Here was a pretty kettle of fish. Hitherto, Rupert had led an easy life, wholly devoid of any great trouble. His mother having died when he was born, and his father while the lad was at school, Hendle had never been brought face to face with any heartbreaking sorrow. But, with the advent of Carrington, as a species of stormy petrel, had come one woe after another. In a remarkably short space of time, Rupert found himself in danger of losing his property, his position, his promised wife, and even his good name, if not his liberty and life. Should the will be found, and should it prove to be legal, Mallien, without the least compunction, would ascend the local throne as the new Squire of Barship, with an income of four thousand a year. And, in that event, there would be every chance that the marriage with Dorinda would never take place. Her father, having all he wanted, would never agree to the match, and, even if the girl remained true--as he knew very well she would--how could he ask her to marry one reduced to the position of a pauper? These things alone were sufficient to drive an ordinary man crazy; but the possibility of being arrested for a crime he had not committed, made Hendle feel that the burden was too great to be borne. He returned to The Big House with his mind in a turmoil, and his head aching with anxious thought.
Aware that Mrs. Beatson had acted treacherously, Rupert's first idea was to call her in and dismiss her straightway with a month's wages. But, on second thoughts, he decided to do nothing until he had consulted with Carrington. Certainly, the barrister, by refusing to help as a friend, had shown himself almost as greedy of gain as Mallien; but Hendle decided that the prospect of a fat fee would make the man more alert to earn it. Carrington, when all was said and done, had a shrewd brain and a great deal of experience connected with the seamy side of life, so he was just the man to handle the problems Fate had so unexpectedly given Rupert to solve. Mallien did not like Carrington, and if Mallien secured the property, Carrington would not even get his costs for taking up the case. Therefore, both as a professional man and as Hendle's friend, the barrister had every reason to work on the side of the Squire. What he would advise in the matter of Mrs. Beatson and her eavesdropping Rupert did not know; but he thought it would be just as well to see what he said. With this idea the Squire made no difference toward his treacherous housekeeper, and concealed his feelings so well that Mrs. Beatson had no idea that her batteries had been unmasked. All the same Hendle saw as little of her as possible, and, beyond giving her necessary orders, did not speak to her.
It must be noted that Mallien's estimate of Mrs. Beatson's brain was a perfectly correct one. She did not in any way connect the conversation about the missing will with the death of the vicar. All she knew was that Mr. Leigh had found an ancient testament which would probably transfer the property to Mallien, as the descendant of John Hendle's granddaughter; and, for this reason, she worshipped the rising sun. Had she guessed that there was any doubt about the legality of the will, or any danger of its not being found, she would have held her tongue until such time as she saw on what side it was best to range herself. But, in the conversation she had overheard, Leigh had seemed so certain that Rupert would lose the property and as certain that his cousin would get it, that Mrs. Beatson had lost no time in reporting the position. Mallien's conduct had justified her action, for he had promised her an annuity whenever he came into his own. And, to gain a certain income, the housekeeper was quite willing to see her kind-hearted young master driven as a pauper from his house.
Some natures are so strangely constituted that they resent kindness, and the more benefactions they receive, the more do they hate the person who bestows them. Mrs. Beatson was a woman of this class, and all Hendle's consideration for many years had only increased the dislike she had felt when she first set eyes on him. Moreover, she detested Dorinda for her beauty and sweetness, and for the certain happiness which the marriage with Rupert would surely give her. Mrs. Beatson knew enough of the girl's unsophisticated nature to be sure that no amount of money would make up to her for the loss of her promised husband. She did not like Dorinda getting a fortune through her father, but that could not be helped, and, after all, the breaking of the engagement would assuredly prevent the girl from enjoying the same. Therefore, the good lady smiled comfortably to herself as she went about her duties, and rejoiced to think, as she put it, in quite a Biblical way, that the pride of the young couple would soon be brought low. She might not have rejoiced so prematurely had she guessed the contents of the after-dinner letter which her master wrote. But she did not and gloried in her fool's paradise. Dorinda would be made miserable; Hendle would be made a pauper; and she, who had brought about these things, would retire on an annuity of two hundred a year for her services, as she thought that Mallien could not possibly give her less.
