When Olive saw who was standing on the lawn, she felt very much inclined to fly from so dear yet dangerous a foe. But maidenly pride came to her aid, and, doing violence to her feelings, the better to conceal them, she saluted Mr. Mallow with so much frigidity as rather to disconcert that young gentleman.
"Mr. Dimbal told me that you were here," she said. "He saw you at Reading Station yesterday."
"Mr. Dimbal is very kind to save me the trouble of announcing myself," said Mallow' dryly. "So unimportant a person as I am should feel much flattered."
"No friend is unimportant, Mr. Mallow," reproved Miss Bellairs, gently.
"I believe that--when there is something substantial to be gained from the friendship."
"What a cruel remark!" cried Tui, shaking her head. "I hope you do not practise what you preach, Mr. Mallow."
"Mallow's bark is worse than his bite," chimed in Aldean.
"And the horse is the noblest of all animals," said Mallow' ironically. "Go on, Aldean; I love these dry chips from the tree of knowledge."
"The Hebrew tree of knowledge was stolen by them from the Chaldeans," said Miss Slarge, loudly. "The serpent legend, so intimately connected with it, came from the same source. Well, young people, I must really return to my studies. Lord Aldean--Mr. Mallow; I hope you will both stay to luncheon?"
Aldean consulted Mallow by a side look, but seeing no encouragement in his moody face refused the invitation on behalf of them both; whereat Miss Slarge shook hands in the nineteenth-century fashion, and returned to her studies and the primæval days when Nimrod began to be a mighty one on the earth. The four young people were left standing, and a short silence prevailed, which was broken by Mallow.
"'Hence, loathed melancholy!'" he spouted theatrically; "we have had enough of that dismal goddess. Miss Bellairs, smile; Aldean, make a joke; Miss Ostergaard, laugh for goodness' sake."
"I can't," replied the last-named lady, "until Lord Aldean makes his joke. One can't make bricks without straw or mirth without jests."
"I always have to think out my jokes," said Aldean, innocently; which remark brought forth the required mirth.
"You are like the man whose impromptus took him years to invent," said Olive, beginning to be merry. "Mr. Mallow, what is the latest news from town?"
"Men are in love; thieves are in gaol, and women still use looking-glasses."
"Also Queen Anne is dead," laughed Tui, swinging her basket. "Oysters and news should both be fresh, yet you talk truisms."
"Have you heard of that awful murder?" put in Aldean. "Murder! Oh, the horrid word, you make me shudder!"
"Aldean is like the fat boy in Pickwick," said Mallow, and quoted, "I wants to make your flesh creep.'"
"Is that the Athelstane Place crime, Lord Aldean?" asked Olive.
"Yes. Fellow was killed with a knitting-needle. I wonder who did it?"
"A woman, you may be sure."
"What makes you think so, Miss Bellairs?" demanded Mallow, quickly.
"Because men don't use knitting-needles, and women do," replied the girl. "I dare say it was a case of jealousy."
"Perhaps; but even a jealous woman would hesitate to cut off the right hand of a dead lover."
"Unless she came from the East," said Aldean, suddenly.
"Why should she come from the East?"
"Well, theMorning Planetsays that the man came from India."
"From India!" cried Olive and Tui in one breath; and their thoughts centred at once on Angus Carson.
"Oh, that is only a theory of the newspaper!" said Mallow, hastily. "Can't you find a pleasanter subject to talk about, Aldean?"
"Yes," replied Aldean, looking meaningly at Tui. "Only----"
"Only I am wasting my time, and you are helping me to do so," cried that young lady, briskly. "I must tie up my roses."
"Let me help you."
"I am afraid your help would be a hindrance," said Miss Ostergaard, as she moved towards the house, followed by her huge admirer. "However, if you are very, very good, you may hold the ball of string."
Left alone with Mallow, Olive felt in so dangerous a position that she assumed a demeanour even more reserved.
"So Mr. Carson has arrived in England," remarked the young man, gloomily.
"Yes; who told you so?"
"Mr. Dimbal, the lawyer. Of course, it is an open secret that you are to marry him."
"I see no reason why it should be a secret at all," retorted Olive, with a flush. "If my father wished for the marriage, no one can say a word against it."
"I am not saying a word against it. If I did, I should probably say too much."
"Then don't let us discuss the subject," said Olive, hurriedly; "you only make my position the harder."
"Do you consider it hard?"
"You have no right to ask me that question, Mr. Mallow."
"I beg your pardon," said the young man, reddening. "I admit that I have no right--unless you give me one."
"Mr. Mallow, I really do not understand you."
"I don't understand myself, Miss Bellairs; usually I am not timid when I should be bold."
"'Be bold--be bold, but be not over bold,'" quoted Olive, trying to turn off his speech with a laugh--an attempt which Mallow resolutely refused to countenance.
"I suppose you will marry Mr. Carson?" he inquired anxiously.
"I suppose I shall," replied Miss Bellairs, with a coolness she was far from feeling.
"Is it absolutely certain?"
Olive felt a quiver pass through her frame, and it was with difficulty she prevented her emotion from overcoming her. She thought of the man who was coming to claim her, the man she had never even seen; of the undeclared lover who was by her side dreading the answer which she should give. Finally the memory of the sealed letter, with its menace of coming evil passed through her mind, and dictated the reply--
"It is absolutely certain--absolutely."
"In that case there is nothing for me to do but to offer you the customary congratulations on your--your good fortune."
