caught at Mrs Hampton’s trembling hand, while the old housekeeper sank upon her knees and buried her face in her apron.

Gertrude was the first to recover her presence of mind.

“How childish!” she said, as she crossed to the old woman where she knelt. “Denton, dear, don’t think so seriously of such a trifle. There is no truth in these old superstitious ideas.”

“No truth, my dear?” said the old woman, taking and kissing the hand laid upon her shoulder. “Was there no truth in my shutting poor Bruno up in the shed, and his getting out by tearing his way under the side, and howling in the garden the night poor dear master died? I know what you will both say to me, that I am a silly old woman; but I have seen and heard strange things in my time, and I hope, with all my heart, that this is not a sign of ill having come to some one we know, whether it’s to young master or Mr Saul. But, mark my words, we shall hear something terrible, and before long.”

“Yes, we shall all hear bad news, Denton, if we live long enough,” said Mrs Hampton, who was quite herself again. “Let’s go and see how your patient is, Gertrude, my dear.”

She crossed to the door, and Gertrude followed her quickly, leaving the old housekeeper hesitating as to whether to go or stay, and ending by slowly following the others into the hall.

Bruno had not moved from where he had been left, but lay with his head between his paws, and eyes closed, apparently asleep, till Gertrude stood over him, when he half opened his eyes and looked up at her.

“Poor old dog, then!” she said gently, as she went down on one knee and softly stroked his neck.

The dog closed his eyes and responded to her caress by giving a few raps upon the floor with his tail, after which he lay perfectly still, as if asleep.

“I wonder how he was hurt,” said Gertrude gently.

“Some brute must have struck him, and he ought to be punished.”

“Bruno would not hurt anyone except those he hates,” said Mrs Denton slowly, as she came and stood close by them.

“Poor thing!” said Mrs Hampton. “Well, we can do no more. He will soon get better. Come, Gertrude.”

The girl was giving the dog a final pat on the neck, when it suddenly raised its head, opened its eyes wildly and stared right away, uttering a long, low howl, ending in a mournful whine.

“Really,” exclaimed Mrs Hampton, “he must not do that or you must have him moved, Gertrude.”

The dog seemed to sink into an uneasy sleep, and Gertrude followed Mrs Hampton into the drawing-room.

“Ought we to take any steps about George?” said Gertrude, after a pause; “to find out whether he has gone with Saul Harrington?”

“No, my dear, certainly not. He has a perfect right to do as he pleases. He will, as I said before, no doubt write.”

Gertrude was silent, and crossed to a writing-table to busy herself over sundry domestic accounts, while Mrs Hampton took out her knitting and glanced at her from time to time, as her needles clicked and flashed in their rapid plying.

“And a good thing if he has gone,” she said to herself. “If I could do as I liked, he’d have his money and go to Jericho or any other place, so long as he did not come and worry her.”

By this time Gertrude’s attention was taken up by her accounts, and her countenance looked comparatively calm and peaceful.

“Love him?” said Mrs Hampton. “She does not even like him, only fights hard to do what she has been told.”

The day passed quietly enough in the drawing-room, but the sudden departure of the owner of The Mynns formed a topic of conversation among the servants. John Season, the gardener, came in for what he called “just a snack” about twelve o’clock, the said snack being termed lunch; but as John, a dry-looking gentleman with a countenance like a piece of ruddy bark, did not dine at quality hours, the snack served as dinner and saved him from going home, beside being an economy, as cook was not particular about his making a sandwich to wrap in his red cotton pocket-handkerchief “again he felt a bit peckish.” Not that he ever did feel a bit peckish after the hearty snack, for his sandwich was pecked by the four young Seasons at home.

John’s making of that sandwich was artistic and exact, for the slices of cold beef were always fitted on to the bottom slice of bread with the regularity to be expected of a man who kept a garden tidy. The top slice, as if from absence of mind, was also covered with slices to the same degree of exactness, and then after a liberal sprinkling of the sanitary salt, and spreading of the mordant mustard, these two slices were placed close together at the cut edge.

Now, to some unpractised hands a difficulty would here have arisen – how to get those two slices together without letting the beef get out of place.

But John Season was not unpractised.

Some people would have solved the problem by cutting two more slices of bread, and clapping them on the top. But that would have looked grasping. John was allowed by cook to cut himself a sandwich. That would have looked like cutting two sandwiches. True, there was the beef for two sandwiches there; but then it did not appear to be so to the casual observer, and as bread was fairly plentiful at home, while beef was not, John got over the difficulty in a way which salved his conscience and the cook’s.

