In justice to Handle, it must be said that he by no means intended to desert his friend, even though the enthralling society of Dorinda might have proved an excuse for his forgetfulness. But far from wishing for the barrister's absence, Rupert had left a message with his future father-in-law, requesting Carrington to see the church, after taking leave of the vicar. Out of what the Yankees term "sheer cussedness," Mallien had not delivered the message, and every moment Hendle expected the appearance of his friend, quite ignorant that Carrington was already on his way to The Big House. And thinking that the barrister was being entertained--as one of his cynical character would be--by Mallien's rudeness and Leigh's quaint ways, the young Squire forgot all about his old school chum for the time being. This was very natural, seeing that Dorinda was beside him, and he therefore had no eyes or ears save for her.
"Get a can of water," directed Dorinda, as they passed from the vicarage jungle into the trim slopes of the churchyard, "and bring it to me as soon as possible. You will find me in the porch arranging the flowers."
Readily consenting to this division of labor, the Squire went to find Mrs. Jabber and the necessary can, while Dorinda, already possessed of the key, unlocked the great oaken door under the porch. With her arms filled with roses, she entered into the chill twilight of the little fane: chill because the thick walls prevented the summer heat from penetrating into the interior of the building and twilight since the sunshine was more or less baffled by the stained glass of the windows. As the girl passed up the central aisle, round her were the squat Norman pillars, above her loomed the criss-cross rafters of time-darkened oak, and beneath her feet was the storied pavement inlaid with many a quaintly lettered brass plate praising the virtues of the dead in monkish Latin. Before her, under the glorious hues of the east window, rose the altar, draped in white and gold with single and triple silver candlesticks glittering on either side of the tall brass cross. The vases--also silver--were filled with mixed ill-chosen flowers gathered anyhow and arranged anyhow by Mrs. Jabber, whose eye was anything but artistic. After breathing a short prayer, Dorinda, who had left her roses on a convenient seat, took the vases off the altar and out of the church. Having shaken out the flowers, she brought her crimson blooms into the porch and sat down on the side seat to fulfil what was to her a very pleasant duty. Rupert arrived with the can of water, and the information--obtained from Mrs. Jabber--that both Mallien and Carrington had gone home.
"I expect your father forgot to deliver my message," said the Squire, setting down the green can and taking a seat opposite to the girl.
"It is more likely that my father never intended to give it," replied Dorinda with a shrug.
"Why shouldn't he?"
"Because it was a reasonable thing to do, and my father is never reasonable, as you know."
"Carrington will think me rude."
"Not if he can see through a brick wall. And from what you have told me about him, Rupert, I think his eyes are quite keen enough to do so. There is one thing to be said," observed Miss Mallien, rather piqued by the barrister's neglect, "that your friend isn't anxious to see me."
"On the contrary, he is very eager," Rupert assured her hastily.
"Does his going back to the Big House look like it?"
"Ah, I expect he had some delicacy in interrupting ourtête-à-tête, Dorinda."
"There's something in that," replied Miss Mallien, dexterously binding her bunches of roses loosely together, "and his action speaks well for him. Perhaps I shall like him better than I expect to, Rupert."
The Squire looked up in astonishment from his task of brimming the altar vases with spring water. "Why shouldn't you like him in any case?"
"Well," Dorinda placed a bunch of flowers in a vase and put her head on one side to note the effect, "you say that Mr. Carrington is cynical, and I don't like cynical people. I have had so much cynicism from my father that it is impossible to stand more of it from another person."
"Oh, it's only a pose with Carrington. He's really a good fellow."
"If he is, why can't he show that he is? My dear Rupert, I never did believe in those people, who have hearts of gold and bad manners: who lend you money with a blow, and with the best intentions bully you into cheerfulness."
"What odd things you say, Dorinda," murmured Rupert, not knowing if she was speaking in earnest or in fun. "Carrington hasn't bad manners unless his going away without seeing you----"
"No! No! That may be delicacy," she interrupted swiftly. "I dare say he's really a nice man, and I shall like him very much. But remember, dear, that knowing you has raised my standard. I shall expect him to be very, very nice."
"Oh, Dorinda, don't put me on a pedestal," said Hendle, at once dismayed and pleased. "I am a very prosaic person."
"Then I like prosaic persons."
"And Carrington is very brilliant," went on Rupert stolidly, as he tugged at his moustache to induce thoughts for his friend's defense.
"You are quite brilliant enough for me, my dear boy." She rose suddenly, and taking his face between her hands kissed him twice. "There and there. Why are you so exasperatingly modest?"
"Am I?" asked Rupert, wondering why he had received the caress.
Dorinda laughed. Indeed, she could do nothing else, since Hendle was so very literal in his acceptation of her remarks. "You're a sweet-tempered donkey, my dear," she said lightly. "Now you take those two vases and I'll take these two. Come along."
Shortly the altar glowed with the crimson splendor of the roses, and their delicate fragrance was wafted through the chancel. Then the lovers left the church and sauntered back to the Vicarage, with the key for Mrs. Jabber, with offended dignity.
Miss Mallien was well worth looking at, as she was a gracious and stately maiden, well fitted to be the mate of the Saxon giant. Dorinda was as tall for a woman as Rupert was for a man, and carried herself with the same imposing dignity. Her dark hair and deeply blue eyes hinted at an Irish strain, and her vivacity was also Hibernian. But to this fascination, which had to do with the race of the sister isle, Dorinda added much English common sense, so that her romantic dreams never overrode her matter-of-fact instincts. She loved her cousin for his staunch honesty and attractive simplicity of character, since in these qualities he represented the exact opposite of her father. For this last-mentioned individual, whom she had the misfortune to call her parent, Dorinda did not entertain much respect, and hoped by marrying Rupert to escape from a companionship which was very disagreeable to her. It was only Hendle's wealth which induced Mallien to consent to the marriage; but, even had he objected, Dorinda would have held to her engagement. Rupert was her man of men, and, while he held her hands and looked at her with grave admiration, she thought how fortunate she was in securing such a mate. She esteemed his devotion more than much fine gold.
"My father will be waiting for me at the cottage," said Dorinda; as she strolled away again.
"A little disappointment won't harm him," said Hendle coolly, for he had not much sympathy with Mallien's selfish nature; "and I want you to meet Carrington. He leaves for London after dinner, and you won't meet him again for some time. Say yes."
"Yes," responded Dorinda, who really felt considerable curiosity concerning the object of Hendle's Rugby hero worship; "but father will be cross."