"My good fortune!" she burst out. "My good--oh yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Mallow. I congratulate you, in my turn, on your penetration." And before he could recover from his amazement at this attack, she flitted across the lawn, swept past the astonished couple on the steps, and vanished into the house.
This incident brought the visit to a close, for as Olive did not reappear to explain her sudden anger, Mallow said good-bye to Miss Ostergaard, and departed with the reluctant Aldean. The young lord, guessing that his friend and Olive had come to words, more than expected to have a peevish companion for his homeward walk, instead of which Mallow was quite uproariously merry. By this time he had fathomed the cause of Olive's wrath, and he cursed himself for a fool not to have seen and known that she was not the woman to wear her heart upon her sleeve. Her sudden retreat after her foolish speech had been the result of fear at having betrayed her real feelings. These were not for Carson, he was sure of that now, but for himself--Olive loved him; and whether the pre-arranged marriage took place or not, nothing could alter that fact. As the thought became conviction, Mallow found it impossible to suppress the joy he felt, and he forthwith indulged in antics which would have shamed a schoolboy.
"What is it?" asked Aldean, amazed at this conduct in so grave a man.
"What do you think it is, Jim?"
"Lunacy, I should say, on the face of it."
"No, my boy; but a word much the same in meaning, which begins with the same letter."
"Larking?" guessed the obtuse Jim, with a grin.
"I can't say much for your penetration, Lord Aldean," said Mallow, with a laugh. "Love is the word I mean--love is the feeling which thrills me, for 'to-day the birthday of my life is come.'"
"One would think you had been celebrating the occasion with strong drink," retorted Jim, soberly. "Have you spoken to Miss Bellairs?"
"No, sir; I have done nothing so foolish."
"Then has she perhaps given you to understand----"
"Of course not; do you think for one moment she is the woman to do such a thing?"
"I don't know; once or twice girls have pretty near proposed to me. I've had some trouble with them, I can tell you. Then how do you know it is all right?"
"Because I do know."
"That isn't an answer; it's a statement."
"Then you will have to take the statement for your answer, my dear old thickhead. Olive loves me, the angel that she is."
"She ran away from you."
"I know she did, but she loves me."
"She was in a pelting rage; I saw her face."
"I know she was, but she loves me."
"Oh, come home," growled Aldean, putting his arm within that of his enigmatic friend. "You're a human cuckoo."
Mallow laughed, and went back to Kingsholme with an excellent appetite, which went to prove that he was no lover out of a sickly romance. For the next two or three days he made no attempt to see Olive, but lived on the memory of her self-betrayal. In spite of Jim's insidious hints that the pleasantest walks tended towards the Manor House, Laurence kept away. With his host he rode and drove and played golf. He spun over the country on his Humber, and fought Jim valiantly in singles on the tennis-lawn.
Then the news came that Angus Carson and his friend Major Semberry had arrived, and were in possession of the garden of flowers, and presumably of the nymphs who haunted it. Mallow's spirits suddenly went down to zero, and, in a moping mood, he worried Aldean for two whole days. On the third he resolved to meet his rival face to face; so, taking advantage of Aldean's absence at Reading, he walked over to the Manor House, and was duly shown into the drawing-room.
Remembering their last meeting, Olive blushed as she gave Mallow her hand. Then, to cover her confusion, she presented Mallow to a tall, slender young man in a grey tweed suit, with his right hand in a black silk sling.
"Mr. Mallow, this is Mr. Carson."
Laurence bowed, and as he did so he became aware of a faint drowsy odour.
It was the perfume of sandal-wood.
O all things odours are the most powerful to stimulate a dormant memory; to bring back in a flash an especial scene, a peculiar face, a particular conversation. Nothing was further from Mallow's mind than the mysterious murder of Athelstane Place, yet the moment that whiff of sandal-wood titillated his nostrils, he recalled at once the theory of the newspapers and the wild suggestion of Lord Aldean.
For the moment he was so bewildered that he stood tongue-tied before Mr. Carson. That young gentleman, on his part, appeared to be amused, if a trifle astonished.
"You have seen me before," he asked in a pleasant voice, with a slight and agreeable accent. "No? Is there anything strange about me then that you----"
"I--I--I really beg your pardon," stammered Mallow, scrambling out of his unpleasant position as best he could; "but I--that is--I fancied I did know your face."
"You have been in India, then?"
"Yes, Mr. Carson; I was in India some months ago."
"Then it is quite possible that we met there, Mr. Mallow, although I cannot recall having seen you. This is the first time I have visited England. Forgive me if I am somewhat lax in the observance of your social customs--one always shakes hands here, I believe, when presented; you must let me then give you my left hand."
"Is your right disabled?" asked Mallow, shaking the hand this affable young man extended.
"I am sorry to say it is, Mr. Mallow. I hurt it some months back, shooting in India; the bones are diseased, and, since my arrival, I have been having it attended to by one of your clever London surgeons. I am relieved to say that he did not consider amputation to be necessary."
Here, again, was another circumstance which immediately struck Mallow as peculiar. The right hand of the dead man in Athelstane Place had been cutoff; the right hand of Mr. Carson was diseased, and had narrowly escaped amputation. This was a strange coincidence.
"I am charmed with your country, Mr. Mallow," continued Carson, who seemed bent upon making himself agreeable. "After the arid plains of India, these green fields are very refreshing to the eye."
"Yet I have seen marvellous verdure in the Himalayas," replied Mallow.