Meanwhile, after a meal to which he gave little attention, Hendle retired to the snug little library of The Big House and sat down to his desk. After a few moments of reflection, he wrote a long and exhaustive letter to Carrington, setting forth what had taken place in the study of the late vicar. He pointed out that what the barrister had conjectured had actually come to pass, for Mallien, in possession of the secret, now deliberately accused him of the crime. Rupert added that he had been given a week to think over things, and then asked whether it would not be well to dismiss Mrs. Beatson at once, lest she should act in a further treacherous manner. Finally, the young man ended with inviting Carrington to come down and stay at The Big House until everything was put straight, hinting that any fee Carrington liked to demand would be given to him for his services. In a postscript, Rupert significantly added that if Mallien got the property, Carrington would either receive less remuneration, or none at all. Therefore, and this was the end of the letter--it remained for Carrington to say whether he would give his services on these doubtful terms. Having placed the position before the barrister thus fairly and squarely, Hendle slipped the epistle into an envelope, addressed and sealed it, and sent a special messenger to post it in the village. Afterward, as there was no more to be done, he lighted his pipe, and, sitting in one chair with his feet on another, he began to read the morning paper, which he had not yet glanced at, so deeply had he been involved in the direction of his own affairs.
But the young man's brain declined to interest itself in public doings and, before he knew where he was, Rupert found himself thinking of what had happened in connection with Dorinda. Laying the newspaper on his knee, and placing his hands behind his head, he leaned back to think what was best to be done. He sorely needed a sympathetic soul to converse with, and there was no one so fitted to help him as Dorinda. Carrington's request for a fee had placed him in the position of a business man rather than in that of a friend, so there was nothing to be gained in that quarter. But Dorinda always understood and always gave good advice, and always soothed his feelings. Hendle longed for her looks, and touch and words so much, that he very nearly decided to cross the park and visit the cottage. But two considerations caused him to alter his mind, one was that Mallien, now openly hostile, would be present at the interview; the other was, that he could not speak straightly to the girl, seeing that her father had so much to do with the matter. Dorinda knew that her parent was what is known as a hard case, and had not much respect or affection for him, since he did not deserve the first, nor demand the last. All the same, it was impossible, as Hendle felt, for him to tell the girl frankly that her father was little more than a blackmailer. With such a delicate perception of what was right and just as Rupert possessed, such a course of action was not to be thought of, so he subsided again into his chair, whence he had risen, and determined to carry his heavy burden all by himself. And, considering that the young man had no experience of burdens, he carried it well and bravely.
Then Fate, who had interfered so much in his affairs that matters had been brought to this pass, interfered again with a kinder motive. Just as Rupert was wondering how he was to get through the long night without receiving human sympathy, there was a tapping at the right-hand window of the room, which brought him to his feet. In the stillness of the library, the sound was so unexpected and imperative that even Hendle's steady nerves were unstrung for the moment. With an effort he pulled himself together, and went to the window to lift it and see who had made the signal. Through the glass he saw Dorinda standing on the terrace in the luminous summer night, and she nodded smilingly to him when he lifted the sash.
"Why didn't you go to the door?" asked Rupert, leaning out, and more astonished by her unexpected appearance than he would admit.
"I don't want that prying Mrs. Beatson to see me," replied Miss Mallien, advancing toward the window, the sill of which was so low that she could very easily step over it. "I don't want her to know that I am here. Help me in, Rupert. No!" she suddenly stepped back. "Better come out and join me in the garden. I have much to say to you, and I don't want to risk Mrs. Beatson listening at the door."
"You never did like her," said Hendle, vaulting through the open window onto the terrace. "But why do you suspect her of eavesdropping?"
"My father has told me what she told him," rejoined the girl calmly. "It is for that reason that I have come over."
Rupert took her arm, and they descended the shallow steps to the second terrace, and then gained the lawn, which was dry and warm to the feet. For a few minutes the Squire said nothing, but guided her down a narrow path, which wound deviously to a kind of glade, wherein stood an ancient sundial. Near this and against a dense shrubbery stood a low marble seat on which he placed the girl. Then he sat down beside her and, still remaining silent, strove to collect his scattered thoughts. Dorinda did not hurry him into speech by making any further observation. She had said all that was necessary, and the next remark must be made by her lover. So the two sat quietly under the calm beauty of the stars, breathing the cool fragrance of the night, and the myriad odors of the dreaming flowers. There was no moon, yet the light of the dying day, which still lingered, revealed the garden in a kind of warm twilight. It was such an evening as would have inspired Romeo to venture into the magical garden of Juliet; and love-talk was the only language fitted for such an hour and scene. Yet the stern necessities of the hour demanded that this bachelor and maid should talk on more prosaic matters. A sad waste of time and opportunity, to be sure, as both regretfully thought; but there was no help for it, if future peace was to be insured. Only by the two solving the problems which Fate had set, could happiness come.
"I am sorry that your father told you," said Rupert at last.
"Why?" Dorinda turned her thoughtful face toward him, and saw his white shirt-front glimmer in the half-light.
"Because I did not intend to tell you myself."
"Why?" she asked again, and very calmly--even wonderingly.
"Is there any need to worry you?" fenced the young man evasively.
