"Tyrants tremble in your beds,We shall cut off all your heads,Take your money and your land,And as freemen take our stand;This is not a foolish gabble,But the word of Margery Drabble."
"Tyrants tremble in your beds,We shall cut off all your heads,Take your money and your land,And as freemen take our stand;This is not a foolish gabble,But the word of Margery Drabble."
The young men roared, both at the poetry and the fierce attitude of the child.
"You are quite a Revolutionist, Margery," said Aldean, "and a poetess to boot. E. B. Browning; Sappho in a Phrygian cap, eh?"
The little girl shook her red curls. "I aspire to be like Louise Michel," she said solemnly, "the noblest of all women."
"Wouldn't you rather grow up like Miss Bellairs," said Mallow, persuasively.
"Ah!" groaned Mrs. Drabble, dismally, "where are the education and money to come from?"
"I love Olive. I am very fond of Olive," said Margery judiciously, "but I do not approve of her choice of a husband."
"Don't you indeed," laughed Mallow.
"No. I have advised her to marry either you or Lord Aldean."
"Margery, Margery, do not be so pert."
"I am not pert, mother, I am a Thinker."
"With a large T," said Aldean, rising. "Well, Margery, you must come and see me soon, and we will ravage the orchards."
"Apples, strawberries, peaches--oh my!" cried Margery, a child for the nonce, "I should like to have as many as I could eat."
"Well, I dare say we can satisfy even your appetite. Come soon, and bring us some more poetry with you. Mr. Mallow and I must be going now. There, dear, you won't refuse that, will you?" and he slipped a half-sovereign into the child's hand.
"No," replied Margery the Communist. "'What's yours is mine'--father says so--but thank you very much, Mr. Aldean."
"Lord Aldean, Margery," corrected her mother.
"Father says there are no lords, mother; this is plain Mr. Aldean."
"There is a reflection on your lordship's good looks," said Mallow. "Well, Margery, when you begin cutting off heads, I hope you will spare us, eh?"
"Fear not," said Margery, dramatically; "I'll stand by you in the day of trial."
Save her honeymoon, probably the happiest time in a woman's life is the period of her engagement--the time when she is being adored by her lover, congratulated by her friends, and is delightfully employed in expecting and receiving the customary offerings of her friends and acquaintances, and in making those varied and numerous purchases which seem to be consideredde rigueuron such occasions.
For the time being she is, at all events, the supreme centre of interest amid her own immediate circle; her life teems with pleasure and expectation generally; a beautiful halo is around the most commonplace of things; the present is enjoyable, the future entrancing, and she--the luckiest of women, surely?--dances along over her rose-strewn path, under her cloudless sky, happy in the conviction that smiles and eternal sunshine are to be her lot.
What if, after marriage, the sky is ofttimes clouded and the path of life grows stormy, and the smiles disappear in frowns--and we know that such a change does sometimes come over the spirit of the most beautiful of matrimonial dreams--what if some of the early illusions are mercilessly murdered?--there is always that pre-nuptial period to be looked back upon with fondness, if also with regret. She has snatched from fate at least one hour of supreme and unalloyed delight--there is true satisfaction in the thought. And happy is the mortal who enjoys even that much happiness in this troublous world. The years of the Moorish Caliph were sixty and more; his hours of perfect bliss--five!
Olive, had she been engaged to Mallow, would have enjoyed her supreme hour with all the zest of a naturally happy disposition. As it was, she was wretched in the extreme. She detested her affianced husband, and she knew how deep was her love for the man she would have had in his place. Tossed about like a shuttlecock by these extremes of feeling, she anticipated her wedding-day with dread--almost with terror. The loss of the money would have been of no account with her; it was the dying wish of her father that she felt she could not disregard, to say nothing of the hint of unknown evil which the sealed letter contained. Why her father should have expressed himself so strongly, and yet so vaguely, she could not conceive. She could only conclude that he had committed some error in his life for which she was to pay the penalty. Jephthah vowed rashly, and circumstances brought about the sacrifice of his daughter that he might not be forsworn. Likewise she was to suffer for her father's sake by contracting this loveless marriage. There were times when she was resolved to throw all to the winds, to let Fate do her worst, rather than suffer what was before her; but in the end her affection for her dead father prevailed, and she bent her will to the force of circumstance.