Carson shrugged his shoulders. "Oh yes; every land has its season of greenness, you know, but India is undeniably dry."
"How do you do, Mr. Mallow," said a voice at the young man's elbow, and he turned to see the lean form of Miss Slarge. "We have quite a large gathering to-day, have we not?--Major Semberry, Dr. Drabble, and Mr. Carson."
"Last and least," smiled that gentleman.
Mallow laughed also, seemingly out of politeness, and glanced round the drawing-room at the people referred to by Miss Slarge. Major Semberry, a fair, handsome, soldierly man, was paying great attention to Miss Ostergaard, who had apparently forgotten Aldean in the ardour of her present flirtation; and Dr. Drabble, tall and thin as a telegraph-pole, and with about as much figure, was talking loudly with Olive Bellairs. When Laurence withdrew his eyes, Miss Slarge, who was quite modern at the present moment, was chatting with Carson in her high-pitched voice.
"My sister, Mrs. Purcell, describes you as being like an Italian," she was saying; "and I quite agree with her--don't you, Mr. Mallow?"
"Certainly, Mr. Carson has the appearance of a Tuscan."
"My mother was Eurasian," explained the young man; "I am supposed to take after her. There is a great similarity between dark people, don't you think so? Yes?"
"Well, putting negroes out of the question, I suppose there is, more or less," assented Mallow. He thought Carson much more like the pure Italian than the Englishman of mixed blood. Certainly there was no hint of the Anglo-Saxon about him.
"So Mrs. Purcell has been giving you my character," said Carson, smiling blandly on Miss Slarge.
"Oh dear me, yes. She wrote me quite a long account of you--all about your looks, and conversation, and I don't know what else."
"Really? I feel flattered by the notice she has taken of me. I confess I should very much like to see that letter."
"If you like I will read you those parts of it which refer to you," said Miss Slarge, amiably. "You will see then how keen an observer my sister is. Excuse me, I will fetch the letter."
As Miss Slarge slipped out of the room on her errand, Mallow detected a sigh from Carson--a sigh that sounded like one of relief. At the same time he appeared--so Mallow thought--to be uneasy, and while continuing his conversation he frequently glanced at the Major. Semberry instinctively became aware of this, and once or twice turned his head. Finally he left Miss Ostergaard, and came slowly across the room, as though drawn in spite of himself to the side of his friend. Again Mallow heard from Carson a sigh of relief, after which his uneasiness gave place to a more confident manner, and he presented Major Semberry to Laurence with perfect ease.
"We need no introduction," said Mallow, smiling. "Major Semberry and I met at Simla some few months back.
"Ah, yes," replied Semberry, in his crisp, abrupt way; "Mallow the sportsman. I remember."
"Say, rather, Mallow the scribe--in India, Major. It was my mission to scribble out there."
"By George, yes. Read some of your letters in paper. You dropped on us hot, Mallow--deuced hot. What are you doing in these parts?"
"Idling, Major, at the expense of Lord Aldean."
"Met him in London," said Semberry, staccato; "nice boy, make good Army man. No brains, plenty muscle."
"Oh, Aldean has a good deal more mental power than people give him credit for."
"Dark horse, eh?"
"Well, he may yet prove to be so. As to your no brains for the Army,' Major, I fancy you depreciate your profession. They don't make the fool of the family a soldier now--they certainly did not in your case."
The Major acknowledged the compliment with a bow, but did not reply.
"Do you know, Semberry, that I am about to hear my character?" said Carson, blandly.
"Eh, what? From our friend here?"
"No," explained Mallow; "it seems that Mrs. Purcell has written an account of Mr. Carson to Miss Slarge, and your friend is to hear it verbatim."
From long exposure to the sun, the natural hue of Semberry's complexion was brick-dust, yet at this it became still more red, and he put up a hand and tugged uneasily at his moustache. His manner reflected the recent anxiety of Carson, and Mallow was at once on the alert to discover the cause of their joint discomfort. There was a hint of mystery about the swift glances they exchanged which piqued his curiosity, and from that moment he was silently observant of their every look and word. What he expected to learn he hardly knew, but that there was something to be learned he felt convinced. But then Mallow was distinctly prejudiced against Carson as his rival.
When the Major's hand came down from his moustache, he observed that "Mrs. Purcell was a charming woman, and that she wrote an amusing letter." He then turned to face Olive, who was approaching with Dr. Drabble.
"It is not kind of you three gentlemen to exclude us from your conversation," she said brightly. "What are you talking about?"
"Mrs. Purcell's letter," said Carson, with a glance of proprietorship. "Miss Slarge has promised to read aloud the character which her sister is so good as to give me."
"It is a better one than you deserve," replied Olive.
"Ha, ha!" roared Drabble, who was a noisy creature at best, "isn't his character to your liking, Miss Bellairs?"
"If it is not," said Carson, before the girl had time to answer, "Olive shall make it to her liking in two months."
Miss Ostergaard, who had joined the group, laughed. "Can an old dog learn new tricks?" she said mischeviously.
"A young puppy might," muttered Mallow, whose hot Irish temper was rapidly rising, both at Carson and at Olive.
He was enraged at the mere fact of the man calling the girl by her Christian name, and he was annoyed at the complacent way in which she seemed to listen to him and his babble. Luckily for the peace of the moment, his remark passed unheard by all save Tui, and she nodded approbation.
"What ridiculous things you say, Tui," said Olive, with pretended severity.
