 
Transcriber's Notes:
The Lost ParchmentA Detective StoryBYFERGUS HUMEAUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE MYSTERY QUEEN," "THE RAINBOW FEATHER," "RED MONEY," "THE SEALED MESSAGE," "THE SECRET PASSAGE," "THE STEEL CROWN," ETC.
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANYPUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAPTER. | |
| I. | Schoolfellows |
| II. | The Vicar |
| III. | Lovers |
| IV. | The Cottage |
| V. | A Revelation |
| VI. | Counsels Opinion |
| VII. | A Nine Days Wonder |
| VIII. | Mallien Speaks |
| IX. | A Serious Position |
| X. | Dorinda |
| XI. | Carringtons Advice |
| XII. | On the Track |
| XIII. | Confession |
| XIV. | A Clue |
| XV. | Circumstantial Evidence |
| XVI. | A New Witness |
| XVII. | Difficulties |
| XVIII. | Setting a Trap |
| XIX. | Resurgam |
| XX. | A Weird Story |
| XXI. | A Final Surprise |
THE LOST PARCHMENT.
CHAPTER I
SCHOOLFELLOWS
"So this is your kingdom, Hendle?" said the visitor, looking round the garden which glowed with rainbow tints in the hot July sunshine; "and a very jolly kingdom it is. When did you enter into it?"
"When I was fifteen, twelve years ago," replied the Squire, smiling. "Don't you remember how I wrote and told you of the death of my father? You had just left school for the 'Varsity. Those were capital days at Rugby, weren't they, Carrington?"
"They were. I have had few capital days since."
"But surely at Oxford----"
Carrington shrugged his shoulders and made a frank admission. "Oh, yes! Oxford was all right until my father died and left me without a sixpence. It was hard work, I can tell you, qualifying for the Bar on next to nothing. And I can't say that I have made my fortune as a barrister. You, lucky dog, don't need to bother about pounds, shillings, and pence."
"I have certainly nothing to complain of on that score," said Hendle in a satisfied tone and extending his cigarette case. "It was a pity we drifted apart, Carrington, as we were such chums at Rugby. I might have helped you."
"You were always a good chap, Hendle, and that is why I took to you, when we were in our teens. But we saw nothing of each other all these years because you had money and I hadn't. Besides, you went to Cambridge, while I patronized Oxford. It is my fault that our friendship has not continued unbroken, as I never answered your many letters. But you see I was always too much involved in law studies to bother. You, I presume, were looking after your snug little kingdom."
Hendle nodded. "I am a very stay-at-home person, and the place requires a good deal of supervision."
"Lucky dog!" repeated the barrister. "You have a fine income, too."
"So-so. Four thousand a year."
"The deuce! And, like Bottom, I support life on sixpence a day, which, unlike Bottom, I have to earn. There is no Theseus to give me a pension."
"You didn't seem to be so very hard up when I met you six months ago in the Criterion Restaurant," said the young squire dryly.
"Oh, one has to keep up some sort of appearance and dress in purple and fine linen, even if one cannot afford to do so," answered Carrington easily. "It is only your rich man who can dispense with Solomon-in-all-his-glory raiment, old fellow. Anyhow, poor or rich, I was delighted to meet you again."
"Were you?" Hendle appeared to be a trifle sceptical. "You didn't hurry yourself to come down to Barship anyhow."
"I didn't; that's a fact. I thought you might fancy that I would borrow, if I came too speedily. Hence the six months' hesitation."
"Oh, rot! You know that I'm not the sort of fellow to grudge a loan to an old school chum if he asks for it."
"You were always a good chap, Hendle," said Carrington again. "But I am not going to ask. I have bread and butter, if not jam, and one must be grateful for the necessities of life in these hard times."
Hendle nodded with a lazy laugh and the young men lighted fresh cigarettes as they crossed the lawn to gain the avenue which sloped gradually for a quarter of a mile in the direction of the village. Behind them they left a delightfully ugly mansion of Georgian architecture mellowed by time into positive beauty. The Big House--its local name--draped itself majestically in dark trailing ivy, showing here and there the bland softened hue of its ruddy brick walls.