On this particular morning, John had been very busy eating, with his mouth so full that he did not care to talk. The beef was sirloin, and the prime thick, streaked, juicy undercut, with its marrowy fat, had been untouched. The knife was sharp, and John had eaten and carved his sandwich till he had laid down the keen blade with a sigh, gazing at his work, and then at the glass of beer freshly drawn for his use.

“Yes?” he said to the cook and housemaid, to take up a thread of conversation which had been lying untouched for twenty minutes; “he came home with his head queer, did he?”

“Yes, and bleeding,” said the housemaid. “I dunno where he’d been.”

“I do,” said John, altering the position of one of his beef-laden slices, so that it should be exactly parallel with the other, and one inch away.

“You do, John?” said the cook, with her eyes wide open.

“Yes. Under the laurels half asleep. I see him.”

“But he hadn’t been out?” said the housemaid.

“Not he.”

“Then how did he get that cut on the head?” said the housemaid.

“I know,” cried cook triumphantly.

“How?”

“Climbing the wall after a cat, and then he tumbled off on to the bricks.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid, snatching at the explanation.

“Wrong,” said John Season, untying and retying his blue serge apron, as a necessity after his hearty meal.

“Then, pray how was it, Mr Clever?” said cook.

“He’d been interfering with master in the dark. Didn’t know him, I s’pose; and master give him a polt with a stick.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid.

“But why should he interfere with master?” said cook, who felt annoyed at her solution being so ruthlessly set aside.

“Because he was a good dog,” said John, taking a sip from his glass, and moving his chair a little, as he thought, with a sigh, about the big piece of lawn he had to sweep in the hot sun.

“A good dog to fly at his master!” exclaimed cook, rolling her arms in her apron.

“He’s only a new master that he don’t know well, and don’t much like,” said John sententiously; “and he sees him coming out of the window in the middle of the night.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid again.

“‘Burglars!’ says Bruno. If you remember, his bark always sounds like saying burglars.”

“Yes; I’ve always noticed that,” said the housemaid, emphasising the last word.

“Fiddle!” said cook contemptuously.

“Ah, you may say fiddle,” said John, taking out his red handkerchief, and slowly spreading it upon his knees, “but that’s it. Sees him coming down from the stairkiss window, and goes at him; master gives him one on the head, and Bruno feels sick, and goes and lies down among the laurels.”

“And who says master went out of the stairkiss window,” said cook with a snort, “when there’s a front door to the house as well as a back?”

“I did, my dear, and you needn’t be cross.”

“Enough to make any one cross to hear folks talk rubbidge. Pray, how do you know he went out that way?”

“Ah!” exclaimed the housemaid, as much as to say “that’s a poser.”

“Because I had to take the rake and smooth out the footmarks, as was a eyesore to a gardener who takes a pride in his place,” said John with a satisfied smile.

“You did, John?” said cook, giving way directly, and lowering her voice as she drew nearer the speaker, and poured him out another glass of ale.

“Thankye, my dear. Yes; same as I’ve done before.”

“But why should he get out of the window on the sly like that?”

“Larks!” said John Season, giving one eye a peculiar cock. “Why do young men get out of other windows o’ nights, eh?”

“Well, of all!” exclaimed the housemaid.

“Then he ought to be ashamed of himself,” exclaimed cook; “and for two pins I’d go and tell Miss Gertrude myself.”

No one offered the two pins, and as the reward was not forthcoming, cook seemed to consider her proposition off.

“It’s no business of our’n, cook,” said John Season, slowly extending his hands on either side of the waiting sandwich; then with one sudden and dexterous movement he shut it up, as any one might have closed an open book, and so quickly that not so much as a bit of fat had time to fall.

The next moment it was folded in the handkerchief and thrust in John Season’s pocket.

“There were footprints under the stairkiss window, then,” whispered cook.

“That’s so, under the stairkiss window,” said the gardener.

“Under the stairkiss window!” said the housemaid. “My?”

Then John Season rose and took a basket from the floor,

“But how could he get up and down from the stairkiss window?” said cook excitedly.

“Oh, it’s easy enough to any one as knows what he’s about,” said the gardener. “Off course he’d drop down.”

“And no bars to the window,” exclaimed cook indignantly. “Well, I always said so; we shall all be murdered in our beds some night.”