"Extraordinary name, 'Tui,'" called out Drabble, elegantly. "What does it mean, Miss Ostergaard?"
"It means me, in the first place, Dr. Drabble," she replied smartly; "and in the second it is the native name for the New Zealand parson bird."
"By George, parson bird!"
"Why rookery, Miss Ostergaard? or, to be more precise, why parson bird?"
"Because it is all black, Mr. Mallow--a beautiful glossy black, with two white feathers in its throat like a parson's cravat. We have christened it the parson bird; the Maoris call it the Tui."
"It is inappropriate to you, Miss Ostergaard," said Carson, smiling. "You never preach, I am sure."
"Oh yes, I do; but I keep my sermons for Olive."
"Ho, ho! I should like to be a member of that congregation."
"As an Anarchist, Dr. Drabble, you are not fit to be a member of any. You don't like preaching--other people's preaching, I mean."
"That depends upon the preacher, Miss Ostergaard."
"Madame Death-in-Life, for instance."
With a snarl Drabble turned on Mallow, who had made this remark.
"What do you know of Madame Death-in-Life?" he snapped.
"Only that she is the most noted Anarchist in Europe," retorted Mallow, coolly. "Why not? I know her, you know her, the police know her; and a few stray kings will know her some day to their cost, if she isn't guillotined--as she ought to be.'
"I wonder you know such a horrible woman, Mr. Mallow," said Olive.
"Oh, my acquaintance with her is not personal, Miss Bellairs."
"Neither is mine," said Drabble, who had recovered his good humour. "I don't approve of Madame Death-in-Life's methods. It is not my plan to terrorize the world by bombs and murders. The pen, sir, the pen is mightier than the explosive; so is the tongue. Pamphlets and lectures--that is my system for bringing about the much-needed social millennium. The woman you speak of does harm to the cause; she should be suppressed."
"Just what I said--and by the guillotine."
"No, sir!" thundered Drabble. "No legal crime, if you please."
"Anarchists prefer illegal murder," said Semberry, smiling grimly.
"And no punishment to follow," remarked Carson, arranging his sling.
"Except that of their own conscience," chimed in Olive.
"No Anarchist possesses one," said Tui; at which all present burst out laughing at the expression on Dr. Drabble's face.
In the midst of this merriment Miss Slarge returned with the letter and an apology.
"It took me some time to find," she explained to Carson. "Listen; this is how my sister describes you. Perhaps it is better not to give it to you in my sister's own words, for her style is founded upon Dr. Johnson's, and is apt to be prolix."
"Paraphrase the description Miss Slarge," said Mallow.
"Mr. Carson," said Miss Slarge, glancing at the letter, "is twenty-five years of age, gentle, well-bred, not without parts, and modest."
The gentleman in question clicked his heels together in quite a foreign fashion, and bowed low. Mallow noticed the continental air of the whole action, and remembered it.
"He is tall, slender, elegant in shape, of a swart complexion, inherited from his mother, and his eyes and moustache are of the deepest black. He looks like an Italian."
"By George, Carson! Mrs. Purcell describes you exactly," said the Major; and in his heart Mallow, who had followed the description closely, was obliged to confess that this was true.
"He is delicate in health, and has a weak heart."
"I know that to my cost," sighed Carson, "and a swollen hand. Does Mrs. Purcell mention that fact, yes?"
"She does, Mr. Carson, and she also says that you are effeminate."
"Ha, ha!" bellowed Drabble--"effeminate, eh?"
Carson reddened. "And why, Miss Slarge?"
"Because you wear a bracelet."
"That is true enough," assented the young man; "but I can't get it off, and it has been on my wrist all my life--in fact, ever since it was placed there by my ayah."
"Oh, do show us the bracelet!" cried Tui. She had a thorough woman's love for jewellery.
"Bracelet, hum! bangle, India!" muttered the Major, and tugged his moustache.
"Show me the bangle, Angus," said Olive, persuasively; and Mallow winced.
Mr. Carson with great care, and evidently with some pain, took his arm from the sling and drew up his shirt cuff. Loosely encircling his wrist appeared a broad band of pale gold, elaborately wrought with the hideous forms of three Hindoo gods.
As he displayed it, Miss Slarge read aloud the description of the ornament from her sister's letter:--
"It is a broad band of ductile gold, curiously wrought with the idol figures of the Hindoo trinity: Bramah, Siva, and Vishnu, interwoven with the sacred lotus-flower, and other heathen symbols."
"Most extraordinary," said Mallow, looking at it; "good trade-mark, eh, Mr. Carson? None genuine without this device."
"What do you mean, sir?" cried Carson, pulling down his sleeve with an angry jerk.
"Mean! why, what should I mean?" replied the Irishman, and smiled innocently.
The young men were seated on the terrace in the warm summer twilight. The plains of corn beyond the dark trees were filled with floating shadows, and the pale radiance of the long-set sun still lingered in the western skies. Overhead a few stars shone with mellow lustre in the warm, purple arch; but the moon had not yet rolled her wheel over the distant hills, and the dusk was faintly luminous, so that the landscape was indistinctly visible, as through a filmy veil. There was no breath of wind, and the trees seemed to extend their opaque shadows, even to the verge of the glimmering white terrace. At intervals a nightingale filled the dusk with silvery strains, and occasionally the hoot of a distant owl sounded like depreciative criticism of the bird music. So still, so dreamy, so peacefully beautiful, it was a magic night for love and lovers, for dancing elves and poet's singing. Yet this unromantic pair were talking the crudest commonplaces--harsh music for such an hour, for such a scene. But there are times when man sympathizes with Nature as little as does she with him.