"My mind to me a kingdom is," quoted Carrington with a backward glance at the peace and beauty they were leaving. "A poetic, but truly unsatisfactory saying, Hendle. Your acres are a more tangible possession than the stuff of which dreams are made. Let us go hence."
The Squire in his simple honesty laughed at the fantastic remarks of his visitor, not guessing that a considerable amount of acid envy underlay the amiable compliments. Hendle was one of those honorable, good-natured creatures, who believed that his fellow-men were as open-minded and straightforward as he was himself. His florid complexion, fair crisp hair, big limbs and general air of latent strength revealed plainly his Saxon ancestry, and he resembled a good-natured bull content with plentiful grass and water and the freedom of wide meadows. He was markedly good-looking, with sleepy blue eyes and a heavy moustache of a russet hue, which he usually tugged at to help on his slow-moving thoughts. His name, Rupert, suggested swift dash and impetuous daring. But there was nothing of these things about this somewhat drowsy giant, although he had ample courage when necessary. It took much to rouse him, but once the dam of his self-restraint broke, everything and everyone were swept away like straws in a torrent of Berserk fury. When Rupert did fight, nothing could stand against his enormous physical power; and the use of this, being tempered by strong common-sense, invariably gained him the victory. But he usually preferred peace to war, and it took much to stimulate his passions to an outbreak.
Dean Carrington himself was to his friend like a Georgian rapier to a Crusader's sword. He was small and lean, quick-witted and nimble, with dark hair and dark eyes and a swarthy complexion. His clean-shaven face with its regular features and keen expression suggested the born intriguer, who gained his ends rather by cunning than force. Always perfectly dressed, always amiable, an accomplished squire-of-dames, well-read and yet a man-of-the-world, Carrington was the exact opposite of Hendle, and perhaps had made him his friend because of the vast difference in their natures. Having a more alert though not a stronger mind, he dominated Rupert in a most dexterous manner, never showing the iron hand without its velvet glove. Nevertheless, this ascendency had been achieved at Rugby, and owed its strength to the admiration of the dull boy for the clever boy; to the hero-worship of the younger for the older. But if Carrington was now thirty, Rupert was now twenty-seven, and might not be so easily mastered, presuming, as might be the case, the latter had developed qualities with which the former could not cope. This remained to be seen, and it was to see, that Carrington had come down for a Saturday to Monday rest. Now that he judged Rupert to be much the same and saw how luxurious were his surroundings, the astute barrister determined to reËstablish his sway over a wealthy friend too long neglected. Therefore he made himself delightfully agreeable. He had spent Saturday and Sunday with the Squire, and now was strolling through the village on Monday afternoon, before catching the evening train. So far, owing to Rupert's frank intimacy, he foresaw no obstacle to his making use of the young man. But there was one possibility to be reckoned with, which had to be looked into, and this Carrington approached in a roundabout manner, after his usual custom.
"A delightful place," said the barrister with a sigh of pleasure, as they sauntered along the cobblestone street, with its quaint houses on either side. "You are a king here. When you conduct the queen to the throne at the Big House, the serfs will lie down and allow you both to walk over them."
"I haven't any wish to walk over them," said Hendle, shrugging his mighty shoulders, "and I don't think the villagers would like to hear you call them serfs, Carrington."
"Pooh! They wouldn't know the meaning of the word. And, after all, it is only my picturesque way of speaking. But you evade my question."
"I didn't know you asked any. You simply made a remark."
"The Lord mend your wit, then. I must be plain, I see. What about a wife?"
"Oh, that's all arranged for," replied the Squire stolidly, and with never a blush, so matter-of-fact was he.
"And you never told me," murmured Carrington reproachfully.
"You never asked me."
"No," said the other, wondering at this phlegmatic nature. "I didn't." Then he lapsed into musing, and Rupert, never a talker at the best of times, strode beside him silent and comfortably happy.
So the possibility had become a probability, and a feminine influence had to be reckoned with after all. This was what Carrington had dreaded, and he blamed himself for not having asked the question before. Had he done so, he might have been introduced to the lady and then would have been able to judge what sort of a marplot she would prove to be. However, he hoped to meet her when he next came down, which would be very soon, and meanwhile, true to his plan of campaign, he laughed amiably at Rupert's reticence.
