“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.