"Well, Jim," said Mallow, after a pause and a sip of warming liqueur, "it is now a week since those marplots came on the scene. What is your candid opinion?"
With a flick of his finger, Aldean sent the stump of his cigarette flying over the balustrade.
"That is what I should like to do," he said, in his deep voice; "chuck them both into space."
"I did not ask you what you would like to do to them, but what you think of them."
"They are two bounders--at least, Semberry is one."
"You are prejudiced, my James," said Mallow, coolly; "Semberry is a well-bred man, but Carson--ahem!--Carson is not a gentleman."
"In other words, Carson is not Carson."
"Upon my soul, Jim, I don't believe he is." Mallow jumped up, and balanced himself on the railing of the terrace immediately before his friend. "I don't believe he is," he repeated. "He is supposed to have come from India. Well, he knows precious little about India, although I have questioned him repeatedly. He talks with a distinct foreign accent; his every action is suggestive of continental society, and he looks like an Italian. See here, Jim"--he slipped down, clicked his heels together, and made a stiff bow from the waist--"is that English?" He mimicked Carson's speech: "You think so, yes? Is that English, Jim? I ask you plainly, is there anything English about the man?"
"Well, he isn't English, you know," was Jim's reply.
"His father was a Saxon, and, from all accounts, a public school boy, a University man, gently born and well-bred. Why isn't his son--if this man be his son--more like him?"
"The poor chap hasn't had his father's advantages, Mallow. His mother was a half-caste, and, I suppose, no pattern of breeding. He has been brought up in exile amongst niggers, and has received a scratch education. I don't see what you can expect. Carson's pretty good, considering his disadvantages."
"Confound you, Jim; don't desert to the enemy!" cried Mallow, in a huff.
"I'm not deserting, but I see both sides of the question, and you don't. You believe that the real Carson is dead, and that this man is an impostor."
"And if I do," said Mallow, defiantly, "it was you who put the idea into my head."
Aldean laughed.
"You don't usually take my suggestions so seriously," he said, smiling. "Besides, I had no proof for my assertion, and you--however much you wish to--can't find one. On the other hand, there is ample evidence to show that Carson is the man he declares himself to be. Mrs. Purcell's letter describes him exactly: he has a weak heart and an injured hand; also, he wears the golden bangle, which, as he showed Mrs. Carson in Bombay, cannot be removed. Finally, Carson has been in Semberry's company ever since he left his father's death-bed."
"Semberry is a plausible scamp," growled Mallow, biting his fingers. "I heard no good of him in India."
"Perhaps not; but a man can be a scamp without being a blackguard."
"Pooh, pooh! you split straws. That is a distinction without a difference."
"Well," rejoined Aldean, with equanimity; "let us say that a fellow can be a spendthrift and a Don Juan without being dishonest. I hardly think, Mallow, that Semberry would risk his commission and his position in the world by supporting an impostor such as you believe Carson to be."
"You have certainly found your tongue, Jim," said the Irishman, recovering his good humour, "and your arguments are moderately convincing. But you seem to forget that some fifty thousand pounds are involved in this marriage contract."
"Who told you so?"
"Miss Slarge. She is a dreamy, up-in-the-clouds old lady, as you know, but she can open her eyes and descend to the contemplation of ordinary things occasionally. Olive is the apple of her eye, and her wish is to see the girl happy; therefore, she does not approve of this marriage.'
"Isn't she pleased with Carson?"
"No, she dislikes him thoroughly, and she believes that he is marrying Olive solely for the sake of the money. Now Major Semberry is a chronic bankrupt, and half--even a quarter--of fifty thousand pounds would be a great temptation to him."
Aldean looked earnestly at his friend.
"I see what you mean," he said slowly. "Your idea is that Carson was murdered at Athelstane-Place, and that Semberry has substituted this impostor so that the marriage may take place, and they may share the proceeds. My dear Mallow, if you argue thus, you argue a rope round the Major's neck."
"Bosh! Did I say that Semberry was a murderer?"
"I am only bringing your argument to a logical conclusion, Mallow. If the real Carson has been murdered, Semberry must know of it, else he could have no reason to substitute the false one. Admitting as much, he must either have killed Carson himself, or he must know who did. In either case he is a criminal. Q.E.D."
Mallow shook his head.
"Even assuming that I am right, Semberry could not have murdered Carson, as it would be sheer folly for him to support an impostor when the real Simon Pure was his friend. However, I don't say that the real Carson has been murdered, nor do I identify him with the Athelstane Place victim; although," added Mallow seriously, "it is a strange thing that the clothes, both of the living and the dead, should smell of sandal-wood."
"It is strange," admitted Aldean, "and not to be easily explained. But we have argued the subject threadbare. What is your final opinion?"
"My original opinion--Carson is not Carson."
"Mallow, you are developing a monomania. Come and unbend your great mind over billiards."
The Irishman laughed and agreed. For the next hour or so they were taken up with cannons and breaks, and they left further discussion of Carson's identity to a more fitting occasion. The argument was not renewed that evening, and Mallow retired to bed with his mind less taken up with the subject than usual, and had a good night's rest. However, he woke early the next morning, and his thoughts at once reverted to Olive and her doubtful lover.