On the subject of such unqualified obedience, her friend Tui did not hesitate to express herself strongly, for she was an independent young lady with ideas the reverse of favourable to what she termed family slavery. That any parent should command or expect to receive blind and unquestioning obedience was not her way of thinking. She was, therefore, exceedingly wrathful at her friend's decision.
"When a human being arrives at years of sense, he has every right to shape his own life," said she,ex cathedra. "Our religion teaches us that every one has to answer for his own sins, therefore certainly he should choose his own wickednesses."
"You speak in the masculine sense, dear," rejoined Olive; "besides, I do not intend to commit any sin, that I am aware of."
"I speak for woman as well as for man, Olive; and if you marry a creature you don't care two straws about, you will be committing a sin, and a very great one."
"Oh, Tui, darling!"
"It's no use saying, 'Oh, Tui, darling,'" replied Miss Ostergaard, vehemently; "you know in your own heart that I am right. Do you or do you not love Laurence Mallow?"
"I do, with all my soul."
"Then why don't you marry him?"
"He hasn't asked me yet," replied Olive, with attempted carelessness. "I do not even know if he loves me."
"My dear, you know well enough that he does. Why, he would give his ears to make you his wife; and it is only his scruples about this wretched engagement that makes him hold his tongue. Believe me, obedience can be carried too far, Olive, and it is absurd and wrong that you should wreck your life just because your father commands you to marry the son of an old friend of his."
"But the sealed letter, Tui!"
"Oh, that's a bogey. What evil can come to you? You have your own money, good health, and the love of a most delightful man. I should defy that letter."
"But you forget I shall lose fifty thousand pounds, dear."
"What of that?" reported the romantic Tui. "I am sure Mr. Mallow is worth paying that price for. He's a darling, I think. If you don't marry him, Olive, I'll make love to him myself--there!"
"What about Lord Aldean?"
"Lord Aldean is a donkey--a dear, sweet donkey, all the same. He is too young to know his own mind."
"Indeed, he is two or three years your senior."
"Well, I never; as if you didn't know that a woman is always twice the age of a man. But you are getting away from the subject. Do you really intend marrying this horrid Mr. Carson?"
"I must," sighed Olive, ruefully; "my father----"
"Oh dear me, your father again!" interrupted Tui, pettishly, "as if he had anything to do with it. There is too much talk of obedient children, and not enough of reasonable parents. Why should people be born when they don't want to, just to be miserable slaves to those who put them in the world against their will?"
"Would you marry against your father's will?"
"Yes, I would, if what he wanted was to make me miserable. I would suffer for no one; and I don't see that any one--be they father or mother--has a right to expect it."
"Tui, you have been listening to that horrid Dr. Drabble."
"I know I have. Dr. Drabble is a very sensible man."
"Does he treat his wife sensibly, dear?"
"We are not talking about his wife," said Tui, evading the point, "but about him. I don't agree with everything he says, but I approve of a great deal. Every one should be a free agent. Marry Mr. Carson, and you will be miserable. Become Mrs. Mallow, and you will be happy; and, father or no father, I know which of them I would choose."
"Oh, Tui, what nonsense you talk."
"Sense, sense, sense, I talk reason, sound reason--and you know I do."
"I know nothing of the sort."
"Then you ought to," exclaimed Tui, with heat. "Now you are going to be nasty, dear, so I shall leave you till you recover your temper;" and Miss Ostergaard, holding that discretion was the better part of valour, hastily retreated.
The wretched Olive did not know whether to laugh or cry. Deserted by Tui, who had gone over to the enemy, she was more than ever bewildered. Miss Slarge, too, was all against Carson--Olive had long seen that--although neither her opinion nor help was of any great value. Olive felt desperate. The wedding-day was only a few weeks distant, and almost immediately she would have to come to a definite decision. Should she accept or reject Carson? should she forego the money and ignore the letter? The more she put the question to herself the more bewildered she became.
When they first arrived, Major Semberry and his friend had been guests at the Manor House; but as Miss Slarge (who was nothing if not conventional) did not approve of a lengthy visit, they had removed to the village inn. However, they still spent a great deal of their time at the Manor House, and it so happened that whilst Olive and Tui were pursuing their discussion, they came in for luncheon. Olive heard their voices on the lawn, but, feeling that she could meet neither of them in her present state of mind, sent a message to her chaperon, and slipped out of the house. She walked through the woods and out on to the hills, turning over and over again in her mind her ever-present dilemma.