"If you are worried, as you are, it is only fair that I should be worried also, which I am. We are not yet married, dear; all the same, we are as perfectly of one mind as any two people can be. And, if I am to be your wife, I must naturally share your burdens; it is easier for two to bear them than one. You understand?"
Hendle took her hand, which lay lightly on her lap, and pressed it in token of thanks. "I understand that you are a staunch and true woman," he said, in a soft voice, "how you came to have such a father----?"
"Oh, don't let us speak of him," interrupted Dorinda impatiently.
"My dear, we must speak of him, as he is part and parcel of the affairs which we must discuss. Yet, had he not spoken to you, I should have held my peace, although I was sorely tempted to come to you for sympathy no later than a few minutes before you tapped at the window."
"I knew, from what my father said, that you were in trouble, Rupert, and I felt that you needed me. For that reason I flung a cloak over my dinner-dress and came on here. Mrs. Beatson would be very shocked if she knew that I was sitting alone with you in the garden in this hour."
"Mrs. Beatson is the kind of woman who would be shocked, however innocent the thing that startled her might be. So your father told you of our interview in Leigh's study?"
"Yes. That is, he told me about the missing will, and how Mrs. Beatson overheard what poor Mr. Leigh had to say on the matter."
"What else did he tell you?" asked Hendle anxiously.
"My dear," Dorinda's eyes opened widely, "what else was there to tell?"
"Hum!" murmured the Squire doubtfully. "Your father let out just as much as suited him. Let us talk of what he did tell you to begin with; afterward, we can talk of what he did not tell you. Yet"--Rupert tugged at his moustache nervously--"I am not quite sure if I should speak frankly."
"I am," retorted Dorinda, giving his hand a squeeze, "if I am to help you, I must know everything."
"I don't feel quite certain if that is playing the game."
"Is my father playing the game?" questioned the girl, with a shrug.
"No," answered Rupert decidedly, "he isn't. And it is that which makes it so hard for me to be frank. After all, your father is your father, dear, and I have no right to say anything which will lower him in your esteem."
Dorinda laughed rather sadly. "Dear, I have no illusions left about my father," she said, in a low tone, "he has never been a father to me, as you know very well. I have tried my best to respect and love him, but his actions and life are such that I can do neither. Be as open with me as you can, Rupert, for you know that my father will not spare either of us where his own feelings are at stake. Therefore, it only seems fair to me that we should not spare him, more than is necessary, on account of my unfortunate relationship to him."
"Do you really think so, Dorinda?"
"Yes, I do. If my father deserved filial affection, he should have it. But, as he has made no attempt to secure it, how can I give it to him? And remember, you are to be my husband and your interests are mine, even though my father's selfish desires intervene. You have the greatest claim on me."
Rupert heaved a sigh of relief. "I am so glad to hear you say that," he remarked thankfully, "for I badly need some one who can help me and sympathize with me. I thought Carrington would prove to be a pal, but, like everyone else, he is eaten up with greed for money."
"What makes you say that?"
"He said that he would only help me on condition that I paid him."
"Ah-r-r-r," said Dorinda, much disgusted. "I told you that I did not like him, Rupert. He is a bad man."
"Oh, not so bad as that, dear. A little greedy perhaps, but not wholly bad."
"He is a bad man," repeated Dorinda, obstinately. "As my father said, long ago, all he wants is to get money out of you."
"As your father does," said Rupert dryly.
Dorinda looked down at her white shoes and placed them both together before she answered. "I have told you my opinion of my father," she said with a sigh, "so what is the use of going over old ground. But time is passing, Rupert, and there is much to say. I wish to go home soon, lest my father should find out that I have come here. I left him busy in his study with his jewels, so we are safe for half an hour, at least. Come now, what took place in the Vicarage library?"
"What did your father tell you?"
"He said that Mrs. Beatson told him about the will found by Mr. Leigh, and how Mr. Leigh had mislaid it. The will, he declared, left the Hendle property to him entirely."
"I have not yet seen the will," answered Rupert, cautiously, "and, beyond Leigh's word, I don't even know that it exists. But he maintained that it did, as he came across it in the Muniment Room, and took it to the Vicarage to look into. Then he lost it, or mislaid it somehow. As I have access to his papers, as executor, I am trying to find it."
"Does it leave the property to my father?"
"Not directly, I understand," admitted Rupert, quietly, "but Leigh explained that John Hendle, from whom we are both descended, dear, hated his younger son Frederick, who inherited, and loved his son Walter, who was killed at the Battle of Waterloo. In the year when that battle was fought, he made this will, leaving the Hendle property to Walter's daughter, and cutting off Frederick, who represented the younger branch."
"Eunice Hendle was the daughter, my father said."
"Yes. She afterward became Eunice Filbert, as she married a man of that name," explained Rupert laboriously. "Her daughter, Anne Filbert, married Frank Mallien, your father's parent, so, if the will proves to be legal, your father will certainly get the property through his descent on the distaff side."