"I never knew father when he wasn't cross," retorted her lover, as they resumed their walk and entered the village square. "He's an infliction. I tell you what, Dorinda, the best thing we can do is to marry before the roses fade."
"Oh, Rupert, you are getting quite poetical."
"Am I?" asked Rupert, surprised. "That's strange, when I don't like poetry."
"I must teach you to like it, dear."
"Hum!" said Rupert, rather at sea, "you mean, I suppose, that we have much to learn from one another."
"Something of that sort."
"You shall do exactly as you like, dear," said her lover, as they came in sight of the house. "Why, here is Mrs. Beatson."
A tall, lean woman, with a sour and discontented face and an elegant figure issued from a side walk with a basket of flowers. Anyone could see that Hendle's housekeeper was a lady by birth, just as anyone could see that she was not an amiable woman. She was like Mallien, and had a tendency to look upon human beings as her mortal enemies, since, liking luxury, she had never been able to indulge her fancies. Left a widow with one son, she had taken the post of housekeeper some five years before Carrington's visit, and on the whole performed her duties admirably. But, being disappointed in not leading an idle life with sufficient money to gratify her whims, she always went about with an aggrieved air. It was only Rupert's kind-heartedness which permitted her to stay at The Big House, and visitors--Carrington among them--wondered how he could put up with such a wet blanket. Few people care to have a kind of Christian martyr at their elbow from morning to night.
"How are you, Miss Mallien?" said Mrs. Beatson, greeting Dorinda stiffly. "I am just gathering flowers for the dinner table. You will have an early dinner to-night, Mr. Hendle, will you not, as Mr. Carrington is leaving early?"
"Yes. I think I told you, Mrs. Beatson. We dine at six-thirty. By the way, I met Kit in the village; he looks well."
"He never comes near me to see if he's well or ill," rejoined the housekeeper bitterly. "He's a bad boy."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Beatson," chimed in Dorinda. "Kit is a very good boy. We are all very fond of him."
"Ah, you don't know him as well as I do," said Mrs. Beatson, shaking her head sadly. "He is--but I need not tell you, as you will find out soon enough for yourselves. Excuse me, Mr. Hendle, and you, Miss Mallien, but I must go in with my flowers. And there is Mr. Carrington at the drawing-room window."
With a stiff bow Mrs. Beatson disappeared, while Dorinda shrugged her shoulders. She never approved of Mrs. Beatson's martyr-like airs, which were wholly unnecessary, seeing what a comfortable situation she had. However, there was no time to think about the widow, for Carrington, slipping out of the front door, came down the terrace steps. He looked young and handsome and debonair, evidently presenting his very best side for the inspection of his friend's betrothed. Indeed, having caught sight of the couple from the drawing-room window, he had hastened to come out, with the intention of breaking the ice with the young lady in a light and airy manner. Mr. Carrington had a great belief in first impressions.
"I have eaten all the cakes and have drunk all the tea, Hendle," he said, gaily; "but, had I known that Miss Mallien was to honor the tea table, I should have restrained my appetite. How do you do, Miss Mallien? Since Hendle will not introduce me, I must do myself. Behold a briefless barrister, Dean Carrington by name, who is delighted to meet you."
"Thank you," replied Dorinda, shaking hands, and wondering why the man was so emphatically agreeable. Perhaps a touch of her father's misanthropy made her suspicious, or perhaps Carrington rather overdid his welcome. "I am glad to meet you. Rupert has often spoken about you."
"I hope he has said nice things," rattled on the barrister, as the trio returned to the house. "You see, he only remembers what a nice person I was at Rugby, and it is years since we met. I may have changed for the worse."
"I don't see any change in you," replied Hendle, with mild surprise. "Don't undervalue yourself, Carrington. Why didn't you come on to the church?"
"Perhaps you didn't know that we were there," suggested Dorinda. "My father may have forgotten to deliver Rupert's message."
"Oh no. The message was delivered right enough, Miss Mallien. But I have been young myself, and never, never, never spoil sport."
"You talk as if you were a hundred," remarked Hendle, as they began the meal.
"So I am, in experience of the seamy side of life. You, my dear fellow, are about five years of age. I expect you have found that out, Miss Mallien. He is the most unsophisticated youth, who has been wrapped up in cotton wool all his life, knowing disagreeables only from the newspapers and novels."
"I think that Rupert is less unsophisticated than you think," replied Dorinda, a trifle dryly, for she did not admire Carrington's easy tone of patronage toward her lover. "And why do you say that you expect I have found that out? I may be unsophisticated also."
"You are everything that is charming," said Carrington alertly, "but, having met your father, I think that you are not to be taken in by people."
Dorinda colored, knowing well what the keen-witted barrister meant. However, she endeavored to turn his point by altering slightly a well-worn quotation. "To know him is a liberal education, I suppose you mean," she said, lightly. "Don't take my father too seriously, Mr. Carrington. His bark is worse than his bite."
"Oh, I am sure of that," replied Carrington, who was sure of nothing of the sort. "We both barked at one another until the Vicarage jungle rang. We hope to meet again, Miss Mallien, and renew our contest of wits. By the way, to go to another subject--the Vicar. What a man, and what surroundings!"
"He is quite a character," laughed Dorinda, "but the dearest old man in the world."
The conversation continued, mostly in a bantering way, for some time, and then, tea finished, Rupert proposed to see Dorinda to the gates of the park. "If you don't mind being left alone, Carrington."
"Not at all; not at all. Gather ye rosebuds," said the barrister, lightly; "good day and good-bye until our next happy meeting, Miss Mallien."
With a smile which masked her true feelings--for she resented Carrington's manner; it seemed to her while having tea that he had attempted to make Rupert look small--Dorinda passed out of the drawing-room and into the hall. Hendle put on his cap and accompanied her down the avenue, while the barrister stood at the door and waved a farewell. But when they were far enough away to prevent seeing or hearing, his brow grew dark. "Confound that Hendle," he muttered; "he has all the good things of this world. A fine house; a large income; a delightful betrothed, and magnificent health. If I were an envious man--ha!" He drew a long breath, and then turned sharply, as some one passed through the hall.
It was Mrs. Beatson, who always had a habit of coming and going in a ghostly fashion. Carrington was not sure if she had overheard, as he always was suspicious of people's sharp ears. And he had spoken somewhat loud. However, if she had been eavesdropping, there was nothing for it but to risk the chance of her repeating his not very wise speech to Hendle. However, again, the barrister thought that if the housekeeper did babble, he would be quite able to deal with such a fool as the squire. Therefore he gave Mrs. Beatson a bland smile, which she returned with a sour one, and climbed up the stairs to his room.