Now, as though to settle the matter offhand, Fate had inspired Mallow with a spirit of restlessness, and he, in his turn, feeling little inclined for Aldean's chatter or company, had strolled out alone. Thus it came about that on the breezy space of the downs the two young people met. Having met, they could scarcely pass without greeting, and they ended in sauntering side by side over the springy turf: Fate had trapped them, and Fate would have to answer for the consequences.
It was a perfect day: bland and sunny, and redolent of summer fragrance and peace. An early shower had fallen, and the raindrops sparkled on the grass, while the sheep straggled on the hillside, and the fitful breeze dispersed the sweetness of the land. A circling lark, lost in the blue, rained down its music, and the grey rabbits scuttled into their burrows at the approach of the lovers--for lovers they were, though their love was undeclared. Side by side they walked on--scarcely speaking, scarcely looking. They were alone on the lonely downs under the roof of God's sky, standing on the variegated pavement of God's temple, the strongest passion Nature knows gripping them at their heart-strings.
At first their conversation--such as it was--turned on trivial things. They skirted, as it were, the sole thought which filled the hearts of both. But their joint attempt to evade it was doomed to failure. Nature would have her own, and she seized it by force. Their idle talk dwindled into monosyllables; even these grew rare and low, and then a long silence ensued. Mallow felt his mouth dry and his heart beating furiously. He turned his eyes, eloquent with unspoken passion, on the woman by his side. With a thrill, half of joy, half of fear, she winced and shrank back.
"Don't!" she said faintly, holding up her hand, "I beg of----"
"I must," said Mallow, hoarsely, as her voice died on her lips.
"Olive, darling, what is the use of our keeping up this pretence? I--I--I love you."
"I must--I will!" He seized her hand and fixed his eyes on her flushed, downcast face. "I love you; you love me--we are for each other. You cannot deny that what I say is true. I can see the truth in your face, in your eyes. Olive, Olive,--my Olive!"
"Laurence--Mr. Mallow; you forget my position."
"I do not. You are engaged to a man for whom you do not care, whom you shall not marry. I forbid you to marry this Carson."
"You have no right----"
"I have every right--the right of love. Deny it if you can. If you go to the altar with Carson you go with a lie on your lips. You are mine, mine only; and I swear to God that I will not give you up. Dearest, tell me what is in your heart. Do not deny me one little word. You love me--you love me; say that you love me."
The overwhelming force of his passion swept her away. She could no longer struggle against him--against herself. "I do love you," she faltered; then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she tore herself away from him, and shrank back, covering her face with her hands.
"I knew it!" he cried in triumph. "You love me, you are mine, you will not marry this man."
"I must, I must," she murmured, terrified by the way in which she felt he was breaking down the barriers of her will.
"You must not. I tell you, Olive, you shall not. I am you lover, your master, your husband--not that feeble foolish Jack-o'-dandy, with his silly smile and feeble will. Give him up, give him up; I command you, give him up."
"Laurence, you are brutal."
"Darling forgive me, pardon me, I am beside myself. I am your slave, your worshipper. Oh, my heart, my love, my dearer self, be kind to one whose life is yours."
Olive dried her eyes and became more composed as Mallow changed his tone. She turned towards him with face as white as marble.
"Laurence," she said quietly--"for I dare call you Laurence--I love, I have always loved you, and I always shall love you; but I am not my own mistress. I would to Heaven that I were; but I am helpless. I must marry this man, not for the money--ah, no; the money can go, but because my dear father left a letter for me in which he urged me to obey his dying wish and marry Angus Carson. . . . If I do not, evil will come of my refusal."
"Evil, Olive! what evil?"
"I do not know. My father's letter gave no explanation. It simply said that terrible evil would come if I did not obey his wish. I dare not refuse. I dare not ignore that solemn command. Much as I love you, I must sacrifice it--yes, and you--to the memory of my father."
"You will marry Carson?" asked Laurence, his face growing pale.
Olive bowed her head. "What else would you have me do?" she asked pitifully.
"Do?" With a burst of passion, he seized her again in his arms. "Do?--I would have you become my wife."
"My father----"
"Your father had no right to condemn you to lifelong misery. It shall not be. You are mine. I will not give you up."
"Cruel, cruel, when you know how I suffer," she sobbed. "If you love me, you would let me go; you would urge me to fulfil the wish of the dead."