"And you?" asked Dorinda, apprehensively.
Rupert rested his elbows on his knees, linked his hands loosely together, and looked down at the shadowy turf of the lawn. "I shall lose everything," he stated calmly. "I descend in the male line from Frederick through Henry Hendle and Charles Hendle. And, as Frederick was cut off by his father in favor of Walter's child, Eunice, I am an interloper and a fraud. If this will is found, and can be proved to be legal, Dorinda, I shall not have a penny. As things stand, your father is better off with his five hundred a year than I shall be. It is a very unpleasant position, as it stops our marriage."
"Oh, does it?" cried Dorinda, flaming up, "in what way?"
"Well, in the first place, your father would never agree to your marrying a pauper, and in the second the pauper could scarcely ask you to share his nothing a year."
"Darling,"--Dorinda drew closer to her lover and laid her cheek against his--"I will marry no one but you. I don't care what my father says."
"It is not of your father that I am thinking of, but of my honor," rejoined Rupert, slipping his arm round her waist and holding her tightly to him. "If we got married, how could I support you? I have no trade, and no profession, so the only thing that I could do to keep body and soul together is to enlist. I might emigrate certainly, but then your life as my wife would be as hard and impossible in the backwoods as it would be if you followed the drum along with me."
Dorinda sighed. "You take a very prosaic view of the position."
"In justice to you I must take a prosaic view. Romance is all very well, but without money romance means trouble and sordid cares."
"Yes," sighed the girl again; then added, after a pause. "And if the will is not found?"
"I shall keep my own," answered Rupert firmly. "It's no use my being a silly fool, and giving up what isn't proved not to be mine. But I am looking for the will, Dorinda, and if it comes to light, I shall hand it over to the family lawyers to be adjusted. And, of course, you may be certain that I shall take advantage of everything likely to prevent my losing The Big House and the income."
"That is quite right," said Dorinda, in a tone of satisfaction, patting her lover's hand consolingly. "I daresay my father will fight, but if you have right on your side, you will be sure to win. Money would do my father no good, as he would only waste it in collecting jewels, whereas you make good use of your income. After all the will may not exist. Mr. Leigh may have dreamed that there was such a document."
"He seemed to be very positive that it did exist, dear," said Rupert, with a shrug, "and, although Leigh was a bit of a dreamer, I don't think he would have or could have made up such a fairy tale as this. For my part, I believe that thereissuch a testament, and that it will come to light sooner or later. I shall make use of the Statute of Limitations, and of any flaw in the will to keep the property, but if everything is legal and shipshape, I shall hand over what I have to your father. As an honest man I can do no less."
"It's very hard on you, dear."
"It is," admitted Rupert quietly; "but I may have to bear harder things."
Dorinda stared. "I don't see anything harder to bear."
"The loss of liberty and, perhaps, of life----"
"Rupert, what are you talking about?"
"Ah!" Rupert rose and stretched himself. "Your father did not tell you all that we spoke about in the Vicarage study. You don't know what he proposes to do, Dorinda, and I don't know if I ought to tell you."
"You must! you must!" She sprang up and laid her two hands on his shoulders with a grasp of which he did not think she was capable. "I share all your troubles--all your sorrows, all--all."
Hendle caught her hands, and holding them to his heart looked into her eyes dimly seen in the light. "Your father declares that I murdered Leigh to get the will," he said quietly; "don't scream."
"I am not going to scream," replied Dorinda, looking aside and speaking rather rapidly. "What on earth makes my father say such a ridiculous thing? On the face of it, such an accusation is absurd."
"Your father doesn't seem to think so, dear. And if Inspector Lawson learned what was at stake with regard to this will, he would not think so either. Remember that I had every reason to steal it, even at the cost of a life."
"What rubbish," declared the girl, vehemently. "You would never, never, never----"
"No," said Rupert positively, and his heart leaped when she defended him. "I would never save my property at the cost of a crime, however small or however necessary. You know, Dorinda, that I would let everything go rather than lose my honor and my good name. Your father thinks otherwise, so he is determined to get my money and my position, and my good name into the bargain."
"I can't believe it, I can't! I can't!" gasped the girl, overwhelmed. "My father may be selfish, but he wouldn't surely----"
"But he has. He accuses me of committing the crime, and has given me one week to think over the matter. If I come to his terms, he will shut up Mrs. Beatson's possible chatter and will hold his own tongue."
"Did he offer you safety on those terms?"
"He did, and I refused them."
Dorinda flung her arms round his neck and her lips sought his. "I knew you would; I knew you would. Oh! don't say anything more, Rupert. I am glad you told me, as I now know where I stand--where you stand. We have a week to think over things, and in that week much may happen. God will never permit such an injustice. Cheer up, dearest"--she kissed him again--"it will all come out right; it will all come out right."