Meanwhile, at the gate, Hendle was asking Dorinda a question. "I think you'll find me a dull sort of fellow after Carrington," he said ruefully.
"My dear," replied the girl, throwing her arms round his neck. "I would not exchange you for one hundred and ten Carringtons."
"You don't like him?" questioned Hendle, greatly surprised.
"No," answered Miss Mallien, "I don't. He's double-faced. We'll hand him over to father. He can deal with him," and in spite of Hendle's objections, she went away repeating her doubts of the brilliant barrister.
For a widower with one grown-up daughter, Mr. Julius Mallien was very well off on an income of five hundred a year, for which he did not do a stroke of work. Like the lilies of the field he toiled not, neither did he spin, and, if not quite a Solomon-in-all-his-glory, he was quite comfortable, enjoying some of the luxuries of life as well as all the necessities. Born lazy and idle, he had never earned a single penny for himself during the fifty-odd years of his existence. First he had lived on his father and mother; afterward on his wife. Now that all three were dead, he managed to exist in a pleasantly easy way on the accumulated moneys they had left him. His picturesque six-roomed cottage, standing in a quarter acre of garden on the outskirts of Barship, was rented from the Squire at twenty pounds a year, yet he grumbled like an Irish tenant at the exactions of his landlord. Dorinda, with the aid of one small servant, looked after the house, and Mallien was quite untroubled with domestic details. His daughter catered for him in strict accordance with his tastes, wholly setting her own aside, and from one year to another there was no change in the economy of the establishment. It therefore came about in quite a natural manner that Mr. Mallien spent the greater part of his income on himself.
"I shall allow you so much for housekeeping and so much to dress on," he said to Dorinda, when she returned from school to become his companion, or rather his domestic drudge. "One hundred pounds yearly must cover all expenses, food, servants, clothes and rent; and if you exceed that, you'll hear about it."
As it took Dorinda some time to get used to this scrimping, she frequently made mistakes, and did hear about it. In fact, she was scolded so often that she became quite callous to her father's tempers, and finally, when he went too far, the girl who was not lacking in spirit, told him what she thought of his selfish conduct. There was a royal row, in which Dorinda came off best, and when things were again settled Mallien was careful not to provoke her anger again more than his disagreeable temper could help. On the whole, father and daughter got on very well together, but there was little affection displayed by either of them: on Mallien's part because he hated what he called sentiment, and on Dorinda's because her egotistical parent always kept her at arm's length. The boy-and-girl love of Miss Mallien for her cousin, which had strengthened into the staunch love of man and woman, was the sole thing which enabled the girl to endure the drab existence at The Cottage. It was always something to look forward to that one day she would become Rupert's wife, and then would be quit forever of her father's uncomfortable whims.
Not that Mallien gave his daughter much of his society. His hobby was jewel collecting, and Dorinda took no interest in such things. For a woman, she was inexplicably indifferent to gems, and lace, and clothes and amusement, so that her father voted her a bore and went his own way. In his particular room--which was the most comfortable in the cottage--he remained, constantly arranging and polishing and admiring the precious stones in their many mahogany cases. Not being rich, his collection was necessarily a small one, although every jewel represented a bargain and had a history attached to it. But Mallien was always lamenting that he could not purchase historic gems, and envied the long purse of his cousin, the young Squire. However, he hoped to draw upon this when Dorinda became Mrs. Hendle, as Rupert had promised to double his income to make up for the loss of the girl. She objected.
"I feel as if father was selling me," she told Rupert when matters were settled on this basis. "He won't feel my being away a bit, except that he will miss his favorite dishes and the way in which I manage to make both ends meet. You shouldn't have agreed, Rupert."
"My dear," said her lover, with much common sense. "I think it is cheap at the price, to get rid of such a disagreeable man. What I give your father will enable him to indulge more freely in his expensive hobby; consequently, he will leave us alone."
"No, he won't," contradicted Dorinda, who knew her father's persistence. "When he hears of some particularly rare jewel, he will come and bother you for money to buy it."
"He won't get it," retorted Rupert, dryly. "I can be quite as obstinate as your father. With what he has, he will have one thousand a year, so he must do the best he can with that. I am doing my best to settle things fairly and peacefully, but if your father wants trouble, I am not the man to deny him any in reason."
Dorinda laughed and gave way, although she still resented her father making money out of her marriage. But Mallien, being one of those men who is a curse to himself and to everyone around him, could not be treated in any other way, and could make himself very disagreeable when on his mettle. Besides, Dorinda knowing what Rupert's temper was when aroused, dreaded lest there should be an open quarrel. Mallien would certainly have come off worst in any encounter; but, as he was her father, she did not wish for such acontretemps. She and Rupert had been engaged for two years when Carrington came down to Barship, and hitherto all had gone smoothly. But a few days after the barrister's departure, Mallien began to make himself unpleasant. "I don't see why Rupert can't marry you next month," he said, fretfully, one morning at breakfast. "You've been engaged long enough."
"So we both think," replied Dorinda, who was pouring out the coffee, looking particularly fresh and charming in a white linen frock. "But you have always objected, you know."
"I don't wish to lose my daughter," growled the misanthrope, clutching at his black beard and scowling.
"That is very sweet of you, father, but you mustn't sacrifice five hundred a year for my society."
"What do you mean by that, you minx?"
"Is it so hard to understand?" asked Dorinda coolly.
"It's not what a daughter should say to a father."
"Well, you see, so much depends upon the sort of father one says it to."
"Honor your father and your mother," quoted Mallien, crossly.
"Parents, be mindful of your children," retorted the girl. "Oh, I can match you, quotation for quotation, if you like, father; I have been exercising my memory in this respect when talking to Mr. Carrington."
"Carrington! Carrington. I forbid you to mention his name. I have already given you my opinion of that impertinent pig----"
"Frequently," interpolated Dorinda crisply.
"----And I won't allow him to be spoken of. You have just mentioned the reason why I think you should get married straightway."
Dorinda set down the marmalade with surprise. "What can Mr. Carrington have to do with our marriage?" she inquired, staring.
Mallien wriggled. "Rupert's a fool to bring the fellow down here," he burst out furiously. "He's a sponge, and a son of the horse-leech, who will get all the money he can from Rupert."
