“Are you coming, too?” said Mr Hampton, smiling.
“Oh, yes,” replied Gertrude; “I used often to go with dear uncle and carry the basket when I was quite a little child. I know the different bins well, and can show you which port and which sherry he used to get out for you and Dr Lawrence.”
“Yes, and splendid wines they were,” said the old lawyer, smiling. “No, no, Gertie, my dear, you must not cut off my glass of wine.”
“I have the basket and a light, sir,” said the old housekeeper, appearing at the door.
“Thank you, Denton. You need not come. I’ll carry—”
“The light,” said the old lawyer, smiling. “Give me the basket, Mrs Denton. Now then, Gertie, my dear; if a stranger came and saw me now, he’d say: ‘What a shabby-looking old butler they have at The Mynns.’”
Gertrude took the candle and led the way to the cellar door, which the old lawyer opened, and the girl went first. Then the second door was opened, and they went on over the sawdust-covered floor, inhaling the mingled odour of damp wood, mildew, and wine.
“Ha!” sighed the old man, as he looked to right and left at the stacked-up bottles: “It’s a weakness and a vain longing, no doubt, Gertrude, my dear; but there is one thing at The Mynns I do look upon with envy, and that is the cellar. Bless my heart! is that dog going to howl like that all night?”
“No, no,” said Gertrude, with an involuntary shiver, as the low mournful cry penetrated to where they stood. “Poor Bruno! he has been sadly hurt. There, Mr Hampton, that is the sherry,” she continued, pointing to a bin which had only been lowered about a fourth.
“Then we’ll have a bottle of you,” said the old man, carefully taking one by the neck from its sawdust bed.