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 don’t care if he was in the much farther West. Letters would have reached him, and he would have known that his grandfather was dead, and if he had known it, do you think the man is living who would not have rushed over to secure this property?”
Gertrude felt her heart sink. Not many minutes before she had felt a dread of meeting George Harrington; now that there was a possibility of Saul’s words being true, a curious feeling of sorrow attacked her, and she felt that she would give anything for the man, whose praises the old man had sung, to take her by the hand.
“Well, you might talk,” continued Saul. “I’m not going to bother you, nor to hurry things. I know I’m right. There is no George Harrington, and you are going to be my wife.”
“No, no,” cried Gertrude hastily.
“And I say yes, yes, so don’t be silly. Better than being married to a man you have never seen – some whiskey-drinking, loafing rowdy from the States, who would have ill-used you, degraded you, spent every penny the old man left, and then gone back to America, and left you to starve, if you were not already dead of a broken heart.”
Gertrude listened in silence, wondering at the strange feeling