"You always did take things stolidly at school, Hendle," he said, arching his finely penciled eyebrows, "and you have not changed in this respect. Who is she?"
"My cousin--a third or fourth cousin. We have known each other all our lives, and that is why we know we will be happy."
"Familiarity doesn't breed contempt in this case, then," said the barrister lightly. "As you have known her all her life, I presume she lives hereabouts?"
"Oh, yes. At the other end of the village."
"I should like to see her," suggested Carrington persuasively.
"Next time you come down you shall. I shall ask her father and Dorinda to dinner at the Big House."
"Who is her father?"
"A second or third cousin of mine."
"What is his name?"
"Mallien--Julius Mallien."
"I am little the wiser," said the barrister ironically, "and I don't want to exercise my profession of cross-examining people in the country. Can't you give me details?"
"I am," said the other, slightly surprised. "I am giving you details."
"Yes, when I ask you incessant questions. But make some sort of a speech. I want to know what kind of a person Mallien is; I want a description of the lady; I desire to learn what the father does, and if he will give his daughter a dowry. In fact, I wish to know all about it, as naturally I take the greatest interest in the welfare of my old school chum."
"Good old man," said Rupert, giving Carrington's arm so affectionate a squeeze that the barrister winced with the pain. "Well, Mallien's a beast, like Timon of Athens--you remember the play we read at school. I don't like Mallien, as he's always grousing at everyone and everything."
"You give me the key to his character by mentioning Timon. Your future father-in-law is a misanthrope."
Rupert nodded. "Very much so. And Dorinda is----"
"An angel. I know what you are about to say."
"I don't think you do. Dorinda is a good sort."
"Is that all the praise you can bestow on your future wife?"
"It's all she wants. Dorinda doesn't like compliments."
"What an unnatural girl!" laughed Carrington, "and her looks?"
Hendle filled his pipe while he replied and halted in the village square while he did so. "She's got black hair and blue eyes and a ripping figure and is heaps cleverer than I am."
"What a bald description! Has she two eyes and a nose with a mouth under it?"
"How you chaff, Carrington. However, when you come down again, you will see Dorinda for herself. Hallo, here's Kit."
"Who is Kit?" questioned the other, as a smart motor car slipped easily out of the crooked street to halt in the square, as the village green was grandiloquently entitled.
"The son of my housekeeper, Mrs. Beatson."
"That sour-looking woman with the hard eye?"
"The same. She has been hammered hard by misfortune, but is a lady born and bred for all that. Morning, Kit."
"Good morning, Squire. Hot, isn't it? I can only get some sort of wind by running the machine at top speed."
"You'll be roped in by the police if you don't mind your eye, Kit. My friend, Mr. Dean Carrington. This is Mr. Christopher Beatson, Carrington. He's a reckless hero, who plays with the whiskers of death on all and every occasion."
"That is the habit of the present generation," said Carrington, with a nod to the handsome young fellow in the car. "Motors, aeroplanes, scenic railways and looping-the-loop. Youth enjoys nothing nowadays unless it has in it an element of danger. To go out and never know if you will be home to supper, Mr. Beatson: that is your delight."
"There is much truth in what you say, Mr. Carrington," returned Kit, laughing. "After all, it's life."
"This is the frantic age," said Hendle sententiously. "How's business, Kit?"
"Ripping! I sold three cars last week on behalf of the firm. One to a lady."
"Who was taken with your good looks, I suppose. Take care Miss Tollart doesn't grow jealous, Kit."
"You will have your joke, Mr. Hendle," answered Beatson, his bronzed skin growing crimson and his brown eyes sparkling. "But Sophy knows that I have to play up to the customers to get the stuff sold." He turned from the wheel to look round generally. "Have you seen her? She's to meet me here and go with me for a spin."
Just then Miss Tollart appeared hurrying to the rendezvous as fast as her hobble-skirt would permit. She revealed herself as a fine-looking and decidedly flamboyant young woman with an independent air which suggested the suffragist. It could easily be seen, and by a less observant person than Carrington, that Kit would be known as "Mrs. Beatson's husband" when the ring was on the lady's finger. His chin betrayed a rather weak nature, and his eyes had much too kind a look in them to hint at mastery, while the tall black-browed young woman, who swung toward the group with the air of conquering Semiramis, appeared quite capable of dominating an empire, much less a husband. Carrington did not envy Kit's approaching connubial bliss.