"I don't see why you should say that," protested the girl. "Mr. Carrington did not give me that impression."
"Well, he gave it to me," grumbled her father, eating sullenly; "and if you allow him to get hold of Rupert--who is a fool, as I said before--your marriage will be indefinitely postponed. I won't have it; I won't have it, I tell you," cried the stout little man, jumping up in a fine rage. "If Rupert's money should be given to anyone, it should be given to me."
"Well, as soon as I am Rupert's wife, you will have five hundred a year," said Dorinda soothingly.
"What's five hundred a year?" said Mallien, contemptuously. "I want the whole four thousand. There's a blue sapphire in Paris I wish to get hold of."
Dorinda shrugged her shoulders calmly, being quite used to her father's explosive nature. "You can't expect Rupert to give you all his income," she observed in measured tones. "He is paying a good price for me, seeing that I go to him without a dowry."
"You shall have my jewels and my income when I die," growled her father, as he sat down again. "Any money he gives me, comes back to you. But if Rupert was to die----"
"Father!" Dorinda uttered a startled cry of pain.
"There! There!" snarled Mallien testily. "I don't mean that he is going to die, you silly girl. But he's mortal andmaydie."
"God forbid! But if he did----" she hesitated, then uttered the word faintly, "--die?"
"Then I would have The Big House and the four thousand a year," said Mallien brutally. "You seem to forget that we are both descended from John Hendle, who died in the Waterloo year."
"I have never given a thought to it," said Dorinda uneasily, as she did not approve of her father starting this hare.
"Well, you ought to think of it. We descend from the elder son of John Hendle, and are the older branch."
"But Rupert descends through the male line, while we come through the female, father," protested the girl, puzzled by this genealogical conversation.
"Pooh! Pooh! There's no entail. Don't look so astonished, Dorinda; I don't mean to say that I have any claim, though, if everyone had their rights, we should be at The Big House and Rupert in his beastly cottage. There would be no need for you to marry him then."
Dorinda rose with great dignity. "I marry Rupert because I love him, and if he was a pauper, I should still love him."
"Oh, you could love him as much as you like," said her father, carelessly, "but if he were really a pauper, you shouldn't marry him. I'd see to that."
Dorinda walked round the table and bent over her father with a look on her face which made him push back his chair. "You would see to nothing," she said, very distinctly, and bringing her face close to that of Mallien. "It is my will and pleasure to marry Rupert, and nothing you can say or do will prevent my becoming his wife. You understand?"
"Who said anything otherwise," growled Mallien savagely, yet retreating dexterously. "As things stand, I am willing you should marry him. And, as you talk to me in that way, the sooner you become his wife and leave me alone the better it will be. Marry to-morrow if you like."
"I see," said Dorinda, whose face was perfectly colorless. "You want the extra five hundred a year to buy this blue sapphire you speak of."
"Partly. But I also want you to marry Rupert before Carrington--the beast--squeezes him like a lemon."
"There is no chance of any squeezing," said Dorinda coldly. "Rupert is quite capable of looking after himself, even if Mr. Carrington were after his money, which I see no reason to think that he is."
"I do! Carrington's a man on the market, if you know what that means."
"I don't. What does it mean?"
"One who lives from hand to mouth; one who is always on the make; one who doesn't mind what he does so long as he can extract a fiver. Rupert's a fool, and Carrington isn't. There, you have my opinion in a nutshell."
"I think you are making a great fuss over nothing, father," said Dorinda, with disdain. "But I am glad that Mr. Carrington's visit is likely to hasten our marriage. We can get married next month, and then you can buy the sapphire when we are on our honeymoon."
"Sensible girl!" Mallien stood up and wiped his bearded mouth. "Well, now that we understand one another----?"
"Do we understand one another?" asked Dorinda, irritated by the whole unnecessary conversation.
"Yes!" replied her father, tartly. "I have given my consent to your marriage taking place at an early date----"
"Because you want the five hundred a year to buy the blue sapphire."
"Don't be silly. And I have warned you against letting that flipperty-flap Carrington gain too much influence over Rupert."
"A quite unnecessary warning," said the girl, coldly. "You don't like Mr. Carrington, because he held his own against you."
"Insolent beast!" growled Mallien, bristling. "And I think you said that you did not like him yourself."
"I said that I did not trust him; but he is amusing enough to like as a companion for all that."
"You'll find him very amusing when he rifles Rupert's pockets," sneered the gentle parent, fuming at her opposition.
"I don't think that there is the least chance of his doing that, as Rupert--I said this before--is well able to look after himself. Besides, you have no grounds for saying that Mr. Carrington is a scamp."
"A look is enough for me."
"It's not enough to take away a man's character. And this talk of our being descended from John Hendle? What do you mean by that?"
"I don't mean anything particular," responded Mallien, honestly enough. "It was Leigh who put it into my head."
"The vicar. And what does he know of our family history?"
"Much more than we do. He has been scrambling through the papers in the Muniment Room at The Big House."
"Well, Rupert gave him permission to look out any documents likely to prove necessary for writing the history of the parish. You know he is writing a book."
Mallien nodded. "He found letters, written by John Hendle, which showed how much our ancestor regretted that the estates should go to Frederick Hendle."
"That is the younger son from whom Rupert is descended?"
"Exactly. He was a bad lot apparently, Leigh says. Walter, who was the eldest son and our progenitor, was killed in the Battle of Waterloo, and he seems to have been the old man's favorite. If Walter had lived, we should have inherited The Big House and the estates."
"Well, father," answered Dorinda with a shrug; "Walter didn't live, and we did not inherit the estates, so I don't see what is the use of talking."
"I didn't say that there was any use," retorted Mallien crossly, "only I thought that the piece of family history discovered by Mr. Leigh might interest you."
"It does in a way. But, after all, these family troubles happened nearly one hundred years ago." Dorinda was looking out of the window as she made this remark, and broke off suddenly. "Strange!" she said, staring into the garden.
"What is strange?"
"That we should have been talking of Mr. Leigh, for here he is with Titus Ark as his shadow, as usual. I wonder why he always has Titus at his heels?"
"It's a very necessary precaution," said Mallien, grimly; "otherwise, Leigh is so absent-minded that he would get lost. Leigh has only come to look again at that Yucatan diary, which my father left me."
"Does he want to see it?" asked Dorinda, forgetting that Leigh had seen the diary before.