Almost rudely he flung her from him. "Go then," he said bitterly. "I want no love so feeble that it bends to another's will. Obey your father if you think fit; marry Carson, and leave me to go----"
"How dare you to speak to me like that?" cried Olive, passing from tears to fury. "If you suffer, do not I suffer? I loathe to marry this man. I would kill myself if I dared. I----"
"You talk like a child," he said roughly.
"I feel like a woman," she retorted heartily.
"You think only of your own misery. What is it to mine? You are not forced into the arms of a woman you detest."
"If you go, you go to Carson of your own free will."
"Oh, Laurence, how can you say that I go to another man of my own free will when you know how I love you? It is unjust; cruel. If my father were alive, I might have the courage to refuse. As it is, how can I disobey? If I refuse Angus Carson some evil will surely follow, and if I marry you I involve you in it too. Would that be right?"
"Olive, I would go to hell for you and with you."
"Laurence, you do not love me--you cannot love me--or you would not make it harder for me; your feeling for me is not love, it is selfishness. I must bow to your will, I must flout my father in his grave, I must cast all to the winds that you may gain your wish."
"Olive!" His voice was husky and broken. "I would do all that and more for you. But since you hold my love so low, let us forget that I have told it; let us part here now, and for always."
"Laurence, Laurence, my heart will break."
"And for a shadow, Olive."
"No, no!" she cried, "no shadow, no folly this. It is only too real. You are right; let us--let us say good-bye."
"You tell me to go?"
"I--tell--you--to--go."
"Then listen to me. I love you, and I intend that you shall be my wife. I don't care for Carson, or the money, or the threatened evil, or anything else. I sweep all these away. I say good-bye now, and I go to London--to Athelstane Place."
Olive looked bewildered. "In God's name why?" she faltered.
"To learn if the man who was murdered there was the man you should have married."
"I--I--why, I am to marry Mr. Carson!"
"It is yet to be proved that this man is Mr. Carson."
"What do you mean?"
"I will tell you what I mean when I come back;" and without a handshake or a glance at her white face, Mallow walked abruptly away.
On calm reflection, Mallow did not consider that he had behaved very well to Olive. His passion and impetuosity had carried him beyond himself. He had been too rough; too masterful. Instead of suing with soft words, he had sought to dominate by sheer strength of will. A cave man of the stone period could scarce have wooed in style more savage; and when Mallow had regained his self-control, he was heartily ashamed that his fiery temper had got the better of him. But his pride would not allow him to apologize to Olive. Nor did he even excuse himself by letter. He preserved an absolute silence, and kept away from the Manor House. He had not been quite sincere when he declared his intention of proceeding at once to Athelstane Place, but for very shame he could not now withdraw from a position taken up so definitely. Accordingly, on the day preceding Olive's birthday, he announced to Aldean that he was going to London.
"Oh, hang it! I do call that shabby," cried Jim, with a look of dismay. "You promised to stay here at least two months."
"I'll come down and complete the term shortly, Aldean."
"Oh, you don't wish to be here when Miss Bellairs marries Carson, I suppose?"
"Miss Bellairs shall never marry Carson if I can help it."
"Perhaps not, Mallow, but I don't exactly see how you can help it. This morning I saw Carson, and he tells me the ceremony is to take place in a fortnight."
"A great deal can be done in a fortnight, Jim."
"Old man?" questioned Jim, with a stare, "have you anything up your sleeve?"
"Only my mistrust of Carson, as Carson."
"What! that old game? You are becoming a maniac on that subject, Mallow. It's all bosh, you know. Carson is Carson, right enough. Mrs. Purcell, Semberry, Mr. Brock,--they've all said as much."
"No doubt," replied Mallow, dryly. "But not one of them has explained why Carson's clothes should be impregnated with sandal-wood as were those of the man in Athelstane Place."
"You'll find nothing there to help you," said Aldean, shaking his head. "What the police couldn't do, you won't."
"Then I shall go to the police themselves."
"You'll look for a needle in a haystack, you mean. However, if you have made up your mind, I suppose you must go on your wild-goose chase. When may I expect you back from it?"
"Before Carson marries Miss Bellairs."
"Does that mean at the end of a fortnight?"
"If I make no discoveries associating Carson with the murder, it does."
"Oh, Lord! do you want to hang the man as well as rob him of his wife?"
"Jim, I'm not vindictive."
"Goodness only knows what you are, Mallow. Well, least said soonest mended; go, and good luck go with you."
After this conversation, in which, it will be noticed, Mallow gave no hint of his interview with Olive, he went to London, and was absent for the greater part of a fortnight.