"Mr. Carrington, Miss Tollart," said the Squire, introducing his friend to the new arrival. "Carrington, Miss Tollart is the daughter of our doctor."
Sophy winced at the mention of her father and Carrington wondered why she should. However, the emotion passed in a flash and Miss Tollart inspected the barrister much as a naturalist inspects a microbe under the microscope. The sniff with which she concluded her scrutiny hinted at dissatisfaction, if not at contempt. But then Sophy as an ardent suffragist never did think much of the male, and straightway flew her colors in the face of this particular one. "I am going to Elbowsham to speak at a meeting, Squire. Have I your good wishes?"
"That you will come home safe and sound?" queried Hendle with twinkling eyes. "You have. Don't insult the crowd more than you can help, Miss Tollart."
"I shall not conceal my opinions," retorted the lady, tightening her lips.
"Ah!" Carrington looked her up and down, "in that case I am glad Mr. Beatson and his car will be at hand to rescue you."
"I can fight my own battles," said Miss Tollart coolly. "But I see that you don't believe in Votes for Women."
"My dear lady," replied Carrington smoothly, "when I am in your presence I believe in anything you like to advance."
Sophy sniffed. "Hedging!" she observed aggressively. "Men never can give a straight answer. I only wish," she continued as she turned to Hendle, "that I could infect Dorinda with my ardor. But she won't uphold the banner, and sulks in her tent."
"I am afraid that I have exhausted all my persuasive power in inducing her to join me as my future wife," said the Squire politely.
Sophy nodded her approval. "Dorinda's a nice girl and a good girl, and a very pretty girl," she said, in her deep-toned voice, "but she is as weak as any man in this village. As weak as you are, Squire, as the vicar, as my father, and you know what he is." She winced again, then turned aggressively on Kit. "But I can't stay here all day, as the meeting at Elbowsham is waiting. Five miles, Kit; you must do it in five minutes."
"What about the police?" asked Carrington.
"I despise the police," cried Miss Tollart, as she was borne away hurriedly by her lover to prevent further trouble. "They know me."
Carrington looked leisurely after the machine until it vanished and Sophy's trumpet tones of defiance died away. "What an uncomfortable young woman," he observed, turning toward his friend.
"Oh, Sophy's a good sort," said Hendle soberly. "She's had heaps of trouble."
"It doesn't seem to have knocked much sense into her, anyway. Trouble. Bother, I see. Her father, I expect?"
The Squire looked astonished. "Yes. But how you guessed----"
"I saw her wince when you and she mentioned Dr. Tollart," explained the barrister.
They crossed the green, passing an ancient cross of worn stone, which stood in the center of a vast expanse of grass burnt brown with the long-enduring heat. Round the square were various cottages with white-washed walls and thatched roofs, each standing in its own tiny garden brilliant with flowers. The Hendle Inn, with the arms of the family swinging from a signpost, was the largest building in sight, and presented an attractive sight to an artist, since it dated from Tudor times, and its upper story overhung the lower. With its red-tiled roof and dark oaken beams deeply embedded in its flint and stone walls it caught the eye of Carrington straightway. He had seen it before, but its quaint beauty lured him again to contemplation.
"That's a delightful old inn," he said, looking backward as they passed out of the square. "Quite the place for an adventure."
"There are no adventures in Barship," replied the Squire heavily. "We are very dull people hereabouts. Leigh is our bright and shining light, as he goes in for old manuscripts and ancient buildings and queer customs and----"
"In a word, Leigh is an archÆologist," interrupted Carrington, who found Rupert somewhat prolix. "And who is Leigh?"
"If we had gone to church yesterday, you would have seen him in the pulpit, Carrington. He is the vicar, and, if you don't mind being blamed for nonattendance, we are going to look him up now."
"Oh, I don't mind in the least," said the barrister briskly. "If he talks religion, I can talk science. Argument is always amusing with a fanatic."