"Yes. Your grandfather, as you know, was something of an explorer, and searched for hidden treasure among the buried cities of Central America. I was telling Leigh about the diary, and he wants to have another look at it," Mallien chuckled. "I shouldn't wonder if the old man wanted to go to Yucatan himself, since he is cracked on old buildings."
By this time, the vicar was knocking at the door, and Titus Ark was staring sourly round the garden. He was the sexton and the vicar's shadow, a dour ancient, who said little and thought much. Dorinda, not wishing to see the vicar, who rather bored her with his archeological discourses, went into the kitchen to attend to her domestic duties, while her father opened the front door to receive his visitors in his usual ungracious manner.
"What on earth brings you here, vicar?" he demanded brusquely, although he had just explained to his daughter why the visit had been made; "and why do you always have that old ass at your heels, Mr. Simon Leigh, parson of Barship Parish, God help the people?" grumbled Mallien, as he pushed his visitor into a chair and banged the door.
"Titus," said Leigh in his precise tones. "Oh, we were boys together--that is, he was a young man when I was a boy. Poor fellow, his generation lies under the ground, so I take him about to comfort him with talk about old times. He quite brightens up when we have our talks and walks."
"I'd brighten him if I had the power," growled the gracious host. "He ought to be under the turf with his confounded generation, or in the workhouse. I don't see any use for such a stiff-jointed old skeleton being above ground."
"He is eighty," said Mr. Leigh, placidly. "Great age. A comfortable room this, Mr. Mallien; there is something of the sybarite about you."
"Don't call names, vicar. The room is less like a pig sty than yours, and that is the best to be said about it."
"I often wonder, Mr. Mallien, that with your bringing up, you have not learned better manners," said Leigh, putting on his pince-nez and blinking. "You are certainly a most ill-conducted person. You should marry, and see if the softening influence of the feminine nature----"
Mallien turned from a cupboard of black oak, in which he was rummaging, and answered viciously. "I have been married."
"Dear me," mused the vicar, as if aware of this for the first time, "so you have been. And how is Miss Dorinda?"
"I believe his wits are going," grumbled Mallien to himself: then raised his voice. "She's busy, and can't waste her time in seeing you. Here"--he flung a heavy sheaf of papers on the table--"this is the diary kept by my silly father when he was treasure hunting in Yucatan. Old fool, he got nothing but rheumatism. If he'd found gold and jewels, there would have been some sense in his explorations. Don't you think so? don't you think so? don't you? Oh, hang you, vicar; one might as well call the dead."
Leigh nodded absently, for the sound rather than the sense of this polite speech had reached him. Already he had opened the manuscript diary at random and, with his nose close to the pages, was pouring over the faded writing. Mr. Mallien growled as usual, and walked across to the mantelpiece to pick up his pipe for a morning smoke. When blue clouds made a haze round the eagerly reading parson, Mr. Mallien brought out a handful of precious stones of little value from his trousers pocket, and began to fiddle with them, after his ordinary fashion. He strewed ruby and emerald and moonstone about the table, where a shaft of sunlight struck across the room, and watched the many colored sparkles, emitted by the tiny gems. Leigh, taking no notice, turned over page after page with great interest. After a long while he grunted and spoke, maliciously anxious to spoil the scholar's pleasure if he could.
"Dull stuff my father wrote, didn't he?"
"Dear me, Mr. Mallien, are you there? Dull stuff. Oh, dear me, no. Most interesting. These Maya buildings are quite fascinating, and the manuscripts he discovered, and the stone carvings, and the hieroglyphics, similar to those of Egypt. Yes," went on the vicar dreamily, "I must go there."
"Go there; go to Yucatan," cried Mallien, staring; "an old buffer like you?"
"Yes, sir," said the vicar with dignity. "For quite a year since you mentioned the diary of your father, it has been in my mind to fit out an expedition to so interesting a place."
"How can you fit out an expedition on your income?"
"Money. Ah yes, I shall require money, of course."
"And a jolly lot, too. Expeditions are not fitted out for nothing."
"I believe not," murmured Mr. Leigh, again dipping into the manuscript. "Well, well, the money will be forthcoming."
"Who will give it to you?" asked Mallien contemptuously.
"I thought that Rupert----?"
"Pooh! You might as well try and get blood out of a stone, Mr. Leigh. And why the dickens should he give you money to go on a wild-goose chase? Rupert is a wise man, and keeps his cash in his pocket, as I'd do if I had his income."
"Would you not give me the money if you had four thousand a year?" asked the vicar, with an extraordinarily keen look.
Mallien stared, quite unable to speak, so indignant was he at the audacity of the parson. "Give it to you?" he burst out. "I'd give it to nobody."
"Ah, then I hope you'll never get money," said Mr. Leigh, placidly, "you would make bad use of it."
"I would," retorted the gracious host, "if I gave it to you to make ducks and drakes of in expeditions. You can be buried less expensively in England than in Yucatan, believe me."
"I have no idea of being buried anywhere," said the vicar with dignity, and yet with a scared look which puzzled Mallien. "I am old, it is true, but my health is good and I live a reasonable life."
"You wouldn't if you went exploring Yucatan," retorted the other.
"I would take the risk of that, Mr. Mallien. The place is so interesting"--his nose was glued to the manuscript again--"that I really must raise the money and go. I have plans--oh yes, I have plans to get it."
"You won't from Rupert."
"Nor from you, apparently," said Leigh, who appeared to be much more alert than usual, "but I prefer Rupert's youth to your avaricious age. However, I shall come again and resume my reading of this manuscript--unless you will let me take it away."
"I'll do nothing of the kind, nor help your expedition," said Mallien grimly, "nor even give you the rubbish my father wrote."
"Rubbish," cried the parson indignantly; "that diary is worth all the property which John Hendle left to the son he didn't love. Well! Well, it's a case of pearls before swine," and, paying back Mallien in his own coin, by making this remark, the vicar departed with his shadow at his heels.
"Old fool," commented Mallien; "but I wish John Hendle had made that will."
It was with joy and relief that Dorinda communicated her father's decision to Rupert, and he was as pleased as she was at the prospect of their speedy marriage. Hitherto Mallien, not wishing to make himself uncomfortable by losing his housekeeper--which Dorinda really was--had always objected to the performance of the ceremony. Certainly he gained five hundred a year when the two became one; but, during the twenty-four months of the official engagement, this fond parent had not been in particular want of money, and in any case had always borrowed what small sums he required from his liberal-minded cousin, at intervals. But now his heart was set upon purchasing the blue sapphire which he had mentioned to Dorinda, and it was not likely that Rupert would give him the price of that. Therefore, to get his new income assured, he allowed the young couple to have their own way. Also--and this had a good deal to do with the granted permission--he really dreaded lest Carrington should obtain any influence over the young Squire, and thought that the gaining of such could best be prevented by giving Rupert his desire. With Dorinda beside him, it was unlikely that Hendle would allow Carrington to draw on his purse.