Olive, too, kept her own counsel about that stormy wooing. But she felt a strange joy in recalling to herself its every detail. It was the joy of a woman who loves to be dominated and to be ruled by the man she adores. Had Mallow cut the Gordian knot of her difficulties, and, in the face of all her objection, forced her to marry him, secretly she would have been pleased and relieved. As it was, he had left her with an enigmatic utterance which she could not understand.
Yet this time of trial was in some ways beneficial to her. It strengthened the better qualities of her nature, which otherwise might have weakened in the sunshine of perpetual good fortune. The ills of this life, like drugs, are unpleasant but necessary. They brace our mental organization as do tonics our physical.
Olive's twenty-first birthday was celebrated by a dinner to her friends and tenantry. The Manor House and its grounds were thrown open in the old-fashioned, hospitable style, and a plentiful spread was provided under a temporary tent. Here farmers and labourers toasted their young mistress in the strongest and most stinging of ales. Speeches were made and congratulations were offered, and had Mallow but been present in the character of her future husband, Olive would have been completely happy. As it was, she had to introduce Carson in his place. But she accepted the encomiums passed upon his pleasant face and amiable speeches with such show of pleasure as she could command from herself. She could not deny that the husband chosen for her by her father was both attractive and agreeable, that he was even lovable in some ways--perhaps in his very weakness. Laurence was pre-eminently a man of strength; a man imperious and self-sustaining; a man who would love a woman and master a woman, and fulfil the fundamental law of Nature that the male is the lord of creation from an oyster to a wife; in short, a man stable as the universe, fixed as the stars. Angus was pleasant, good-tempered, handsome and weak. He would have made a charming woman, Olive thought with contempt. The Indian bangle was not much out of place, after all, upon his wrist.
On this festive occasion even poor Mrs. Drabble took a holiday. She brought with her Margery, Danton, and Brutus, of whom the first-named clung to Olive's skirts most of the day. She had brought with her and presented to Olive a birthday ode, in its way a marvel of rhyme and of spelling:--
"Oh, may no ethly caresAnoy Olive Bellairs,And may she never fearHer birthday every year,But give up teres and sighs.Till she most hapy dyes."
"Oh, may no ethly caresAnoy Olive Bellairs,And may she never fearHer birthday every year,But give up teres and sighs.Till she most hapy dyes."
"Thank you, Margery," said Olive, kissing the little poetess, who was anxiously watching the effect of her ode.
"I hope your good wishes will come true;" and she sighed.
"I have brought Charlotte Corday," remarked Margery, holding up a battered doll with a red cap on its head. "Poor dear! she has had no pleasure since we cut her head off."
"Who cut her head off?" asked Aldean, who was close at hand.
"Brutus, because he said she must 'dree her weird.' It should have been Danton of course, but Danton was at school. I have glued her head on again, but she will never have a strong neck. But I love her all the same."
"Shall I give you another doll?" said Carson, smiling amiably.
"No, thank you," replied Margery, shaking her curls, "I must keep Charlotte Corday after she has suffered so much for the cause."
"Ah! that is my Margery," roared Drabble; "she's a true chip of the old block."
"True chip of the gallows!" growled Semberry, who hated the doctor.
"When our day comes, there will be no gallows," retorted Dr. Drabble.
"Guillotines only, I suppose," said Aldean, with a twinkle.
"There will be love and fraternity, and equality."
"Be my brother or I will kill you," quoted Tui. "I've heard that sentiment before, Dr. Drabble."
"Miss Ostergaard, I thought you were a disciple of mine."
"I stop short of murder, doctor."
Major Semberry appeared disturbed. "Nasty word 'murder,' in a young lady's mouth;" he jerked; "let's talk of something agreeable."
"Of Olive, for instance," smiled Angus. "Olives are always agreeable."
"After dinner only," said Miss Bellairs, spoiling the pun, "I don't feel complimented, Angus, by your comparison."
"My dear, you are a flower--a rose!"
"And you are a smiling cabbage," muttered Tui, turning away. "Lord Aldean, take me to the tent."
"The Major is not engaged," hinted Aldean, slyly.
"Neither am I," retorted Miss Ostergaard, "so there is still a chance for your lordship;" and she led him away wondering if he could not construe a confession of love from her last remark.