Beyond the fact of the sandal-wood perfume, he had no reason for connecting the man who had put in an appearance at Casterwell with the victim of Athelstane-Place, and his good sense told him that this was but a slender foundation upon which to build the superstructure of an imposture. And yet there remained with him an instinctive feeling that all was not right. Do what he would, argue as he might, he could not get rid of the idea that Semberry and his friend were brother rogues, bent upon obtaining the dowry of Olive.
"I cannot believe in Carson until I find some one who can identify him," thought Mallow, as he dressed himself. "If Mrs. Purcell were only in England, she would settle the question at once. But, according to Miss Slarge, she will not be back for three months, and this man is to marry Olive in two. On the 24th of August she comes of age. By the terms of the will, she must become Mrs. Carson before the 24th of September. After that date, be the man genuine or an impostor, I am powerless."
The matter agitated him so greatly as to render him irritable and restless. Unwilling to inflict his state of mind on Aldean, as it was yet early, he slipped out of the house and walked down to the village. He found the rural population astir and busy in the freshness of the morning air. During his tutorship of Aldean he had become friendly with many of these villagers, and those who met him now were glad to renew acquaintance with him. After strolling through the quaint High Street, admiring once again the old-fashioned houses, with their black beams diapered on the whitewashed walls, he turned into the churchyard, and strolled round the sombre grey building, which was the oldest of all the old things in Casterwell. The blackened tombstones, their queer inscriptions half obliterated by brown moss and yellow lichen, toppled askew amongst the uncut dewy grass, and from out the general untidiness rose the ecclesiastical fabric, its obtuse roof hidden by the open stonework and crocketted pinnacles. The massive square tower, draped with fresh green ivy, loomed out at the western end, and round it the swallows were wheeling and glancing like flying arrows. Thrush and blackbird and starling piped in the adjacent thicket, white pigeons whirled overhead, and wreaths of smoke curled from the village chimneys. Mallow enjoyed to the full the freshness of it all--the mellow sounds of waking life, the atmosphere surrounding him. The peace and beauty of it soothed his mind, and he fell to musing. He started when a voice at his elbow greeted him.
"Ah, good morning, Mr. Mallow, this is an unexpected pleasure!"
"Mr. Brock!" cried the Irishman, turning suddenly. "I thought you were away."
"So I was," rejoined the Rector, holding out his hand. "I have been recruiting by the sea. I only returned last night. I see you are like myself, Mr. Mallow; you love the freshness of the early morning."
"I felt restless within doors, Mr. Brock, and came out to be soothed."
The Rector nodded approvingly.
"'You fly to Nature's breast for Nature's balm,'" he quoted in a deep, rolling voice. "It is to be regretted that all young men are not so sensible. Well, Mr. Mallow, and how are you?"
"I am in capital health and spirits," replied Laurence, lightly. "And you? You are not looking quite so fit as usual."
"Age, sir, age. Years are beginning to tell on me. After sixty the human frame begins to fail. I lose tone. My recent visit to the seaside was to restore it."
Mallow thought to himself that the result had not been wholly successful, for Mr. Brock looked sallow and wrinkled and hollow-eyed. He was a handsome, burly man, and he carried himself with an air of importance which many a bishop might have envied. His face was clean-shaven, and his features were clean-cut. His skin was of the particular hue one associates with old ivory, and a halo of silvery white hair lent an air of benignity to his expression. The Reverend Manners Brock had been vicar of Casterwell for over twenty years, and was as well-established as the church over which he presided. He was an industrious worker, an excellent orator, and a general social favourite with rich and poor alike. There was not in England a rector more popular or more admired. He might certainly have been a bishop, and--granting that the welfare of the community was the aim of those in power--he perhaps stood a good chance of becoming one. That he would adorn the position, as he adorned the rectorship of Casterwell, there could be no doubt. But, so far, there had been no hint of any such elevation for Mr. Brock.
As he strolled up and down chatting with Mallow, the click of the church-gate was heard. Simultaneously they turned to see a dark young man, with his arm in a sling, advancing along the grassy path. Mr. Brock started when he saw the face of the newcomer, and clutched the arm of his companion.
"Who--who is that?" he asked, his face grey and drawn, and his frame literally trembling with nervous agitation. "That is Mr. Carson," said Mallow, wondering.
"Carson! Oh, my God! Carson? Do--do the dead return?"
Mallow feared the old man was about to faint.
Carson, with his usual amiable smile, came jauntily along the path, looking directly at Mallow and the Rector. He appeared to be amazed at the white and perturbed face of the latter, but, ignoring it, he held out his left hand in greeting to Laurence.
"Good morning," he said pleasantly. "I see you are an early bird like myself. I have been accustomed to rise at dawn in India, and to drop old habits is difficult, is it not? Yes?"
"India?" gasped the Rector, before Mallow could reply. "Do you come from India?"
"Yes. I arrived in England only a few weeks ago."
"Your name is Carson?"
"Angus Carson, at your service;" and the young man clicked his heels and bowed.
"The son of my old friend, Alfred Carson?" pursued the Rector, who was recovering his self-control somewhat.
"Yes. Are you Mr. Brock? Are you my father's friend? Yes?"
"I am," said the other, in a voice of emotion. "Ah! no wonder I felt queer when I saw your face. It was as if the dead were come to life."
"I am supposed to be very like my father," returned Carson, easily. "I don't wonder you were startled. My dear father often spoke to me of your devotion to him."
