The Mynns' Mystery. George Manville Fenn
what he is Gertie. Thinks I shall leave you all my money, and that he’ll marry you and get it to spend—a mean, despicable, cunning fox. But I haven’t left you a penny, my pet.”
“No, uncle.”
“But don’t tell him so. I want him to be punished. He deserves it. I helped him a dozen times, but he always turned out badly. Not left you a penny, Gertie. Ain’t you bitter against me?”
“Bitter against you who have always been like a dear father!”
“Eh? Well, tried to be, little one,” said the old man as he toyed with the girl’s long, wavy dark hair. “Poor little fatherless, motherless thing! why, of course I did. But now look here, Gertie. I’m wasting time, and there’s so little left.”
“Don’t say that, dear.”
“But I must, my pet. And don’t cry; nothing to cry for. An old man of eighty-six going to sleep and rest, Gertie—that’s all. I’m not sorry, only to leave you, my dear. I want to live till George comes home and marries you. You—you will marry him, Gertie?”
“If he is the good, true man you say, uncle, and he will love me, and wish me to be his wife, I will pray God to make me a true, dutiful companion to him for life.”
“But—but you don’t speak out, my child,” said the old man suspiciously.
“It is because I can’t, uncle, dear. The words sees to choke me. It is such a promise to make.”
“But you never cared for any one else?”
“Oh no, uncle dear. I never hardly thought of such a thing.”
“No; always shut up here in the dingy old Mynns with me.”
“Where I have been very happy, uncle.”
“And Heaven knows I tried to make you so, my child. And you will be happy when I’m gone—with George. For he is all I say—a true, noble fellow. But—but,” he cried, peering into the girl’s eyes from under his shaggy brows, “suppose he is ugly?”
“Well, uncle dear,” said the girl with a little laugh, “what does that matter?”
“Ay, what does that matter? But he can’t be ugly, Gertie. Such a handsome little fellow as he was when I saw him last. And he’ll be a rich man, Gertie. He shall have The Mynns and everything, for the injury and wrong I did his father—my poor, poor boy!”
“Uncle, dear, don’t reproach yourself,” cried the girl, kissing the withered forehead, as the old man’s voice broke into a whimper, and his hands trembled. “It was all a mistake.”
“No, Gertie, my dear; I was a hard, bitter, passionate man, and made no allowances for him. He would not stick to business, and he would marry one woman when I wanted him to marry another, and I told him he’d be a beggar all his life, and we quarrelled. Yes, he defied me, Gertie, when I told him he would come cringing upon his knees for money, and he said he would sooner starve. Only like yesterday,” continued the old man after a pause, “and I never saw him but once more, he came to say good-bye, with his wife, before they sailed for what he called the Golden West, and we quarrelled again because he disobeyed me and would not stay. I was ready to forgive him, Gertie, if he would have stayed and taken to business, but he wouldn’t stop with the arbitrary old tyrant, and they went and took their boy.”
The old man lay silent for some minutes, raising the girl’s soft little hand to his lips from time to time. Then he startled her by bursting into a long low laugh.
“Uncle, dear!”
“Eh? Only laughing at him, my pet—that boy George. Such a determined little tyrant. Did what he liked with the old man. Wasn’t afraid of me a bit. A little curly-headed rascal, and as sturdy as could be. Such eyes. Gertie; looked through you. ‘I don’t like you, grandpa,’ he said. ‘You make my mamma cry.’ Bless him! that he did. Ha, ha, ha! I saw him when he was washed—a little, chubby, pink cupid of a fellow, splashing in his tub; and there, on his little white breast, was a blue heart with an arrow stuck in it. His father’s doing after he came back from the West—he went out first, leaving his wife. And I asked the little chap about it. ‘Did it hurt much, my man?’ I said. ‘Yeees,’ he said. ‘And did you cry, George?’ I said. ‘Pa said I was to be a man and not cry,’ said the little fellow sturdily, ‘but I did a little, and to did my mamma.’ ‘Have you no feeling for your child?’ I said to his father. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but I want to teach him how to bear pain. It will come easier to him, father; for he will have to bear it as I have had in my time.’ Yes, Gertie, I recollect it all. That’s twenty-five years ago, and I’ve never seen George since. But perhaps I shall now, for he’s coming back, Gertie.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Fetch me the second drawer; the keys have worked right behind.”
She thrust her hand beneath the pillow, and drew out a bunch of very bright-worn keys, before crossing the room to a tall, black oak cabinet in the corner near the bed’s head. Unlocking the glass door, she unlocked also and took out a small shallow drawer which, evidently according to custom, she placed across the old man’s knees, afterwards assisting him to rise, and propping him with pillows, so that he could examine the contents.
“There,” he said eagerly, as he took a handsome gold watch from its case, the chain and seal pendant being curiously formed of natural nuggets of gold.
The watch was of American make, and looked as new as if it had only just left the maker’s hands.
The old man’s eyes looked on eagerly as the girl took and opened the watch, the peculiar sound emitted, as she carefully re-wound it, seeming to afford the invalid the greatest satisfaction.
“Not lost, has it, Gertie?” he said quickly.
“No, uncle, dear,” said Gertie, comparing her hands with those of her own watch.
“Nor likely to. A splendid watch, Gertie. No trashy present, that. My boy’s made of too good stuff to mar his future. But I was blind in those days, Gertie—blind. Now read it again.”
As if well accustomed to the task, the girl held the open case to the light, and read on its glistening concave, where it was deeply engraved with many a flourish and scroll:
James Harrington, Esq,
from his grandson.
Pure gold from the golden west.
“Pure gold from the Golden West!” said the old man, as he stretched out his hands eagerly and ran the nugget chain through his fingers. “And I mocked at his poor father, and told him it was all a myth. Put it away, Gertie. George is to wear that always, my dear. I’ve saved it for him. You know I’ve only worn it on his birthdays since.”
“Yes, uncle, dear,” said the girl gravely, as she replaced the watch in its case.
“And now look here, my dear,” said the old man, taking up a small pocket-ledger and handing it to Gertie; “open at page six.”
“Yes, uncle,” said the girl wonderingly; and then looking at him for further instructions.
“Do you see that?”
“Yes, uncle—entries of money, twenty-five pounds, over and over again.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“No, uncle; but you are tiring yourself.”
“Ay, but I shall have plenty of time to rest, Gertie, by-and-bye.”
“Uncle, dear!”
“Ah, don’t you cry. Listen, Gertie. I wanted to try him—George. I’m a suspicious old man, and I said when he sent me that watch, a year after his father and mother died, ‘It’s a sprat to catch a herring!’ Ha, ha, ha! and I waited and wrote to him—such a lie, Gertie—such a