The Mynns' Mystery

“Then you want money. How much do you require?” said the lawyer, the corners of whose mouth dropped as he spoke – “a hundred?”

“A hundred! No. I only want ten or fifteen pounds for the present. If that is not enough, I can ask for more. Give me ten.”

The old man’s mouth assumed its natural curve as he unlocked his table-drawer, exchanging glances with the doctor before taking out a little canvas bag, part of whose contents he counted into his hand.

“This is not the lawyer acting,” he said drily; “but the – no I won’t say friend – the seeker for justice. I would not do such a thing as this from the legal point of view, for the world. There, sir, twenty-five pounds in sovereigns. If you want more when that is gone come, or write.”

“Thanks,” said the young man, rising and taking the money, which he carefully counted as far as ten, returned the fifteen pounds, and took up his hat. “I’ll send if I want more. Good-day, gentlemen; I shall wire or write.”

The door closed; they saw him pass the window, and then the eyes of the two old men met.

“That’s the man, Lawrence,” said the lawyer, replacing the fifteen pounds.

“I haven’t a doubt about it,” was the reply.

“But he has only found a mare’s nest yet.”

“Humph! I don’t quite know,” said the doctor. “Well, I’ll be off.”

“Going?”

“Yes, to see Saul Harrington again. I don’t like his condition.”

“I never liked anything about him, Lawrence. But this is the man.”

Chapter Thirty Five

A Late Arrival

The same questions were asked day by day, on either side, when Mr Hampton returned to The Mynns from his daily visits to town.

“Any news?”

“No.”

“Any news?”

“No.”

But, somehow, it was observed that Gertrude did not appear at all low-spirited. In fact, as each day glided by she seemed to become more hopeful and buoyant. There was a new light in her eyes, and as Mrs Hampton watched she often caught sight of a pleasant, satisfied smile playing about the girl’s lips which had never appeared before.

Every now and then her voice rang through the old house, as she sang some ballad; but her happiest moments seemed to be those when she daily took Bruno down the garden for his bask on the lawn, and a dreamy look stole over the girl’s face as she knelt down by the dog, and laid her hand on his damaged head just in the same way as she had seen other hands laid one day, that seemed now long ago.

She could kneel thus and dream happy day-dreams, again and again – dreams of which she never tired, and all the time the sun shone down and glorified her luxuriant hair, gave beauty to her graceful form, and made the dark yew hedge glisten as if frosted with silver, the velvet lawn seem of golden green, and the great, red brick wall, that lay between her and the road, glow and show up the neatly-trained trees.

A new life seemed to have dawned for her, and the sunshine brightened her darkened heart as she bent over and caressed the dog – lifting playfully first one and then the other of his long, soft, hairy ears to whisper with girlish glee:

“Yes, some day, Bruno – some day he will come again.” Then she looked round, almost with a guilty start, but only for the former restful look of happiness to come back.

“Such a change, ma’am; such a change. Poor darling! If that other business had gone on, it would have broken her poor, dear heart.”

“Yes, Denton,” said Mrs Hampton, as she went on knitting. And then to herself: “Well, somehow, it’s very pleasant to be down here in the quaint old place.”

“What does the doctor say about Mr Saul, ma’am?” asked Denton another time, for there was nothing she enjoyed better than respectfully asking a few questions, and leading the lady guest of the place into a long chat.

“That he is very bad, Denton.”

“Poor young man! Do you think I ought to go and nurse him, ma’am?”

“No, Denton,” said the old lady so decidedly, that the housekeeper started, and looked at her wonderingly.

Their further conversation was stopped by the sound of Gertrude’s voice singing as she came in from the garden, and the old housekeeper stood with her hands clasped, gazing towards the door.

“Like a bird,” she said softly – “like a bird. It does my old heart good to hear her sing again. Its just like old times, ma’am; while lately, since poor, dear old master’s death and those marriage troubles came upon her, she has not been like the same.”

“She seems merry enough now, Denton.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the old woman, pausing at the door as she opened it, “she’s merry enough now. And I know why – and I know why,” she added to herself, with a pleasant little laugh. “Poor darling! If she marries now, it will be the man who has stolen away her heart.”

There was no news that evening when the lawyer came from town, seeming quite to have settled down now to the place, and making but rare references to his departure. Gertrude had just come in from a visit to Bruno, who had altered wonderfully during the past few days; and as she came in, it was plain to see the heart was light which animated her step, telling the thoughtful of the calm and satisfied waiting of the heart for that which was to be.

“I thought Doctor Lawrence was coming down with you, Mr Hampton?” she cried.

“Eh? Yes, my dear; but he preferred going and seeing a patient first. He said he’d catch the next train, and ought to be here as – There he is.”

Gertrude ran to the window to wave her hand to the amiable old man, but shrank back covered with confusion, and looking suspiciously from one to the other.

“Anything the matter, my dear?” said Mrs Hampton wonderingly.

“Matter? No,” said the lawyer, glancing towards the window. “Why, hang it all! he has brought down Mr Blank.”

“And, pray, who is Mr Blank?” said the old lady, adjusting her glasses. “Why, Phineas, what do you mean? It’s Mr George Harrington.”

“Good-evening, ladies. There, you need not look so severe, Hampton; I brought our young friend down, and if the ladies consider that I have exceeded my rights, we’ll go back again.”

“Such nonsense!” said Mrs Hampton sharply.

“I hope you will forgive my coming,” the doctor’s companion was saying to Gertrude, as she shook hands.

Silence is said to give consent. That must have been the interpretation placed upon Gertrude’s silence, for her heart was too full to speak, and their visitor stayed and dined.

“No,” he said, in the course of the conversation, as to his proceedings, for imperceptibly he had won so upon all present that they seemed now to accept his words as those of the truth: “I have worked very hard and traced our friend to all his haunts, where he is well-known, but I cannot find that he has been there since the night he left here. I have been over to Paris, and on to Switzerland.”

“With ten pounds?” said the old lawyer sharply.

“No. I wrote to Doctor Lawrence when that sum was expended. Did he not tell you?”

“No; I’ve been so busy and anxious over Saul Harrington’s case that I forgot to name it, Hampton.”