“Not you, cook. Burglars don’t know,” said John, “and higgerance is stronger than iron bars.”

“But shan’t you tell Miss Gertrude?” said the housemaid.

“What! that master likes to do as he pleases; and upset her, poor little lass? Not likely.”

“No,” said cook, who seemed to have repented of her own proposition; “a still tongue maketh a wise head.”

This shot proverbial was fired at the gardener, cook looking at him fixedly, as if to let him know that he did not possess all the wisdom at The Mynns.

“Well, here’s luck,” said John Season, before tossing off the remaining half glass of ale; and thrusting his arm under the handle of the basket, he went off, repeating his orders to himself, as given by cook for the late dinner: “Onions, taters, beans, peas, parsley, lettuce, and a beet.”

Chapter Twenty Three
A Visit to the Wine Bins

Punctual to his time Mr Hampton came down the road from the station, with the Globe in his hand, the Pall Mall under his arm, and the Evening Standard in his pocket.

As he came in sight of the house, he was aware of the tall, gaunt figure of Mrs Hampton standing at the drawing-room window, forming a kit-cat picture in a frame, which, as he drew nearer, and the high brick wall interposed, gradually became a half length, then a quarter, then a head, the lace of a cap, and nothing at all.

The old lady was at the top of the steps, sour-looking and frowning, as he neared the entrance, but full of interest in him and sympathy.

“You look tired, dear,” she said.

“Eh? No. Pretty comfortable. How’s Gertrude?”

“In trouble.”

“Eh? What about?”

“George Harrington went out last night on the sly, and hasn’t come back.”

The old lawyer uttered a grunt.

“Not been near you?”

“No, no!”

“Nor written?”

“Not he!”

“Nor sent a telegram?”

“No, my dear, no.”

“Then, all I can say is that it’s very disgraceful.”

“Out all night, and of course poor Gertrude as anxious – ”

“As if she was his wife,” added the lawyer, hanging up his hat and light overcoat.

“More,” said Mrs Hampton. “You would not find a wife so anxious if a husband behaved like that.”

“No, my dear, of course not. There, I’ll go up and dress. I say, you will not wait dinner for him, as you would breakfast?” said the old lawyer, who looked upon his dinner as the most important event of the twenty-four hours.

“Indeed, if I have any influence with Gertrude we shall not,” said Mrs Hampton sternly. “I have hardly had a morsel to-day.”

“Where’s Gertrude?”

“Gone up to her room to dress,” said Mrs Hampton; and as soon as they were in their own apartment, she related the whole of the day’s discoveries, and her theory about George Harrington having gone off to join Saul.

“Humph! hardly likely,” said the old man thoughtfully. “So you waited all that time, and then found out that he had not been to bed?”

“Yes.”

“How does Gertrude take it?”

“Like a lamb apparently. Ready to defend him quite indignantly if I say a word.”

“Then don’t say one. I’m very glad he has gone out.”

“Glad?”

“Yes. The more he shows the cloven hoof the better.”

“My dear?”

“For Gertrude. She may have her eyes so opened that she will refuse to marry him, throw him over completely, and then, my dear, we shall once more get home to peace and quietness.”

“If it would turn out like that,” said Mrs Hampton thoughtfully, “I would not mind. But come now, speak out.”

No answer.

“What are you thinking about, Hampton?”

“I was thinking, my dear, that this accounts for the way the money goes. I’m glad I’ve got a clue to that, not that it matters to us.”

“What do you think it is – gambling?”

“May be.”

“Then you don’t think so, Hampton? Now speak out.”

“No, my dear, you don’t need telling. Not surprising after the life he has led in the West.”

“Yes, sir, it is very surprising, when he is engaged to the sweetest girl in the world.”

“Yes. Did the dog howl much?”

“Not a great deal, but very strangely; and don’t turn from one subject to another so abruptly.”

“Enough to make him, with his head cut open, poor brute!”

Ten minutes after they descended to the drawing-room, where, in spite of her cheerful looks and animated manner of addressing the old lawyer, it was plain to see that Gertrude had been crying, and the tears rose to her eyes again as she noted the tenderly sympathetic manner towards her of her two friends.

“I have ordered the dinner to be taken in at the usual time,” she said eagerly.

“Oh, no, my dear, not for us,” said Mrs Hampton after a desperate effort to master herself.

“Yes, I am sure that George – who, I feel sure, has gone to join Saul Harrington – would wish us to go on as usual. Yes, Denton? Dinner?”