Seeing that Miss Mallien had a small opinion of her father, and spoke to him pretty freely on subjects of dispute between them, it seemed strange that she should have laid such stress on obtaining his consent to the marriage. But Dorinda, considering that her father was her father, in spite of his unamiable nature, wished him to exercise this last act of paternal authority. She would not have been happy had she provoked a quarrel by going contrary to his views, and so had waited until he thought fit to issue his commands. Had Mallien, indeed, wholly forbidden the marriage taking place, Dorinda would have rebelled, but she gave way on the minor point of an unusually long engagement. She saw Rupert almost daily; they understood one another thoroughly, and, as both were young, there was no particular hurry. Nevertheless, the girl was pleased at the lordly permission of her irritating parent, and set about her preparations straightway. It was now July, and after a conversation with Rupert, it was decided that the Rev. Simon Leigh should make them man and wife toward the end of August. And Dorinda confessed to her future husband, that she would be glad to escape from the constant society of her father, who of late had been unusually trying. On his side, Rupert was extremely glad to get the dearest girl in the world all to himself. So the important matter was settled, and Hendle returned to The Big House very contented with the world in general and with himself in particular.
In his delight he called in Mrs. Beatson to the library to inform her of his intended change of life, although he rather dreaded the woeful looks and sad words with which she would receive his communication. Mrs. Beatson made her appearance, looking more like a Christian martyr than ever, but assumed her most gracious and lady-like manner to hear what her young master had to say. She greatly resembled that painfully well-bred gentlewoman, Mrs. Sparsit, in Dickens' story, and, like her, was a housekeeper very much against her will.
"Wish me joy, Mrs. Beatson," said Rupert gaily, when the martyr made her sour appearance. "I am going to be married."
"So I have understood for two years, Mr. Hendle."
"Quite so. I have been engaged to Miss Mallien for quite that time. But we are to be married toward the end of next month."
"Indeed!" Mrs. Beatson looked dismayed. "Isn't that rather sudden?"
"Sudden!" Rupert swung round his chair and looked puzzled. "How can it be sudden after my being engaged for twenty-four months?"
"I only mean, Mr. Hendle, that I should have thought it necessary for you to consider the matter carefully for six months before fixing the day. Marriage, Mr. Hendle, is a serious matter."
"It is a very delightful matter, Mrs. Beatson, considering who the lady is."
"Ah!" Mrs. Beatson crossed her hands and cast up her eyes with a melancholy expression, "so we all say until we are married. I suppose, Mr. Hendle, you intend to give me notice?"
"Indeed, I intend to give you nothing of the sort," said Rupert bluffly. "All the difference will be that my wife will give you orders instead of me."
Mrs. Beatson looked as though this would make a very great difference indeed, as she much preferred to have a master than a mistress. All the same, she looked relieved when she learned that her situation was not in danger. "I am glad to stay on, Mr. Hendle," she said, with the air of making a concession. "I look on The Big House as in some sense my home."
"That's all right. Continue to look upon it as your home, until Kit marries Miss Tollart and you go to live with them."
"Pardon me, Mr. Hendle," said Mrs. Beatson with icy scorn; "but you little know my nature when you suggest such a thing. I don't approve of Sophy Tollart, whose views regarding our sex are anything but pacific. Besides, young people rarely take the advice of those who are older and wiser than they are; consequently, it is best for them to live by themselves. Would you like Mr. Mallien to dwell at The Big House when you wed with his daughter?"
"Good Lord, no," replied Hendle hastily. "It is the last thing either I or Miss Mallien would desire. We can manage our own affairs."
"So you think, Mr. Hendle; but the mistakes you will make will be endless."
"Nonsense, I am not a fool, and Miss Mallien has plenty of good sense."
"Sense isn't experience," lamented Mrs. Beatson, shaking her head and smiling in a most dreary manner. "However, I am no prophetess of evil, and wish you and Miss Mallien well. But mistakes you will make, say what you will, and sorrow will come to you as it comes to all."
"There! There! Don't croak any more, Mrs. Beatson."
"Me croak," repeated the lady in surprise. "Why, I am trying to look on the bright side of things, for whatever you may say there is always a black side."
"Well, well," observed Rupert testily, for her words and manner irritated his usually steady nerves. "We'll wait and see what happens. Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you, is a very good proverb."
"I annoy you by speaking the truth," remarked the good lady with a superior smile. "Ah, that is always the way with the young, sir. However, you have only to say the word and I go."
"I don't want you to go."
"You may not, Mr. Hendle, but Miss Mallien will."
"Not at all. She is quite willing that you should stay."
"So she says, but I have my doubts;" and Mrs. Beatson groaned, being quite sure in her own mind that Dorinda wished to turn her out to die by the wayside. "However, this is a world of sorrow, and when I am starved to death, perhaps you may be sorry for your harsh treatment."
"Wait until the harsh treatment takes place," retorted Rupert, who would have liked to shake her into common sense. "Meanwhile, I have told you of my intention to get married next month."
"There's many a slip between the cup and the lip," said Mrs. Beatson, mysteriously; "but the less talked about is the soonest forgotten." After which cryptic speech she drifted toward the door, as if her legs were taking her in a direction contrary to that expressed by her will. "The Rev. Mr. Leigh is in the Muniment Room, Mr. Hendle," she said, pausing on the threshold, "and expressed a wish to see you."
"You might ask him to stay to dinner," said Rupert, glancing at his watch.
Mrs. Beatson departed firmly convinced that her master really intended to dismiss her and had only broken the ice with his information about the marriage, so that she might be prepared to be turned out to die. With this in her mind, she hovered uneasily about the dining-room and drawing-room both before and after dinner, in the hope of catching some stray word, which might reveal Rupert's expected treachery.
Meanwhile Rupert, after a hearty laugh at Mrs. Beatson's cheerful manner of looking at the future, went upstairs to dress for dinner.
"Hang Mrs. Beatson," he thought, when he descended to the drawing-room. "I do wish she would keep her dismals to herself. She's about as cheerful as tombs, and not at all the person to have in the house of a young married couple," and from this mental speech it may be guessed that the dreary old lady was within an ace of being dismissed, as she dreaded, although such an idea had never entered her master's mind until she began her wailing.