"I don't think Leigh is a fanatic. He is fonder of his hobby than of his profession. But he's all right as a parson, although he doesn't visit his parishioners as often as I could wish. Yonder's the church where all my people are buried. Picturesque?"
The barrister gave the building his grave approval "But everything is picturesque about here in the best style of art. You ought to be happy."
"I am. Very happy. But I shall be happier when I marry Dorinda!"
"Amen to that. And let me be your best man," said Carrington gaily.
"If Dorinda doesn't mind, yes," replied Hendle, exasperatingly matter of fact.
CHAPTER II
THE VICAR
By this time the Squire and his friend were approaching a rickety five-barred gate which stood wide open, as the hinges being useless, it could not easily be shut. Passing through this, they advanced up a wide untidy drive overgrown with grass, and this dismal path conducted them to a weedy stony expanse, girdled by an uncultivated jungle. Flowers, shrubs, herbs, trees, docks and darnels were all mixed up together in a way, suggesting only too clearly the sluggard's garden and almost aggressively presented an aspect of decay. The vicarage thoroughly matched this desolation, although in skilful hands it could have been made into a most charming residence. Carrington viewed this deadly solitude with disgust.
"Are you taking me to see the ruins of Babylon?" he asked, noting that even the blazing sunshine could not impart an aspect of cheerfulness to the place. "Is your vicar an owl or a jackal that he can live here?"
Hendle laughed deeply and pulled at his pipe. "Leigh is too much wrapped up in his hobby to care about the necessaries of life."
"He might care for the decencies, anyway," retorted the barrister. "As the lord of the manor, why don't you insist upon his keeping the place in repair?"
"The living is not in my gift, Carrington, and I have no right to interfere in any way. Leigh is the last descendant of an old family who camped ages ago in this parish. The living is all that remains of what they once possessed, and the vicar exists on a miserable stipend of two hundred a year."
"And you have four thousand per annum.--What about your tithes?"
"Tithes come from land, and save the park I have no land. My grandfather sold what we owned and invested the proceeds in various companies. My income is derived from stocks and shares. My tithe represents a small amount."
"Still, you might house your spiritual adviser better, Hendle."
"I don't think so. I look after the poor in the parish, and as one of the churchwardens I see that the church is all right. If Leigh choses to live in this way I can't prevent him. He's quite happy so long as he has a bed and a fire and a roof, with bread and cheese and his beloved books. What is the use of my giving him money to buy more volumes?"
Carrington nodded comprehendingly. "I understand. There are some people you cannot help, however much you may wish to."
"Precisely," murmured the big man indolently. "Leigh knows that I am willing to do anything in reason, but that I don't hold with his wasting money on books. His time also. The parson is here to look after his cure of souls; not to encourage a selfish hobby. Leigh loves books and dreams books and lives books and would spend a fortune in buying books. There is nothing he would not do to purchase more."
"A kind of clerical Eugene Aram?"
"Oh, no," replied Rupert hastily. "Leigh would never do wrong even to gratify his craze for books. He is a gentle soul."
"A character at all events, if nothing else," observed the barrister dryly.
In response to Hendle's loud rapping on the rusty panels of the door with the knob of his walking stick a slovenly, fat, old female waddled into sight, wiping her hands on a coarse apron. Her stout looks were in direct contradiction to the lean appearance of the place; but, judging from her inflamed countenance, these might have been due to a constant consumption of beer. She was arrayed in a dingy cotton gown, so dirty that it was difficult to guess at its original color, and her gray hair was as dishevelled as her shoes and stockings were untidy. This frowzy lady, who answered to the odd name of Selina Jabber, received the visitors with a good-natured smile which twinkled all over her plump face.
"To think, sir, that you should find me like this before I'm smartened for the afternoon," she cried, volubly addressing Rupert; "but washing has to be done, say what you like, though I do say that the master don't give me more to do than my weakness can deal with."