"I hope so," said Rupert, doubtfully, and adjusting the cloak on her shoulders. "But what will you say to your father?"
"I don't know, I can't say, I must think. Meanwhile, see me home, Rupert."
Thus abruptly she ended the interview, and the Squire escorted her to within sight of the cottage. But he did not enter.
The details given by Rupert of the conversation which had taken place in the Vicarage study shocked Dorinda profoundly. It was natural enough that her father, informed of an existing will which would give him an estate, should try and gain possession of it, so as to secure what he believed to be his rights. Dorinda did not blame him for taking up so reasonable a position; but she was horrified to think that he should accuse an innocent man of committing the crime. It was wholly impossible that Mallien could believe Rupert to be guilty. He had known the Squire intimately for twenty-five and more years, therefore he was well aware how strictly honorable Rupert was in every way. Moreover, Hendle had always treated his cousin with consistent kindness, having again and again given him sums of money, large and small, which had never been repaid. Even if Rupert were guilty, it was cowardly of Mallien to threaten; but, seeing that Rupert was innocent--and Dorinda was well assured in her own mind that her father knew him to be so--the attack was cowardly in the extreme. If the girl had little affection for her father before, she had still less for him now.
What troubled her throughout the night was the question of speaking, or of not speaking, frankly to her father. He had withheld from her the more serious portion of his interview with Rupert, and Dorinda was strongly inclined, not only to intimate that she knew about the accusation, but to tell her father how strongly she disapproved of his conduct. More than this, she wished to state that she was on the side of her lover. Dorinda was straightforward herself; and greatly desired that Mallien should be straightforward also. To bring such rectitude into being, plain speaking was necessary. Yet the girl hesitated to broach the subject, knowing only too well her father's temper, his tricky nature and his unscrupulous greed. But at breakfast, her hesitation to make trouble was ended by Mallien himself, as he began to speak furiously the moment she laid her hand on the coffee-pot.
"This is a nice thing, Dorinda," he raged, without returning her morning greeting. "You went out last night and did not return until after nine; in fact, it was nearer ten. Don't deny it. You slipped out when I was busy in my study, but I came to ask you something and found you had gone out. What do you mean by such conduct?"
Dorinda lifted her eyebrows. "I am not aware that there is anything strange about my conduct. I have been out late before. I am quite capable of looking after myself, I assure you, father."
"I don't think so," retorted Mallien, bristling with anger; "and I don't like such underhand conduct."
"I never behave in an underhand way," returned Dorinda, her color rising and her eyes flashing. "You know that quite well."
"You slipped out last night and slipped in, without telling me."
"There was no need to tell you."
"There was. Don't contradict me. If your conduct was not underhand, why did you not come and say good-night to me in my study as usual?"
"Because I could not," said Dorinda coldly, and looking straight at her angry parent. "What Rupert told me about you disgusted me too much."
"Rupert!" Mallien rose and pushed back his chair noisily. "You went to see that--that--that scoundrel?"
Dorinda rose in her turn. "He is not a scoundrel."
"He is, I tell you, and I forbid you to see him again."
"As I am engaged to my cousin, I shall see him when and where I please," said the girl deliberately. "Don't try me too far, father, or you will be sorry for it. I am not in the best of tempers this morning."
"You--you--minx!" gasped the angry man, choking with rage. "How dare you address me in that way?"
"And how dare you accuse Rupert of murdering Mr. Leigh," she retorted boldly.
Mallien's wrath suddenly died away, and he dropped back into his chair with an uneasy look. "Who says that I accuse----"
"Rupert himself told me. I saw him last night, to hear what he had to say about this missing will, and he told me what you did not tell me."
"He's a mean hound to put my daughter against me!" shouted Mallien.
"Please"--Dorinda flung up her hand--"I am not deaf. Rupert did not wish to tell me. I made him speak out, as I saw that he was hiding something. If you were as honorable and scrupulous as Rupert, father, you would not need to get into these rages with me, as I don't deserve them. And it's no use your behaving in this way. I can hold my own, as you well know, and I intend to do so. We may as well understand one another."
"I am your father; you owe me respect."
"How can I give you what you don't deserve? Youaremy father, and God help me that I should have such a one."
"If you talk to me in this way," snarled Mallien, blustering, "I shall turn you out of doors neck and crop. What will you do then?"
"Marry Rupert," rejoined the girl promptly.
"A ruined man," sneered the other.
"He is not ruined yet; he never may be ruined. That will has yet to be found; it has yet to be proved legal, and you may be sure that Rupert will take all the advantage he can, to keep what he has."
"I see. You are fighting against your father."