While this desultory conversation was going on, Miss Slarge had the Rector well in hand, and was bombarding him with hard Babylonic facts. "Our Good Friday hot cross-bun is an emblem of idolatry," she was saying; "we should tread it underfoot rather than eat it."
"Oh, my dear lady," remonstrated the shocked Mr. Brock, "it is stamped with the sacred symbol of our religion!"
"I don't care what it is stamped with; it is none other than the sacred bread of Babylon, which was offered to the pagan queen of Heaven fifteen hundred and more years before the Christian era. Even the name is the same. The sacred cake was called 'boun;' our Good Friday cake is termed 'bun.'"
"A bun!" interposed the rector.
"With or without the article, it is the same thing. 'Boun;' 'bun'--what can be plainer? The first is pure Chaldee, the last Scottish."
"I don't understand Chaldee, Miss Slarge," said Mr. Brock, in hope of changing the conversation. "What a pleasant scene this is."
"The scene is all right," snapped Miss Slarge; "but it would be better if Mr. Carson were not here. Ugh! I can't bear the sight of him."
"Why not? He seems to be a pleasant young man."
"No backbone, Mr. Brock. If you dropped him into the mud he would stay there. Mrs. Purcell said that he had a strong will and a stubborn nature; but I can see neither myself."
"It is, of course, possible your sister may have been mistaken."
"Perhaps so; but in every other respect her description of him has been particularly accurate, even to the bracelet he wears. Bangle--bracelet--" said Miss Slarge, with contempt; "the idea of a man decking himself out like a woman!"
"Still, he is agreeable enough, Miss Slarge; and you must remember that to me he is always the son of my dear old friend. In memory of his father, he intends to present my church with a new altar-cloth."
"Marked 'I.H.S.,' I suppose, Mr. Brock?"
"Well, yes; it is customary to mark them with the sacred letters."
"What do they stand for?"
"'Iesu hominum salvator.'"
"Nothing of the sort," cried Miss Slarge, delighted that the rector had fallen into her trap. "They are the initials of the Egyptian trinity: Isis, Horus, and Seb."
"Miss Slarge, how can you treat sacred things so lightly?"
"I don't treat sacred things lightly," retorted Miss Slarge. "I.H.S. is a heathen symbol; and I am not an idolater, I hope."
"Really, I do not know what to say."
"You should study more," said Miss Slarge, satisfied with her triumph, as she walked away, leaving the rector quite angry.
"I wonder where she can find all this rubbish," murmured the outraged Mr. Brock. "It is really not respectable the way she talks. Eh, what is that shouting?" he asked a bystander.
"The tenants are toasting Mr. Carson."
"As Miss Bellairs' future husband, I suppose?" said the rector, cheerily. "Ah, what a pity that Mark and Alfred did not live to see this happy day!"
Though the passing of each hour brought her nearer to her hateful marriage, Olive felt relieved now that the celebration of her coming of age was over. She was little disposed for gaiety or for company of any kind. Her thoughts were continually with Laurence. She missed him daily, hourly. His face was constantly before her, and his words echoed everlastingly in her ears. It was not surprising that, on meeting Lord Aldean in the village, she should question him as to Mallow's return. "I sometimes wonder if he is coming back at all," she finished hastily.
"Oh, Mallow's coming back right enough," said Aldean. "He is certain to return before your marriage."
"Please don't speak of my marriage, Lord Aldean," she cried impetuously. "Have you heard from Mr. Mallow since he left?"
"Only once, Miss Bellairs. He is well and busy."
"In Athelstane Place?"
Jim was not a little taken aback by this last question. He was in total ignorance of what had taken place on the Downs. "What do you know, may I ask, about Athelstane Place?" he said, looking sharply at the girl.
"Mr. Mallow told me something about it, and about Mr. Carson."
"Oh, that is one of Mallow's crazy notions," said Aldean, vexed. "I suppose he told you that Carson was an impostor? Then, believe me, it is all nonsense, Miss Bellairs. Mallow has built up this theory on a foolish remark I happened to let drop. His idea is that the real Carson was murdered, and this fellow has stepped into his shoes."
"You don't believe that?" cried Olive, breathlessly. "Certainly not," replied Jim' vehemently; "and please don't repeat what I say. I have a horror of scandal. Carson is Carson right enough. This is only a mad idea of Mallow's."
"But why should Mr. Mallow persist in such a strange idea?"
Lord Aldean shrugged his shoulders. "The dead man's clothes were perfumed with sandal-wood, and Carson's, you know, have the same smell--it is on this ground I think that Mallow goes chiefly. He fancies there must be some connection between the two."