Mr. Leigh, who had brushed and washed at Mrs. Beatson's request, for he was dusty and grimy after his work in the Muniment Room, was wandering about the big drawing-room, peering at pictures and statues and old silver through his pince-nez. He turned to greet Rupert in his usual mild absent-minded way, when the young Squire, smartly groomed and eminently handsome, entered.
"Quite Greek," murmured the vicar, balancing himself on his toes and with his hands behind his back. "I must say that your looks are in your favor, Rupert. For the well-being of the race you should marry and beget children."
"Well, I am going to," said Hendle, used to the vicar's eccentric speeches. "I make Dorinda my wife next month."
"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Leigh alertly. "Dorinda is a very desirable damsel. I hope you will be happy."
"You seem to have your doubts, from the tone you use," remarked Rupert dryly.
Mr. Leigh shook his head. "Life has its troubles," he observed sententiously.
"For heaven's sake, vicar, don't croak. I have had enough of that from Mrs. Beatson," a remark which the housekeeper, hovering outside the door, overheard and registered in her mind as a bad omen for her future continuance at The Big House. "I beg your pardon," went on the Squire, rather ashamed of his momentary irritability, "but I do wish people would look on marriage as marriage and not as a funeral."
"Of course, of course," ruminated Mr. Leigh. "One is always sure of a funeral, though not of a marriage."
"Vicar!" burst out the young man, much vexed at this persistent lamentation, "you are--well." He linked his arm in that of Mr. Leigh, knowing it was useless to argue, "you are hungry and there's the gong."
"Am I hungry?" Mr. Leigh asked, when he was being conducted into the dining-room. "Really I believe I am. For three or four hours I have been busy in the Muniment Room."
"I wonder you don't grow tired of fumbling amongst those dusty parchments."
"No! No! No! They are most interesting. Yet," went on the vicar, as he spread his napkin across his spare knees. "I may have to postpone my history of Barship Parish after all--until I return from Yucatan, that is."
"Yucatan!" Rupert nodded to the butler that he should fill Mr. Leigh's glass with sherry, for the vicar was too absent-minded to give the order. "Where is Yucatan?"
Mr. Leigh devoted his attention to the soup, and then looked up dreamily. "Yucatan," he repeated. "Dear me, Rupert, your geographical knowledge is limited."
"I never was a particularly good scholar," said the squire apologetically, "and Yucatan is some out-of-the-way place, I take it."
"It is in Central America, and is concerned with the Maya civilization."
"Oh, now I know what you are talking about. You refer to that diary of old Frank Mallien, which his son has. Dorinda told me that you went occasionally to see it at my cousin's cottage."
"Yes," said Mr. Leigh, more wide awake than usual; "and, although I have been many times for the last year, Mallien always tells me over again that it is his father's manuscript when he explored Central America. He thinks that I am wanting in common sense, I fancy. But I let him talk on rudely, as he does talk, Rupert. After all, the diary is so interesting, that Mallien's brusque manners are well worth putting up with for the sake of my acquiring the information it contains."
"What does it contain?" asked Rupert, more for the sake of promoting conversation than because he cared.
"An account of a dead and gone civilization," said the vicar in a dreamy tone, and scarcely knowing that fish had been placed before him. "Tombs, cities, stone carvings and manuscripts, deposited with mummies. Yes, there certainly must have been some communication between Yucatan and Egypt. Le Plongue says--dear me, I forget what he does say. However, I can see into the matter for myself when I go there."
"Go to Yucatan--to Central America," said Hendle staring. "Why, at your age, it is dangerous to attempt such an expedition."
Mr. Leigh only caught the last word. "Expedition! Yes! It will be costly, as Mallien, in his rude way, observed. But I have arranged how to get the money, Rupert. A thousand pounds--perhaps more. Really I am not sure what it will cost. But we can arrange the sum later."
"We?" Rupert stared harder than ever.
"You and I," said Leigh placidly. "After all, I am glad you have the money and not Mallien, as you are more likely to do what I want than he is. A dour man, grasping and avaricious."
Rupert glanced at the butler and the footman. "I don't quite understand," he said, in a puzzled way. "Perhaps you will explain."
In his turn Leigh, following Hendle's eyes, glanced at the servants. "When we are alone I can tell you all about it over our coffee."
More bewildered than ever and, in a vague way, sensing danger, Rupert would have asked for an explanation. But the servants being present, he decided to wait until he was alone with his erratic friend. Therefore the conversation passed on to other subjects connected with Mr. Leigh's discoveries in the Muniment Room, of various documents connected with the behavior of dead and buried Hendles toward the parish. Rupert said very little. What with Mrs. Beatson's gloom and the vicar's cryptic utterances, he felt as though some storm were approaching, and was anxious for the meal to end, so that he could go to the root of the matter. All the same, he laughed at himself for entertaining such a wild fancy. There was no quarter of the heavens from which any storm, big or little, could blow, as all was serene and bright. And, as Hendle happened to be one of those very material persons who only believe in what can be seen, heard or touched, he scouted the idea of any premonition heralding any possible evil. Yet the premonition was in his consciousness sure enough, and the young man, prosaic as ever, put it down to indigestion. A weaker explanation considering his splendid health can scarcely be imagined.
When the dinner was over, Mr. Leigh, who had contented himself with a single glass of port wine to round off the entertainment, rose more briskly than usual, and announced his wish to go.
"You must not mind my speedy departure, Rupert," he said, slipping his pince-nez into his waistcoat pocket; "but I have much work to do in connection with my proposed expedition. I hope Titus Ark is waiting to accompany me home. I told him to call for me about half-past six."
"Ark is waiting in the kitchen," said Rupert, after a quiet word with the pompous butler. "He came at six and has stayed on. There is no hurry for you to go, Mr. Leigh. Remember you have something to tell me," and Hendle, taking the old man's arm, led him gently but firmly into the drawing room.
"Something to tell you," repeated the vicar puzzled; then suddenly his face cleared. "Oh, dear me, yes; how fortunate you reminded me, Rupert. It has to do with John Hendle."
"John Hendle. Do you mean my great-great-grandfather----"
"Who died in the Waterloo year. Yes, I do. When we are alone,"--Mr. Leigh broke off and glanced meaningly at the footman who was bringing in the coffee. "It is lucky you reminded me," he ended aimlessly, "very lucky. My expedition, ah yes, this hangs on that and that on this."