"I fight on the side of right. If the property is yours, Rupert is willing to hand it over; if it is his, he has every right to keep it. But you have no right," cried Dorinda, striking the table passionately, "to accuse an innocent man of committing such a cowardly crime."
"You are talking nonsense," said Mallien, doggedly and folded his arms. "He is guilty."
"He is not. No one knows that better than you."
Mallien cringed at that last sentence, and his dark face grew strangely pale as he avoided his daughter's steady blue eyes. "I don't know why you should say that," he muttered.
"What else can I say when you have known Rupert for so many years?" was the passionate reply. "Has he ever behaved otherwise than honorably? Is he the man, father, to kill a weakling like poor Mr. Leigh, for money which he cares very little about? You know better."
Mallien recovered his self-possession during his daughter's speech and shook his shoulders as he laughed harshly. "I know that the will stands between Rupert and absolute poverty," he retorted obstinately; "and if a man has to make a choice----"
"A man like Rupert would chose poverty rather than crime," interrupted Dorinda imperiously. "What reason have you to believe that Rupert would do such a wicked thing?"
"My knowledge of human nature----"
"Oh, is that all?" There was an expression of relief in Dorinda's voice as she interrupted him again. "So your evidence is purely circumstantial?"
"Yes!" admitted Mallien sullenly, and feeling that Dorinda was too strong for him to deal with. "All the same, a very powerful case can be built up against the fellow. The will has disappeared in the nick of time, and Rupert had every reason to make it disappear."
"You seem to forget that no one but Mr. Leigh has seen the will," said Dorinda crisply; "it may not exist."
"It does exist," stormed Mallien violently, "and it leaves the property to me as the descendant of Eunice Filbert."
"That is what Mr. Leigh said, but he may have imagined the whole thing. He was always a dreamer, you know. Anyhow, father, I don't see much use in your threatening Rupert with shadows."
"I don't think that Inspector Lawson will think that they are shadows," said Mallien significantly.
"Don't you?" replied Dorinda, with a lightness which she was far from feeling. "Well, then, I do. Before the police can arrest Rupert, they must first prove that the document, for the sake of which the crime is supposed to have been committed, is in existence. Then they will have to prove that Rupert was at the Vicarage on the night, and at the time when Mr. Leigh was struck down. I don't think it will be easy to do what you say."
"I have no wish for Rupert to be arrested," said Mallien restlessly. "All he has to do is to give up the property and I'll hold my tongue."
"There is nothing for you to hold your tongue about," said Dorinda sharply, "as what you say is purely theoretical. As to the property, you certainly shall not have it unless the will is found and the property is proved to be yours. I am on Rupert's side, remember, and I shall do my best to make him hold on to his own."
"You go against your father?"
"Oh!" she cried impatiently, "you said that before, and I answered you. Yes, I do go against my father, and I have every reason to. I am not going to countenance a robbery which would give you money you are better without."
"Better without?" demanded Mallien indignantly. "What do you mean?"
"What I say," said Dorinda tartly. "Rupert makes good use of his fortune in helping the poor, and in keeping up the church. You would only waste it in buying jewels for your own satisfaction."
"I won't be spoken to like this."
"It is your own fault that I am so frank. If what I say doesn't please you, I can easily go to London to see my old schoolmistress and ask her to get me a position as a nursery governess."
"You wouldn't do that?"
"Yes, I would, and you know that I would. I should like to respect you and to love you, father, but I cannot. Your last action, in threatening to denounce an innocent man, widens the gulf between us. If you dare to go to Inspector Lawson, I shall go out as a governess until such time as Rupert is ready to marry me. Now you know exactly what I mean."
Mallien did know, and was well aware that she would act precisely as she declared she would. It was no use to storm and bluster and try to reduce her to tears, as Dorinda was not a tearful woman. She knew how to hold her own and intended to hold it. Mallien, having tried rage, was reduced to attempting pathos, which he did very badly. "My own daughter! my own daughter!" he murmured sadly. "It's heartbreaking."
"It's pretty uncomfortable, I grant you," answered Dorinda, with a queer smile, "for me as for you. But as you have made the position entirely yourself, I don't see what you have to complain of. But now that we understand one another, let us call a truce."
"Very good. I will overlook your unfilial behavior and try to forget this conversation. All the same," cried Mallien, blazing up again, "I intend to get my rights."
"Certainly. And if the will is found, you shall have them."