"And is there?" asked Olive.
"No; but Mallow is ready to grasp at straws to stop your marriage."
Miss Bellairs reddened and turned away. "That is impossible," she said in a low voice.
"Yes, if it is to be stopped only by proving Carson to be an impostor, I agree with you. Don't worry your head about such folly."
"Perhaps I ought to tell Mr. Carson," said Olive thoughtfully.
"No, for goodness' sake don't; you'll only cause unnecessary trouble by doing that. There is no doubt about Carson being the genuine article. He carries the trade mark of this Indian bangle, and Mrs. Purcell describes him exactly in her letter; besides, Mr. Brock recognised him from his resemblance to his father."
Miss Bellairs said no more on the subject. She saw that it annoyed Aldean not to be able to defend Mallow in this eccentricity of his. But on returning home she asked her aunt for Mrs. Purcell's letter, and read it through most carefully. She copied out verbatim the portions relating to Angus Carson, and committed them to memory, so that when he called in the afternoon she was able to view him through Mrs. Purcell's spectacles. A stealthy and careful examination convinced her that Mallow's fancies were moonshine. Without doubt Carson of Casterwell resembled Carson of Bombay in every particular. The graphic sketch of Mrs. Purcell was an admirable portrait of the man as he stood there unconscious of her scrutiny. Whatever way of escape from this detested marriage might open out to her, it was not here, and Olive resigned herself to her fate predestined. Her eyes followed her future husband with a look of contempt as he crossed the room with a cup of tea for Tui. His weak good nature and incessant amiability were aggressive to her. She might compel herself to marry him, but she felt that she could never feel the least respect for his character. The mere sight of his ever-smiling complacency made her resent her position more and more. Overbearing, rough, or even brutal he might have been, and she might have resigned herself to him with more content. At least he would have been a man. She thought of Pope's cruel portrait of Lord Hervey:--
----"that thing of silkSpurns that mere white curd of asses' milk."
----"that thing of silk
Spurns that mere white curd of asses' milk."
If, as Mrs. Purcell declared, he possessed a powerful will, he concealed it only too effectually. "A stubborn nature" and "a full confidence in his own judgment" he might have--they were more in harmony with his weakness. Still, he was to be her husband--that was certain--and it only remained for her to make the best of it and of him.
"Penny for your thoughts, Miss Bellairs," said Semberry at her elbow.
"They are not worth it," retorted Olive, taking the cup of tea he held out to her. "I'll sell them as bankrupt stock. Can I give you another cup of tea?"
"If you please," and the Major took his seat beside her, much to her satisfaction, for she felt that she would rather talk to him than to his friend.
"By the way, Miss Bellairs," said Semberry, "other day you said something about a maid."
"Yes, I want a new maid; I am looking for one now."
"Friend of mine wants to find a situation for a good maid."
"Thank you very much, but I think I shall have no difficulty in finding one to suit me in Casterwell."
"But this is a London girl; very smart," urged the Major; "wants to live in country; friend recommends her no end."
"Who is your friend, may I ask?"
"Mrs. Arne; fashionable woman; clever woman. Thinks a lot of this maid. Wouldn't part with her, only girl wants to live in th' country. Spoke to me; said I'd speak to you."
"It is very kind of you to trouble about it, Major," she said, "very kind indeed; you must let me think the matter over, will you?"
"Pleasure," replied Semberry, scribbling on a page of his pocket-book, and tearing it out. "Here is Mrs. Arne's address. Write soon; might lose the girl."
"What is her name?"
"Lord! 'fraid don't know, Miss Bellairs. Never trouble 'bout these things as a rule. Mere chance I heard of this. Thought you'd like to know. Hallo! who's this? By George! that Radical doctor. Can't stand the man."
Dr. Drabble bustled noisily into the drawing-room. He announced his own arrival in a stentorian voice. With his cunning grey face and close-cropped red hair and lean hungry aspect, he resembled nothing so much as a prowling winter fox sniffing round a hen-roost.
"How are you, Miss Bellairs? There's nothing much the matter with you, that's easily seen," he roared, gripping her hand. "Miss Ostergaard, you look like yourself."
"People generally do, don't they, doctor?"
"Ha, ha! very good; but I'm paying you the hugest possible compliment, if you only knew how to take it. And where is Miss Slarge?"