"Yes, yes; poor Alfred!" The Rector seated himself on a flat tombstone and fought down his natural feelings. "I wish I had known you were here, Angus; your great resemblance to your father has given me a shock. I feel ill--I--I feel very ill."
"Shall I go to the rectory and fetch you some brandy?" said Mallow, who was sorry for the old man.
"If--if you would be so kind," muttered Mr. Brock, burying his face in his handkerchief. "Poor Alfred!"--and his emotion again overcame him. Carson stood by and looked sympathetically on at this proof of a long-remembered friendship; but he made no remark, until Laurence returned from his errand.
"Thank you, Mr. Mallow; you are most kind," said Brock, gratefully, as he swallowed the brandy.
"Believe me, I am sorry my sudden appearance should have so alarmed you," said Carson, politely. "Did you know that I was coming to this place? No?"
"Certainly, I was aware of it," answered the Rector, in a stronger voice, "for Miss Slarge read me a letter from Mrs. Purcell. I also saw the communication you addressed to Olive from Bombay, advising her of your coming. But I have been absent, and I returned only last night; and the sight of your face--your extraordinary resemblance to your father--startled me not a little."
"Such emotion is natural," said Mallow; "the more so as you were so attached to Mr. Carson."
Mr. Brock rose and sighed. "He was my dearest friend," he said sadly; "and even thirty years have not banished his memory from my heart. I feel like a father to you, Angus--you must permit me to call you Angus?"
"I beg of you to do so," answered the young man, gracefully, giving his left hand to the Rector. "Who should do so, if not you, the oldest friend of my father, and the guardian of my dearest Olive."
Mallow bit his lip, and turned away to conceal his anger, for after all, being engaged to her, the man had every right to speak of Olive in affectionate terms. Angus, who had long since discovered that the Irishman was his rival, smiled blandly at this exhibition--for it did not escape him--of jealousy. But he had sufficient discretion to make no remark. With an inclusive nod to both men, Laurence walked away, and his feelings on climbing the hill on his way home were anything but enviable. He felt that fate was dealing hardly by him.
"Have you hurt your hand?" asked Brock, when the unnecessary third person had vanished through the gate.
"Yes, many months ago while shooting," replied Carson. "Indeed, it was this hand that detained me from paying my respects to Olive and yourself earlier. I arrived on the twenty-fourth of last month, and intended coming here at once; but my hand was so painful that I waited in London to see a surgeon about it."
"Where did you stay?" asked the Rector.
"With my friend, Major Semberry, in St. James's Street. Semberry took rooms there, and I made it my home. Indeed, my luggage is there at the present moment."
"St. James's Street!"
"Yes; that is, a little street off it--Duke Street, I believe it is called, No. 80B."
"No. 80B, Duke Street, St. James's," repeated Brock, slowly. "The first address you gave me was somewhat misleading."
"My ignorance of social customs in your large city," replied Mr. Carson, with a charming smile. "I am quite a barbarian, am I not? Yes?"
"Indeed, no; if Olive is not pleased with you she will be hard to satisfy."
"I think she likes me, Mr. Brock, but she does not love me."
"Oh, love is a matter of custom with young girls. You will gain it sooner or later--if not before marriage, then afterwards."
"I fear Olive has no love to give me," said Carson, shaking his head. "It is my impression that she has already given her heart to that gentleman who has just left us."
"To Mallow? Nonsense. She looks upon him as a friend."
"As a very dear friend, don't you think? Yes?"
"That may be," rejoined Mr. Brock, gravely. "She has known him for many years, for Mallow lived here a considerable time as tutor to Lord Aldean. But I am sure Olive is not the girl to disregard her father's dying wish. She will become your wife, Angus; be sure of that."
"I shall endeavour to deserve my good fortune, Mr. Brock."
"By the way, Angus, did your father send no message to me?"
"He spoke of you kindly and tenderly on his death-bed," replied Angus, gently; "but he sent no message."
"He gave you no letter for me?"
"None. Had he done so, I would have sent it on to you."
"I suppose he told you about our early friendship?"
"Well, no; he spoke always of you with affection, yet he gave me no details of your association with him."
"Yet Bellairs and I were his nearest and dearest," sighed the Rector; "but I should not complain. A man might forget many things in thirty years. Poor Alfred!--he was one of the best men I ever knew. I hope you will try to emulate his virtues, Angus."
"I shall do my best, Mr. Brock," said Carson, glancing at his watch. "It is getting near breakfast-time. I must return to the Manor House."
"No," said the Rector, taking the young man by the arm. "I cannot so readily part with the son of my old friend, who brings back all my youth to me. You must breakfast with me."
This invitation did not appear to please Carson over much, and he would fain have declined it, but the Rector was peremptory; so, in the end, he accepted. Mr. Brock was pleased, and showed his pleasure.
"I am a bachelor," he said, showing his young friend the way through the quick-set hedge; "but I have an excellent housekeeper and an admirable cook. You shall have a good breakfast, Angus."
"Well, sir, I bring a good appetite," answered Carson; and, arm-in-arm with his father's old associate, he passed into the rectory grounds, making himself as agreeable as he knew how.
Mr. Brock became rejuvenated in the presence of his old friend's son, and questioned the young man closely concerning the dead-and-gone companion of his youth. It was a merry breakfast enough in one way; yet in another it was sad. In the hereafter it afforded Mr. Brock much food for reflection. But, if a man will be so rash as to raise the ghost of a dead past, he cannot expect to be other than melancholy.