This was cold comfort to Mallien, who doubted if the will ever would be found. Leigh might have made a mistake, and there might be no will in existence, in which case, by making an enemy of Rupert, he would be worse off than he was at present. He thought that until the truth came to light, it would be just as well to temporize, and let things stand as they were. Therefore, as an outward sign of reconciliation, he dropped a cold kiss on his daughter's white brow, and retreated to his study. Dorinda, left alone in the little dining-room, had no desire to eat any breakfast, as the struggle to secure Rupert's safety had exhausted her greatly. She hastily drank a cup of coffee, then wrote a note to her lover, saying that he need not be afraid of the intervention of the police, and relating in detail the conversation just ended. Having sent this by hand to The Big House, the girl went about her daily duties, resolutely cheerful. Only by assuming a bold front could she combat the great trouble which threatened to overwhelm her and her lover. When the worst came to the worst, there would be time enough to think of further defense. But Dorinda believed that further defense would not be required.
Rupert was very well satisfied when he received Dorinda's note, as he had winced at the idea of Inspector Lawson intervening. He, of course, had been very certain that there was no chance of his being arrested, owing to the fact that the will could not be proved to exist. Still, Lawson was ambitious of promotion and obstinate in his own opinion, therefore, if Mallien had told his story, there might have been a chance of scandal. However, Dorinda having reduced her father to neutrality, the only thing that remained to do was to find the will. Rupert intended to search again among the papers at the Vicarage; but could not do so until the afternoon, as Carrington had sent a wire saying he would be down by the midday express. The Squire intended to meet him at the station, and talk to him on the way home, since he was anxious to know what was the best way to deal with the treacherous Mrs. Beatson. Knowing that she was a spy and an enemy, Rupert could hardly bear to see her about the house. However, he tolerated her presence until he heard what Carrington had to say.
By this time, all excitement had died out of the village, as the crime had been so thoroughly discussed that there was no more to be said about the matter. In their stolid bovine way, the rustics accepted the positive fact that their late spiritual adviser was dead and buried--accepted, also, the evident truth that the murderer would never be caught and punished. This being the case, they dismissed the past, and looked eagerly forward to the future when the new incumbent would arrive. It was reported that a vicar had already been appointed by the Bishop and that he had a family, and would make the Vicarage a much more lively place than it had been in Mr. Leigh's time. Oh, there was plenty to talk about andThe Hendle Armswas filled with conversational yokels from morning until evening.
On the way to the station, Rupert stumbled across Titus Ark, who grinned in a toothless manner, touched his shabby hat, and shuffled along in a manner surprisingly spry for a man of eighty-odd years of age. Hendle stopped to give him a sixpence for snuff, to which the ancient was much addicted.
"You miss Mr. Leigh, Titus," he said, pityingly, for the old man was a lonely figure in the midst of the new generation.
"Hor! Hor! Hor!" croaked the aged sexton. "Why should I miss him Squoire when he bain't dead?"
"Why, Titus, you buried him--that is, you helped to place the body in the family vault. Poor Mr. Leigh could not have been buried alive."
"Who said as he was alive, Squoire? I never did."
"You say that he isn't dead."
"No more he be."
"Then he must be alive."
"No, he bain't. Hor! Hor! Hor! Crack that nut, Squoire!" and the ancient shuffled along the dry dusty road, chuckling to himself.
Hendle shrugged his shoulders, wondering if it would be necessary to lock up Titus in a lunatic asylum. He appeared to be quite crazy, and talked in so confused and contradictory a manner that no meaning could be extracted from his speech. Evidently his brain was far gone in decay, and although so far he had kept his legs, he would shortly be bedridden. Ark's office as sexton was a sinecure, as his grandson, an active young fellow, dug the graves, and attended to funeral details. The activities of Titus were confined to appearing in the churchyard and telling what he knew about the deceased. On the whole, the old creature was harmless enough, so Rupert banished from his mind the idea of shutting him up, satisfied that, so long as his grandson looked after him, he could be permitted to be at large. Ark's incomprehensible talk reminded Hendle of Wordsworth's poem--"We Are Seven." No more than the child therein could Titus understand what death meant. And this was strange, considering that he was an old and accomplished sexton.
However, Rupert had more important things with which to employ his mind than in thinking about the babble of the ancient. He forgot all about Ark when he came in sight of the station, the more readily when he saw Carrington on the lookout for him. The train had arrived early, and the barrister was waiting for his friend's arrival. After greetings, Carrington linked his arm within that of his old school-friend, and they sauntered leisurely toward The Big House.
"That was a strange letter you wrote me, Hendle," said Carrington, when the two settled into their stride. "I could scarcely believe it."
"Why not? I wrote plainly enough."
"Oh, yes. But I never thought that my idea of risk to you would ever become an established fact so soon. It's queer that Mrs. Beatson should have listened on that particular night to that particular conversation."
"Well, you see, she got it into her head that I intended to dismiss her when I married Dorinda, and so kept her ears open to hear if I spoke to the vicar about my intention. As a matter of fact, I had no idea of turning her away."
"Then, you had not. But now?"
"She must go," said Rupert shortly. "I can't have a spy at my elbow."