"She is engaged, doctor," said Olive, resigning herself too, with a sigh, to the company of this bull. "Will you take some tea?"
"Thank you, thank you; no sugar."
"Should advise sugar, Drabble," growled the Major, insolently. "Sweeten your nature."
"My nature, sir, is that of primeval man--simple, childlike----"
"And lawless!" put in Carson, smiling.
The doctor mounted his hobby at once. "If by lawless you mean the obedience of man to the dictates of his own noble nature independent of a tyrannical government, then I am lawless," he said, oratorically. "I and my fellow-workers wish to reinstate the simplicity of primeval days."
"I thought you went even further," said Olive, "and wished to revive chaos."
"Chaos reigns now," proclaimed the reformer. "Chaos means disorder; and what is the world now but a disordered mass? Look at the military burdens of Europe, at the overtaxed poor, at the insolent rich; and tell me if things are as they should be."
"No one said they were, doctor," remarked Carson; "but it is not by pitching bombs at people that you are going to mend them."
"Bombs, sir? There is no such word; there are no such articles in my scheme of reform. I would enlighten those in power by pen and speech. If they will not listen, then their blood must be upon their own heads; for the masses will rise and sweep them from out their counting-houses; hurl them from their thrones; tear them from the bench of justice on which they sit to administer evil laws. To stamp out tyranny the earth, as it now is, must be churned up, deluged with the blood of the unjust; devastated, in short, from pole to pole."
"You bring, a torch for burning, but no hammer for building," quoted Olive, who had read her Carlyle and remembered him.
"The torch first, the hammer to follow. To build up we must first pull down, and on the ruins of the past build--Utopia."
"Another name for dreamland," muttered Semberry.
Olive grew rather tired of Drabble and his diatribes. Not so Tui, however. She listened to the doctor's cheap philanthropy with parted lips and eager eyes. She hung upon his every word, and, seeing that he had at least one sympathetic listener, Drabble addressed his conversation almost exclusively to her. Observing this, Olive slipped out on to the terrace, where, much to her disgust, she was speedily joined by Carson.
"I thought you liked listening to Dr. Drabble?" she said coldly.
"No; he talks commonplaces. I prefer romance."
"Romance?" echoed Olive, thinking of their relative positions, so far removed as they were from the ideal. "Romance here?"
"And where else will you find it if not in this rose-garden? Tell me, Olive," he went on, without waiting for her reply, "why do you avoid me? Have I offended you?"
"You?" she replied with contempt; "you could not offend any one. I never knew so harmless a being."
"It is better surely to be harmless than harmful?" said Carson, complacently. "I shall make you a good husband."
"You shall never be my husband," retorted Olive, flushed with anger.
Carson looked scared. "I understood we were to be married in a fortnight," he said under his breath.
"So we are! I marry you not because I love you, but because I respect the wish of my father. I can be a wife to you in name only."
"Olive, what do you mean?"
"What I say. Cannot you comprehend plain English? When we are married, you and I can be no more to one another than we are at this moment."
"And if I refuse?" he said, with a faint show of anger.
"Then I cannot marry you," answered Olive quietly. "My desire is to carry out to the letter the will of my father; and, by becoming your wife, give you the control of this fifty thousand pounds. More than this I cannot do. I pay you this money for my freedom. You are free to accept it or refuse it as you will."
Angus looked mortified and indignant. A flush was across his weak but handsome face. "Do you then hate me?" he demanded angrily.
"I am indifferent to you. I do not love you; for that reason I make my bargain."
"I understand. You love that insolent Mallow?"
"I should advise you to make no assertions and to mention no names," replied Olive, keeping her temper. "What I say I intend to do. You marry me on these terms or not at all."
"I will marry you," said Carson, frowning, "if only to humble you."
Olive turned on him. "You--you humble me? You, a foolish weak----Go away, Angus, or I may say much we may both regret."
"I will not go away," he said, the latent obstinacy of his nature asserting itself. "Let us make our bargain once and for all. I will marry you----"
"And be my husband in name only?"
"Yes," he whispered, with so strange a glance that she started back, "in name only. I agree to your terms--for my own private reasons. But, should this Mallow return----"
"Leave Mr. Mallow's name out of our conversation," interrupted Olive imperiously; "there is nothing between us that you need trouble about. I do not conceal things."
"Do I?" asked Carson, with bland inquiry.
"Ask yourself, Angus." She looked at him hard. "What do you know about Athelstane Place?"