Honest enough to avow that his suspicions concerning Carson had proved baseless, Mallow was not patient or amiable enough to discuss the matter with Aldean. After a short explanation Laurence passed on to more agreeable subjects, and his friend was in no way unwilling to leave unprofitable argument for pleasant conversation. The Irishman concealed his disappointment, and, deciding that there was little sense in crying over spilt milk, made himself as entertaining as possible. He enjoyed his meal with Aldean, after which--in completion of his cure, as Mallow put it--they rode together. Returning late in the afternoon, they came upon the residence of Dr. Drabble. A slatternly-looking dwelling it was, on the outskirts of the village. Here Laurence announced his intention of paying a visit to the doctor's wife. Aldean expressed himself agreeable. He liked the doctor's children infinitely better than he liked the doctor. Beckoning two small boys to hold their horses, they went up to the door.
"As untidy as ever, I see," remarked Laurence, as they walked up an overgrown brick path, through a wilderness of neglected flower-shrubs.
Aldean shrugged his shoulders. "What can you expect?" he said. "The doctor is one of your world-reformers, who sweeps every doorstep but his own. Reformation never begins at home with these fanatics--more's the pity."
Had Mrs. Drabble heard this last statement she would probably have endorsed it. She was a weary-looking, white-faced woman, worn out with family cares and domestic worries. Seven children, one servant, and a neglectful and exacting husband, were enough to account for her aspect. The room into which the visitors were shown was as untidy as the garden, and Mrs. Drabble was as untidy as the room. She gave her hand to Lord Aldean with a wan smile, and greeted Mallow with an apologetic air.
"For, indeed, I am quite ashamed that you should find us in such a state," she complained languidly; "but I have so much to do that I can do nothing."
The epigram was, if unintentional, none the less true. The poor, weak head of this domestic martyr was literally dazed by the constant abuse of her neglectful husband and the burden of her clamorous children.
That Mrs. Drabble was a byeword in Casterwell for untidiness was not altogether her fault. In truth, she possessed neither the strength nor the capability necessary to reduce her domestic chaos to something like order. A more helpless, hopeless creature never lived. She had been a pretty girl enough when she had married Drabble, and that would-be reformer was largely, if not entirely, the cause of her degeneration.
"And how is my young friend Margery?" asked Aldean, who had known Mrs. Drabble and her household ever since he was a small boy in petticoats.
"Oh, Margery is well enough," sighed Mrs. Drabble (she naturally took a despondent view of life). "Her brain is too big for her body, and lately she has taken to writing poetry. As if that would help one? Then there is Cade, and Brutus, and Danton--all of them growing boys, who eat enormously and spoil their clothes dreadfully. I'm sure I often wish their father was more of a parent and less of a Radical," finished the poor lady. "I can't do everything; it's not to be expected--nobody can deny that."
A crowd of children--all named after notorious Republicans--at that moment surged past the sitting-room door, which would not shut. Giggling and whispering, they appeared and disappeared like rabbits in and out of their burrows. Shortly Margaret, the eldest, tripped into the room, and shook hands with precocious composure. She was a pretty little girl of some twelve years, with a nobly-formed head, a profusion of curly reddish hair, a complexion of cream, and dreamy grey eyes. Altogether a noticeable child. She already displayed considerable brain power, and, indeed, she was the only one of his children in whom Dr. Drabble took the smallest interest. The display of his affection took the form of inculcating her with pernicious Anarchistic doctrines, the meaning of which the poor child, intelligent as she was, was quite at a loss to understand. As Hamilcar made his son take an oath of eternal hatred for Rome, so did Dr. Drabble instil into his small daughter a detestation of the world and the world's social system. Poor little Margery innocently piped diatribes which would have done credit to the hags of the Revolution.
"Well, Margery Daw," said Mallow kindly, "have you forgotten who I am?"
"Oh no," answered the child in her pleasantly low voice, "you are the gentleman Olive is so fond of."
Lord Aldean laughed, Mallow coloured, and Mrs. Drabble, much shocked, apologized for her daughter's candour.
"But indeed she is such a sharp little thing that there is no keeping anything from her," wailed Mrs. Drabble; "and the doctor, I am sorry to say, tells her many things that a child should not hear."
"I am a Red Anarchist, like father," announced Margery, proudly. "We intend to make everybody equal."
"Do you, indeed?" laughed Aldean, drawing the child to his knee. "And what is to be done with me?"
"You are to be called Mr. Aldean, and made to work."
"You will indeed be clever if you can make Mr. Aldean work, Margery," said Mallow, smiling. "I have never been successful so far."
"Please excuse her, Lord Aldean," said the shocked Mrs. Drabble. "It is her father who puts these ideas into her head. Margery, how can you?"
"Oh, we all know that the doctor is working for the social millennium, Mrs. Drabble; the time when there will be neither rich nor poor, and we shall all practise communism."
"I'm sure I wish the doctor would practise his profession, Lord Aldean. But Mr. Dyke, that new man, gets all his best cases, whilst he is constantly in London working for the cause. As if preaching in Trafalgar Square is of any use to me. I never know the day when he may be in gaol; and then what shall I do with these seven children?"
"I'll support us all with my poetry, mother," said Margery, grandly.
"Poetry!" said Mallow, laughing. "And pray what kind of poetry do you write, young lady?"
"The poetry of Revolt; that is what father calls it;" and Margery, stretching out a lean arm, proceeded to recite these terrible lines:--