“No, miss; I only came to say that there is no wine up.”

“No wine, Denton?”

“No, miss; but if you get out the keys I could go down and fetch it from the cellar.”

“Yes, yes; of course,” said Gertrude. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, no, my dear,” cried Mrs Hampton; “we take so little, and I am sure Mr Hampton will not mind to-day.”

The old lawyer’s face was a study, and he took out his handkerchief and blew quite a blast.

“My beloved wife,” he said, “I am quite willing to forego a good many things, but my glass of sherry with my dinner, and my glass of port afterwards, are little matters which have grown so customary that – ”

“Now, I’m sure, Hampton,” began the old lady.

“Yes, my love, and so am I,” he said decisively. “Gertrude, my dear, if you will give Denton the keys, I’ll go myself, and get the wine, and – Bless me, what a howl!”

The dog, which had been silent for hours, suddenly sent forth one of its long, low, mournful cries, which seemed to fill the place with the doleful sound.

Mrs Denton shook her head, and gazed inquiringly at the old lawyer, but beyond looking upon the cry as a temporary nuisance, whose effect only lasted the length of the sound, it seemed to make not the slightest impression upon him.

Gertrude led the way to the study, and, opening the glass door of the cabinet, took from the little drawer the cellar keys; everyone connected with the important parts of the house having, for many years past, had its resting-place in one of those drawers.

“Are you coming, too?” said Mr Hampton, smiling.

“Oh, yes,” replied Gertrude; “I used often to go with dear uncle and carry the basket when I was quite a little child. I know the different bins well, and can show you which port and which sherry he used to get out for you and Dr Lawrence.”

“Yes, and splendid wines they were,” said the old lawyer, smiling. “No, no, Gertie, my dear, you must not cut off my glass of wine.”

“I have the basket and a light, sir,” said the old housekeeper, appearing at the door.

“Thank you, Denton. You need not come. I’ll carry – ”

“The light,” said the old lawyer, smiling. “Give me the basket, Mrs Denton. Now then, Gertie, my dear; if a stranger came and saw me now, he’d say: ‘What a shabby-looking old butler they have at The Mynns.’”

Gertrude took the candle and led the way to the cellar door, which the old lawyer opened, and the girl went first. Then the second door was opened, and they went on over the sawdust-covered floor, inhaling the mingled odour of damp wood, mildew, and wine.

“Ha!” sighed the old man, as he looked to right and left at the stacked-up bottles: “It’s a weakness and a vain longing, no doubt, Gertrude, my dear; but there is one thing at The Mynns I do look upon with envy, and that is the cellar. Bless my heart! is that dog going to howl like that all night?”

“No, no,” said Gertrude, with an involuntary shiver, as the low mournful cry penetrated to where they stood. “Poor Bruno! he has been sadly hurt. There, Mr Hampton, that is the sherry,” she continued, pointing to a bin which had only been lowered about a fourth.

“Then we’ll have a bottle of you,” said the old man, carefully taking one by the neck from its sawdust bed.

“And that is the port,” continued Gertrude, holding up the light, to point to the other side of the cellar.

“Ha!” ejaculated the old man, with all the enjoyment of a connoisseur, as he again carefully lifted a bottle with its lime-wash mark across the end. “No, no, Mrs Hampton, you must not have it all your own way. Gertie, my dear, if I stand that up I shall spoil it. Would you mind carrying this bottle by the neck?”

“Oh, no; I’ll carry it,” she said hastily, as if eager to get out of the crypt-like place. “I have it. Oh, Bruno, Bruno!” she exclaimed, as another low, deep howl, from apparently close at hand, reached their ears. “You had better take a bottle of the old Burgundy, too, Mr Hampton.”

“Well, yes; perhaps I might as well, Gertie; but I shall use you as a buttress against Mrs Hampton’s wrath.”

“Oh, yes,” cried Gertrude laughingly, “I’ll defend you. That’s the bin – the Chambertin.”

“Prince of wines,” muttered the old man, crossing to the bin his companion had pointed out, while his shadow cast by the candle she held was thrown upon ceiling and wall in a peculiarly grotesque fashion, as if he were the goblin of the cave.

“Now,” he said, as he carefully placed the bottle in the basket, “we shall be all right, even if George comes back. Bless my soul! what’s that?”

For Gertrude uttered a wild shriek, there was a crash, and they were in utter darkness.