"Have you said anything to her?"
"No! She is quite in the dark as to her treachery having been discovered."
Carrington thought for a few moments. "If Mallien goes to the police, she will then learn that you know how she has behaved."
"Mallien is not going to the police," said Rupert, quietly.
"But I thought you said in your letter that he had given you one week to----"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the younger man, "I did say so, and such was the case when I wrote. But circumstances have changed since then, thanks to Dorinda."
"Miss Mallien? What has she to do with the matter?"
"A great deal. Last night she came over, as her father had told her about the will. I was forced to tell her that Mallien threatened to accuse me of the murder."
"Oh! Oh!" said Carrington significantly. "So Mallien did not tell her that?"
"No. He was ashamed to, I suppose, as he is well aware that I am innocent. But this morning he had a row with Dorinda about her engagement to me, and she stood up for me, bless her. What she said, or what he said, I don't know, but Dorinda sent over a note this morning saying that her father had changed his mind about speaking to Lawson."
Carrington heaved a sigh of relief. "That makes things easier, anyhow. We can take our own time to work out the case. Have you found the will?"
"No. I haven't seen a sign of it. I intend to look again this afternoon, and you can assist me if you care to."
"Oh, yes. Four hands are better than two, and two searchers better than one, Hendle. And if the will isn't found?"
"Well, I suppose things will remain as they are."
"Don't you make any mistake, Hendle," replied the barrister shrewdly. "Mallien won't stop until he gets that will."
"I don't mind. In fact, I told him that he could help me look for it."
Carrington frowned. "I hope I won't be brought into contact with him. He's such a rude beast."
"Well, after our quarrel of yesterday. I don't think he'll put in an appearance," said Hendle consolingly. "Anyhow, whether he does or not matters little. Our business is to find the will, and thus knock Mallien's possible accusation on the head."
"As you please, what must be, must be. Miss Mallien is a charming girl, but if marriage with her meant a father-in-law like that boor I should cry off."
"Ah, you are not in love, you see," said Rupert calmly; "besides, when we are married, we will see very little of Mallien. I am bribing him with five hundred a year to make himself scarce. As he doesn't care a cent for his daughter, he will probably agree to clear out."
"Not before he has had a try to get the whole of your money," said Carrington dryly. "The man is a shark, and a sponge, and a greedy animal."
"Why call him names, Carrington? He is Dorinda's father after all, so it is best to leave him alone."
"He won't leave you alone," retorted the other. "I wonder you can be so calm over the matter, Hendle."
Rupert cast a side-look of surprise at the flushed dark face of his companion. "I am quite innocent, so why shouldn't I be calm?"
"Hum!" growled the barrister. "Innocent men have been hanged before now."
"Well, this innocent man won't be hanged, Carrington. No one can prove that I was near the Vicarage on that night."
"Probably not. But you had every motive to go there and get the will, seeing that it may render you a pauper."
"If I am to be a pauper I must become a pauper," replied Rupert coolly; "but I certainly would never attempt to save myself from poverty by murdering an old man who was my friend."
"Well, you see, people will talk as Mallien has talked," said the barrister with a shrug. "You and I alone knew about the will. I was in town, so no one can say a word about me. But you, near at hand, and----"
"What is the use of talking rubbish?" interrupted Rupert sharply. "I never was near the place on that night, and if people talk, well, they must just talk, as I am perfectly innocent. Besides, you forget that Mallien knew about the will."
"Only after the murder, as Mrs. Beatson probably did not tell him beforehand."
"I don't suppose she did. Hum!" Rupert stopped and looked down at his neat brown boots and gaiters. "Queer that I never thought of asking Mallien when she did tell him. I'll ask him next time we meet. Just now we can cross out Mallien as knowing. But Mrs. Beatson----"
"Exactly," interrupted Carrington gravely; "it occurs to me that she knows more about the matter than she chooses to say."
"But you don't mean to infer that she killed the vicar?"
"Why not? She knew about the will and guessed that if she could get hold of it she could make you squeal."
"At the risk of being accused of murdering Leigh."
Carrington nodded. "Perhaps. But then she may think that you would hold your tongue about that if she gave you the will."
Hendle walked on sharply. "I don't believe a word of what you say," he cried, looking much worried. "Mrs. Beatson has behaved treacherously, but I don't think for one moment that she would kill the vicar."
"Perhaps not," said Carrington soothingly. "Well, then, let us say nothing to her, but watch. If she is guilty, she is bound to betray herself. The main thing is not to let her suspect that you have found out her treachery."
Hendle took off his cap and let the balmy air play on his hot head. "It is very unpleasant," he said in a vexed tone.
"Very," assented the barrister cordially; "but for your own sake----"
"Well, well, do what you like, Carrington. The case is in your hands."