"What on earth are you talking about?" questioned Hendle, much vexed at all this unnecessary mystery. "Sit down and drink your coffee and tell me all about it. You don't smoke, I know, but I shall."
"Certainly, certainly," murmured Leigh vaguely, "of course, your marriage with your cousin will bring together the two branches of the family. That, in the long run, will put things right."
"Put what things right?"
"Money matters."
Hendle echoed the word and stared. "I wish you would talk plainly," he said, with some irritation.
"Oh, certainly. I am rather apt to wander in worldly matters." Leigh cleared his throat and sat up briskly with all his wits about him for once in his dreamy life. "Mallien is descended from Walter Hendle, and you from Frederick Hendle, their father John being your common ancestor."
"Yes, that is so. But Mallien descends through the female line, although he is the elder branch of the family."
"There is no entail?"
"No. If there was, it would be in my favor, as I descend through the male heirs. But what does all this mean?"
"I shall tell you if you will allow me to collect my thoughts. While searching in the Muniment Room, Rupert, I came across letters of John Hendle, which show that he loved his elder son Walter and greatly disliked his younger son Frederick. Walter was a brave man, who fought for his country and who died at Waterloo. Frederick, as the letters say, was a scamp--what in those days was known as a blood. Reckless, extravagant and evil, he alienated his father's affections, and John Hendle desired to disinherit him."
"It is the first time I have heard of Frederick's iniquity," said Rupert with a shrug, "and I see little use in raking up the evil done by a man who lived about one hundred years ago."
Leigh took no notice of this observation. "John desired that his granddaughter Eunice, the child of his favorite son Walter, should inherit. As the property was entirely at his own disposal, he made a will in her favor."
Rupert jumped up so suddenly that he upset his coffee. "What?"
"Pray don't act in so excitable a manner, Rupert," protested the vicar, raising his thin hand. "You irritate my nerves."
"But--but--what you say--oh, it's absurd," stammered the Squire. "There was never any question about Frederick's inheriting the property. I don't know much about the matter, as the thing didn't interest me. But, if Frederick inherited wrongly, surely the question would have been raised before."
"How could it be when the will in favor of Eunice was missing?"
"Missing?"
"Yes. John made the will and apparently died suddenly before he could make it public. I found it," said Mr. Leigh slowly, "in the chest."
"In the Muniment Room?"
"Yes. It is a will drawn up quite legally on parchment as was the case in those days, although I don't think wills are drawn up now on----"
"Oh, never mind these minor points," broke in Rupert hastily. "You say that you found a will, made by John Hendle, leaving the property to Eunice, from whom my cousin Mallien is descended?"
"I did. Some weeks ago I came across the document. But I did not say anything until I ascertained for myself as to which of you two was the right person to have the money. I am inclined to think that you had better keep it, Rupert, since Mallien is so avaricious, and will not help anyone--not even me, when I desire money for my expedition to forward the cause of science."
"If this will is in order," said Rupert, rising to pace the long room, and feeling painfully agitated. "Mallien should have the property."
"I fear so; I fear so," murmured the vicar uncomfortably. "The same leaves the property unreservedly to his grandmother Eunice. I have not told Mallien, who would undoubtedly contest your right to the estates, as I do not consider him a fit and proper person to have much money."
"Right is right," said Hendle, whose face was pale and whose lips were dry. "If Mallien is the rightful heir, he must be placed in possession. But all this may be a mistake on your part. Where is the will?"
Mr. Leigh looked nervous and distressed. "Dear me, Rupert, I am afraid I have mislaid it. I took it home to study it at my convenience, so as to make sure that it really gave the property to Eunice. I did examine it, and became quite positive that Mallien is the rightful heir. Then, somehow--you know how absent-minded I am--I laid it aside and since have not been able to find it. I have searched without result."
"You should have given it to me at once," said Hendle, severely.
"But, my dear boy, I had your interest at heart," protested the vicar, wiping his forehead. "I know how quixotic you are, and guessed that you would give the property to Mallien without demur, if the will was correct, which I fear it is. For your own sake I took time to consider the discovery I had made."
"You must find the will at once," commanded Rupert manfully, "and it must be submitted to the lawyers. If Mallien is the heir, Mallien gets the money."
Mr. Leigh rose, much agitated. "I don't think he should get it, Rupert. He is a greedy man, who would only hoard up gold and make a bad use of newly acquired wealth. I tell you he declined to help me to fit out my expedition. I know you will, so you ought to keep the money."
"How can you advise me to be so dishonest," cried the Squire, indignantly, "you who are a clergyman of the Church of England?"
"I have the greater sense of right from being so," rejoined the vicar, quite tartly for so amiable a man. "And when I remember that you and yours have enjoyed the property for one hundred years, it seems ridiculous to hand it over to another man."
"Who belongs to the elder branch, remember," said Rupert swiftly. "And who is, according to your reading of this newly discovered will, the rightful heir." He took a turn up and down the room, then stopped to face the vicar who was fidgeting on the hearth rug. "You must turn your house upside down to find the will, Mr. Leigh, and it must be handed over to our family lawyers, so that Mallien may be placed in possession of the property forthwith."
"Rupert, I implore you not to act hastily or foolishly. Say nothing about this belated testament, which will do Mallien more harm than good considering his greedy and misanthropic nature. I will look for it and will give it to you. Throw it into the chest again."
"No! no! no! I would never have a moment's peace if I did that. I know that Mallien is not the man to have too much money, but I can't help that. If he is the rightful heir, he must enter into his kingdom. Besides, if I marry Dorinda, the property will come back to me, representing the younger branch."
"If Mallien gets the property," said Mr. Leigh deliberately, "he will not allow you to marry Dorinda."
"I can trust her," said Rupert curtly.
"Quite so. But you will have no money to marry her, and Mallien will cut her off with a shilling. He is quite capable of doing so."
Hendle knew this well enough and reflected for a few moments. "Say nothing to Mallien or to anyone," he remarked finally, "until you find the will and we can look over it together."
"Oh, I shall certainly hold my tongue," said the vicar quickly. "Believe me, it is only my esteem for you which makes me urge you not to notice the will. Sleep on the question, Rupert, for the morning is wiser than the night. This matter will remain strictly between ourselves. Now good night; good night."
Hendle shook hands, not objecting to the vicar's abrupt departure, and when alone groaned over the unexpected fulfilment of his premonition.