The Mynns' Mystery

“Well, say you won’t have him. Nobody can force you to. What’s the good of being a woman if you can’t have your own way about the man you marry?”

“Hark!” cried Gertrude, “the bell!” and she turned quite pale. “It must be he.”

“Which he?” cried the old woman shortly. “Can’t be our Mr George Harrington, because he was to go to Lincoln’s Inn about this time. And I don’t believe it is likely to be the other. He’ll never come back at all. Oh, the pest?”

Mrs Denton looked from one to the other with a satisfied air, as she handed the letter she brought in to Gertrude, her air suggesting that she expected to be spoken to; but as nothing was said, she shrugged her shoulders and left the room.

“From Saul Harrington,” said Gertrude, opening the letter with trembling hands.

It was dated the previous day from a well-known hotel in Paris, and very brief.

He hoped his dear little cousin would be glad to hear he had reached Paris all right, and was having lovely weather. He said that the gay city was full of temptations, but he was going to resist them all, and leave in forty-eight hours for Chamounix, which he should make his headquarters till he went on to the Tyrol.

“Tell George,” he continued, “that I consider he has lost his manliness in pinning himself to your apron till the happy day. He had far better join me out here for a good tramp. If he likes to alter his mind he can easily catch up to me, and I faithfully promise to send him bark in ample time for a certain event. Under the circumstances I shall probably not return till after you are married, so forgive my absence. I wish you every happiness.”

“Then that man has not joined him yet, my dear.”

“No, Mrs Hampton. Is it not very strange?”

“Very, my dear.”

“Why do you speak like that? It is as if you had some hidden meaning.”

“I only think that he did not go and join him.”

Gertrude looked at her rather curiously, and then said in an eager way:

“It would be easy to find out if he has joined him since.”

“By telegraphing. Are you going to do this?”

Gertrude shook her head.

“Would you like me to send a message?”

“Yes – no – I hardly know what to say.”

Mrs Hampton stuck her ball of wool on the point of the shining knitting-pin she held, and spun it round for a few times.

“It would be satisfactory for everybody to know,” she said at last. “Ring the bell, my dear, and I’ll send a message.”

The message was despatched, and after a long discussion as to the probabilities of reaching Saul Harrington before he left for Switzerland, and how soon an answer might be expected, they settled down to the daily routine of their lives. One duty now was Gertrude’s nursing of the injured dog, who seemed, as he lay on the soft hay bed in the stable, very near his end. He lay for hours together without stirring, till he heard his mistress’ step, and then he uttered a low whine, and feebly raised his head as his eyes sought hers before he lowered his muzzle again, as if it was too heavy for the strength he had left.

Gertrude let many a tear fall upon the poor brute’s head as she patted it gently and bandaged the wound, the dog submitting to what must have been a painful operation without so much as a whine, till the time came when he could get his head in his mistress’ lap, and sink into a kind of stupor more than sleep.

That day wore by, and there was no answer to the telegram. Then came the dinner hour, and with it the old lawyer, but not alone, Doctor Lawrence having once more accompanied him down to The Mynns.

Their looks spoke volumes, but little was said till they were seated over the dessert; when, in response to one of Gertrude’s inquiring looks, the Doctor leaned towards her, took her hand, and said gravely:

“My dear child, I have said nothing, because I seem to have nothing to say.”

“But tell me what you think,” said Gertrude imploringly.

“Well, my dear, I think – but it must not influence us in any degree – that this young man really is George Harrington.”

Gertrude tried to stifle the emotion she felt, as the doctor went on:

“It is a puzzling business, my dear. We have had a very long interview at Hampton’s chambers, and he certainly has impressed me strangely. Our friend here is like a rock, and he has been piling on to my head stories of impostures, and cases where pretenders have come forward, till I am completely bewildered.”

“Then if he is not the true George Harrington, let George Harrington himself come forward and say so. Why doesn’t he come back, instead of running off in this mysterious way?”

Mrs Hampton looked quite fiercely to right and left as she delivered herself of this speech.

The old lawyer seemed to decline to take up the cudgels; he only tapped softly on the table. But Mrs Hampton’s tongue was unloosed, and she turned the flow of her eloquence upon the doctor.

“I say this is the right man,” she cried; “everything goes to prove it. I have not said anything about this before, but I have noticed a great deal since I have been here, and I kept my lips sealed because I felt that I might be doing wrong in speaking, and, besides, I had no right.”

“What have you observed, then?” said the lawyer, turning upon her sharply.

“That time after time, while he was professing to be so sober, our Mr George Harrington sat drinking with Saul half, and sometimes all the night. Three times over did old Mrs Denton come to me, pretending it was to help her about some domestic matter, over which she did not want to trouble Gertrude here, and it was to show me Mr George Harrington asleep in the study, where he had been all night. Ah! here she is. Mrs Denton, how many times did you find the gentleman – bah! – the man who came and said he was Mr Harrington – asleep in his chair in the study.”

“Six, ma’am,” said the old housekeeper. “No: it was eight.”

“Now, don’t exaggerate, Denton. It was only three.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am; I only came to you three times. There were five other times when I woke him, and got him up to bed myself, so stupid and confused that he could only ask where Mr Saul was. They had been sitting in the study together when I went to bed, and he must have let Mr Saul out himself and then gone back and fallen asleep in his chair. A telegram, miss.”

Gertrude eagerly took the message, tore open the envelope, read, and passed it to Mrs Hampton who also read it anxiously.

“What do you mean? George did not come with me. He refused in your presence. Just off to Switzerland. Wire to Glacier Hotel, Chamounix.”

“You need not wait, Denton,” said Gertrude.

“No, miss; but might I make so bold: is there any news of – of the gentleman who said he was Mr George?”

“No, Denton; none at all.”

“And might I ask when Mr George is coming again?”

Gertrude looked at the old lawyer, who only looked close as one of his own tin boxes, so she transferred her gaze to the doctor, who fidgeted about beneath the inquiring eyes.

Gertrude rose from the table, laid her hand upon the old woman’s arm, and led her from the room.

“Denton – dear old nurse,” she said affectionately, “you must be patient and wait. We are all in a terrible state of perplexity; do not increase it by asking questions.”

The old woman caught her hand and kissed it affectionately.

“Not another word will I say, my dear, till you speak to me. But, Miss Gertie, I know I’m right. This last one is Master George. Why, my darling, you can see it in his eyes and in his fine manly way to me – the poor old woman who nursed him as a child.”