Talking all the time, the housekeeper had conducted the amused men through an entrance hall, narrowed by books heaped on the oilcloth, through a passage lined with crowded shelves and into a large bare room which appeared to be built up of many volumes. The walls could not be seen for these, and they were also piled in little heaps on the uncarpeted floor. The only articles of furniture were a large round table covered with green baize, standing directly in front of the undraped window, and a chair before it in which Mr. Leigh sat with a heavy tome on his knee. In spite of the sunshine pouring in, the apartment looked bleak and dreary, as there was no fireplace and no adornments or comforts of any sort. The vicar, a tall, lean, dreamy man with an ascetic, clean-shaven face and calm blue eyes, raised his head in response to the continuous ding-dong of Mrs. Jabber's voice:
"Mr. Hendle and a gent from London, sir; Mr. Hendle and a gent from London, sir; Mr. Hendle and----"
"That will do, Mrs. Jabber," interrupted the vicar in a dignified manner, and revealing the pundit in tone and accent. "You can go."
"You mustn't mind Mrs. Jabber, Rupert," said the vicar mildly. "She is quite a character. And this----"
"Is my friend, Mr. Carrington. I wished him to meet you before he went away."
"I am pleased to see you, Mr. Carrington," said Leigh, offering a dry, cold hand and giving the barrister a more searching glance than one would have expected from so mild a man. "I fancy I remember Rupert mentioning you as an old schoolfellow of Rugby days."
"Oh, yes. We were great friends at school, and I am glad to renew our acquaintance, as you may guess, Mr. Leigh."
"Quite so, quite so. And what's doing in London?" inquired the vicar in a weary manner as if he felt it incumbent upon him to manufacture conversation in which he took not the slightest interest.
Rupert sat down on one pile of books--as there were no chairs--and Carrington on another pile, while the barrister gave the latest metropolitan gossip and the squire smoked stolidly. Mr. Leigh drew up his threadbare black trousers, showing socks of different color and pattern, and sat down to take his book again on his knee. His face was handsome in a refined and gentle way: he had scanty white hair and excellent teeth, which looked genuine: hands and feet slender and elegant, suggested race, and he had the stooping shoulders of a student. Carrington, observing him narrowly while he talked in a desultory manner, saw that here was the last withered branch of an ancient family tree. The sap of the race was exhausted in Simon Leigh, and he looked as though his frail organization could not last much longer. There was no fire in him: only the slowly fading heat of dying ashes. Remembering what Hendle had said about the vicar's craze for books he attempted to interest him in that direction, as Mr. Leigh appeared to be wholly indifferent to news of the busy world.
"You are fond of archÆology, I believe, sir," mentioned the barrister, glancing round the truly scholarly room.
"I am devoted to it, Mr. Carrington," replied the student, his calm eyes flashing into vivid life. "Antiquities, ancient customs, the usages of the Middle Ages and Classic times, together with the traditions of religious belief and ceremony appeal more to my understanding than anything else."
"Humph!" grunted the Squire pointedly, "surely as a parson----"
"We have frequently argued on the subject, you hint at, Rupert," said Mr. Leigh hastily. "But as your views differ from mine, we have, as yet, not arrived at any agreement. As a parson I trust that I do my duty, though it may be that I am not the ideal of a parish priest."
Hendle colored at this dignified rebuke. "I apologize, sir, but you rather mistake my true meaning. What I implied was that you are more of a scholar than a parson."
"I admit that, Rupert. Had I lived in monastic days, I should have been a hermit or a monk. My wants are few, and I do not seek the loaves and fishes of ecclesiastical preferment. The services of the church; occasional visits to my parishioners and giving of what alms my small means allow are my duties as a Clerk in Holy Orders. But what time otherwise is at my disposal I give to books, to the examination of old buildings, to the study of ancient customs, and such-like matters. You see I am frank, Mr. Carrington."
"And very original," said the barrister heartily, "it is a great pleasure to meet one whose views are other than commonplace. And what a tremendous number of books you have."
"You are like that clergyman in Scott's novel, St. Ronan's Well," said Hendle, removing his pipe for a moment. "What's his name--Cargill."
"I never waste my hours reading novels," said Leigh loftily.
"I should think they would be more entertaining than these parchments," suggested Carrington, looking at the writing table, which was littered profusely with dusty documents covered with crabbed characters.
"No! No! No!" cried Leigh vivaciously, and laid a thin hand on his beloved dry-as-dust pamphlets. "Nothing can be more entertaining than deciphering these deeds. Leases and proclamations, accounts and registrations: all of various reigns and all written in the dog Latin of knightly days. And it ill becomes you, Rupert," added the vicar in a mildly jesting way, "to reproach me with my besetting sin, when you pander to it by permitting me access to your Muniment Room."
"Muniment Room," echoed the barrister.
"It would not interest you, Mr. Carrington, believe me," said the vicar jealously, "as young men do not care to inspect such treasures. I can tell you all about the most interesting documents and can show you what is worthy of note, if indeed you care for such lofty learning. But don't meddle with the chest and its contents, I beg. They are too valuable to be lightly handled."
Rupert laughed and nodded. "I believe that Mr. Leigh grudges even me meddling with the deeds and documents. He thinks that I am an unworthy guardian of such literary treasures."
"I think they are quite safe," said Carrington, looking with disdain on the time-worn and soiled parchments rustling under the vicar's thin fingers. "No one will seek to deprive Mr. Leigh of his weary delights."
"Weary! Ah, my dear sir, you don't know what joy it is to pore over these glorious relics of monkish days. They give in wonderful detail the history of Barship, when it was quite a noted port."
"Port? Why, it's an inland parish."
"Now it is," cried the vicar eagerly and now settled in the saddle of his hobby-horse, "but in the reign of Henry III, Barship was built round a commodious harbor. The sea has retired these many miles, and the village which was once a bustling town is now scarcely known."
"Well, I must say that information is very interesting," said Carrington.
"Isn't it? And there are many other things just as interesting. I am writing a history of our parish from these documents here and others which are in the Muniment Room of the Big House. It will take me years to complete, but when ready it will form a book of surpassing interest."
At this moment, Carrington heard the door open softly. He turned his head, as did Rupert at the sound, to see a stout, black-bearded man standing on the threshold. He came in with a padding step like a cat, and scowled when he saw that the vicar had visitors.
"How are you, Mr. Mallien?" said Hendle with a good-natured nod. "This is my friend Carrington, who was at school with me."
"How do," said Mallien gruffly, and with an air of resenting Carrington's return greeting. "Beastly day--far too hot. Pouf! how this room smells of sheepskin. Why don't you drag Leigh out for a walk, Rupert?"
"The age of miracles is past," said the young Squire dryly. "You see that even your entrance cannot rouse the vicar from his studies."
"Vicar! Vicar!" said Mallien gruffly and tapped the parson's shoulder.
"Go away! go away! I'm busy," said Leigh peevishly; then, keeping his finger on a line of crabbed writing he had reached, he looked up. "Oh, Mr. Mallien, I beg pardon. What do you want?"
"Dorinda has brought you some flowers for the altar," said Mallien, "so I came with her. She would drag me out, although I didn't want to tire myself on this hot day."
"Is the day hot?" inquired the vicar absently. "Flowers. Thank you. Mrs. Jabber has the key of the church."
"Is Dorinda here!" questioned Hendle, making for the door with alacrity; "I must go and see her. Look after Carrington," he called back as he disappeared, and the vicar shook his head irritably at the sound of his raised voice.
Mallien did not obey his cousin's request by making himself agreeable to the visitor who was thus given into his charge. He stared at Carrington and Carrington stared at him, while Mr. Leigh droned in an undertone like a bee over his newly discovered fact of military occupation. The barrister saw before him a little man, less in height than himself and considerably stouter, dressed comfortably in a suit of loosely fitting gray homespun. Mallien's most noticeable point was the extraordinary quantity of jewelry he wore, which suggested Jewish blood. And indeed his face with its hooked nose and deeply black eyes hinted at the Hebrew. His dark hair and dark beard were flecked with gray, but his fresh, unwrinkled complexion made him appear much younger than he really was. He did not look at all an amiable person. And Carrington quite believed that Rupert had spoken truly when he had hinted at his cousin's misanthropic nature. Here assuredly was Timon of Athens in modern dress, glaring at the barrister as if he wondered why he presumed to exist. The man's manner was disagreeable and when he spoke his speech was pointedly aggressive.
"I know why you are staring," said Mr. Mallien in abrupt and unfriendly tone. "Everyone stares in the same way, confound their insolence. It's my jewelry, isn't it?"
"Why, yes!" said Carrington, matching this insolence. "You are as bedizened as a Hindoo idol on its feast day."
"You speak plainly," growled Mallien with a crushing look.
"So do you," retorted Carrington, who was not to be crushed. "We are well matched, it seems."
"I am older than you and require to be treated politely," snapped the other.
"Because everyone has hitherto gone down before your bullying ways, confound you," replied the barrister, getting in his thrust. "Don't you find plain speech a refreshing novelty?"
"Ah! what," Mr. Leigh looked up. "Presently, Mrs. Jabber--presently. I am not yet hungry. Go away. Oh, Mallien, I beg your pardon! When did you arrive? Will you stop to luncheon?"
"And eat the potted tongue your housekeeper has been talking about to Dorinda?" queried Mallien with grim rudeness. "No thanks. I have more regard for my stomach."
The vicar scarcely heard the retort, as he had already returned to the study of his soiled parchment.
"Do you know of any spot in the parish where a circumvallation is discernible, Mr. Mallien?" he said, half to himself.
"No, sir, I don't. And as I have no aeroplane I can't soar to the clouds where your wits are at present. I shall take my leave straightway. Good day;" and he departed forthwith. Carrington, amused by Mallien's brusque leave-taking, picked up his cap to follow so judicious an example since the vicar, really being in the clouds, was unable to attend to chance visitors. "Good day, Mr. Leigh," he said, moving toward the door; but, no notice being taken, he repeated his farewell in louder tones. "Good day, Mr. Leigh."
"Oh, good day, good day, good day," snapped the student irritably.
Leaving Mr. Leigh murmuring comments, and fumbling amongst the flotsam and jetsam of the Middle Ages, the barrister walked leisurely along the book-lined passage, through the book-littered entrance hall and emerged into the desolation of the surrounding jungle. Rupert and Miss Mallien were conspicuous by their absence, and the gruff individual left in charge of Carrington was waiting restlessly. He waved his hand when the visitor appeared.
"Did you ever see such a pig sty?" he growled with the voice of an ourangoutang, which beast he greatly resembled, "and Leigh is exactly suited to it. As the man is so are his surroundings: his mind is as muddled as his garden. And this addle-pated parson is supposed to be the spiritual father of the parish. Pah! Come and look at the lordly pleasure grounds. Rupert asked me to look after you, so I must, I suppose. Did you ever see such a rotten place?" he asked contemptuously.
"Oh, yes! You are showing me nothing new," replied Carrington, who took a delight in exasperating the man's temper.
"I shan't show you anything more," growled Mallien sullenly, "and after all I'm dashed silly to bother myself in this way."
"Oh, I don't quite see----Oh!" His face twisted with pain as he spoke.
"What's the matter with you?" demanded Mallien crossly.
"Toothache! I have had a twinge or two lately and I expect that this damp place"--Carrington looked up at the dark overhanging boughs--"has brought back the pain. I shall have to see a doctor when I go to town."
"You can see a doctor here, if you like," said Mallien roughly, and pushed his way back to the avenue. "Dr. Tollart lives at the end of the village. Anyone will tell you where he is to be found."
"Thanks," said the barrister as they paused by the rickety gate. "You are kinder than you mean to be."
"I'm not. I want to get rid of you," fumed Mallien, turning on his heel. "You can go to the doctor or to the devil for all I care."
Carrington saw the little man vanishing with great speed round the corner and laughed at the oddity of his character. Then he walked through the village and soon found Tollart's house. The doctor proved to be within and speedily gave his patient something to take away the aching. It was only a makeshift of course, but Carrington was glad enough to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling. After paying half a crown he went away leisurely, and by the time he reached the gates of the park felt much better.
Strolling up the avenue, Carrington suddenly began to shiver in the warm sunshine, and was greatly surprised that he should do so. It seemed unreasonable and certainly was unexpected.
"Strange," he muttered with a shrug; "now a superstitious person would say that I was walking over my grave. Pooh!" he laughed, but nevertheless shivered again.
CHAPTER III
LOVERS
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 our tÊte-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.
CHAPTER IV
THE COTTAGE
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 a contretemps. 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----"