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----"
"Father!" Dorinda uttered a startled cry of pain.
"There! There!" snarled Mallien testily. "I don't mean that he is
going to die, you silly girl. But he's mortal and _may_ die."
"God forbid! But if he did----" she hesitated, then uttered the word
faintly, "--die?"
"Then I would have The Big House and the four thousand a year," said
Mallien brutally. "You seem to forget that we are both descended from
John Hendle, who died in the Waterloo year."
"I have never given a thought to it," said Dorinda uneasily, as she
did not approve of her father starting this hare.
"Well, you ought to think of it. We descend from the elder son of John
Hendle, and are the older branch."
"But Rupert descends through the male line, while we come through the
female, father," protested the girl, puzzled by this genealogical
conversation.
"Pooh! Pooh! There's no entail. Don't look so astonished, Dorinda; I
don't mean to say that I have any claim, though, if everyone had their
rights, we should be at The Big House and Rupert in his beastly
cottage. There would be no need for you to marry him then."
Dorinda rose with great dignity. "I marry Rupert because I love him,
and if he was a pauper, I should still love him."
"Oh, you could love him as much as you like," said her father,
carelessly, "but if he were really a pauper, you shouldn't marry him.
I'd see to that."
Dorinda walked round the table and bent over her father with a look on
her face which made him push back his chair. "You would see to
nothing," she said, very distinctly, and bringing her face close to
that of Mallien. "It is my will and pleasure to marry Rupert, and
nothing you can say or do will prevent my becoming his wife. You
understand?"
"Who said anything otherwise," growled Mallien savagely, yet
retreating dexterously. "As things stand, I am willing you should
marry him. And, as you talk to me in that way, the sooner you become
his wife and leave me alone the better it will be. Marry to-morrow if
you like."
"I see," said Dorinda, whose face was perfectly colorless. "You want
the extra five hundred a year to buy this blue sapphire you speak of."
"Partly. But I also want you to marry Rupert before Carrington--the
beast--squeezes him like a lemon."
"There is no chance of any squeezing," said Dorinda coldly. "Rupert is
quite capable of looking after himself, even if Mr. Carrington were
after his money, which I see no reason to think that he is."
"I do! Carrington's a man on the market, if you know what that means."
"I don't. What does it mean?"
"One who lives from hand to mouth; one who is always on the make; one
who doesn't mind what he does so long as he can extract a fiver.
Rupert's a fool, and Carrington isn't. There, you have my opinion in a
nutshell."
"I think you are making a great fuss over nothing, father," said
Dorinda, with disdain. "But I am glad that Mr. Carrington's visit is
likely to hasten our marriage. We can get married next month, and then
you can buy the sapphire when we are on our honeymoon."
"Sensible girl!" Mallien stood up and wiped his bearded mouth. "Well,
now that we understand one another----?"
"Do we understand one another?" asked Dorinda, irritated by the whole
unnecessary conversation.
"Yes!" replied her father, tartly. "I have given my consent to your
marriage taking place at an early date----"
"Because you want the five hundred a year to buy the blue sapphire."
"Don't be silly. And I have warned you against letting that
flipperty-flap Carrington gain too much influence over Rupert."
"A quite unnecessary warning," said the girl, coldly. "You don't like
Mr. Carrington, because he held his own against you."
"Insolent beast!" growled Mallien, bristling. "And I think you said
that you did not like him yourself."
"I said that I did not trust him; but he is amusing enough to like as
a companion for all that."
"You'll find him very amusing when he rifles Rupert's pockets,"
sneered the gentle parent, fuming at her opposition.
"I don't think that there is the least chance of his doing that, as
Rupert--I said this before--is well able to look after himself.
Besides, you have no grounds for saying that Mr. Carrington is a
scamp."
"A look is enough for me."
"It's not enough to take away a man's character. And this talk of our
being descended from John Hendle? What do you mean by that?"
"I don't mean anything particular," responded Mallien, honestly
enough. "It was Leigh who put it into my head."
"The vicar. And what does he know of our family history?"
"Much more than we do. He has been scrambling through the papers in
the Muniment Room at The Big House."
"Well, Rupert gave him permission to look out any documents likely to
prove necessary for writing the history of the parish. You know he is
writing a book."
Mallien nodded. "He found letters, written by John Hendle, which
showed how much our ancestor regretted that the estates should go to
Frederick Hendle."
"That is the younger son from whom Rupert is descended?"
"Exactly. He was a bad lot apparently, Leigh says. Walter, who was the
eldest son and our progenitor, was killed in the Battle of Waterloo,
and he seems to have been the old man's favorite. If Walter had lived,
we should have inherited The Big House and the estates."
"Well, father," answered Dorinda with a shrug; "Walter didn't live,
and we did not inherit the estates, so I don't see what is the use of
talking."
"I didn't say that there was any use," retorted Mallien crossly, "only
I thought that the piece of family history discovered by Mr. Leigh
might interest you."
"It does in a way. But, after all, these family troubles happened
nearly one hundred years ago." Dorinda was looking out of the window
as she made this remark, and broke off suddenly. "Strange!" she said,
staring into the garden.
"What is strange?"
"That we should have been talking of Mr. Leigh, for here he is with
Titus Ark as his shadow, as usual. I wonder why he always has Titus at
his heels?"
"It's a very necessary precaution," said Mallien, grimly; "otherwise,
Leigh is so absent-minded that he would get lost. Leigh has only come
to look again at that Yucatan diary, which my father left me."
"Does he want to see it?" asked Dorinda, forgetting that Leigh had
seen the diary before.
"Yes. Your grandfather, as you know, was something of an explorer, and
searched for hidden treasure among the buried cities of Central
America. I was telling Leigh about the diary, and he wants to have
another look at it," Mallien chuckled. "I shouldn't wonder if the old
man wanted to go to Yucatan himself, since he is cracked on old
buildings."
By this time, the vicar was knocking at the door, and Titus Ark was
staring sourly round the garden. He was the sexton and the vicar's
shadow, a dour ancient, who said little and thought much. Dorinda, not
wishing to see the vicar, who rather bored her with his archeological
discourses, went into the kitchen to attend to her domestic duties,
while her father opened the front door to receive his visitors in his
usual ungracious manner.
"What on earth brings you here, vicar?" he demanded brusquely,
although he had just explained to his daughter why the visit had been
made; "and why do you always have that old ass at your heels, Mr.
Simon Leigh, parson of Barship Parish, God help the people?" grumbled
Mallien, as he pushed his visitor into a chair and banged the door.
"Titus," said Leigh in his precise tones. "Oh, we were boys
together--that is, he was a young man when I was a boy. Poor fellow,
his generation lies under the ground, so I take him about to comfort
him with talk about old times. He quite brightens up when we have our
talks and walks."
"I'd brighten him if I had the power," growled the gracious host. "He
ought to be under the turf with his confounded generation, or in the
workhouse. I don't see any use for such a stiff-jointed old skeleton
being above ground."
"He is eighty," said Mr. Leigh, placidly. "Great age. A comfortable
room this, Mr. Mallien; there is something of the sybarite about you."
"Don't call names, vicar. The room is less like a pig sty than yours,
and that is the best to be said about it."
"I often wonder, Mr. Mallien, that with your bringing up, you have not
learned better manners," said Leigh, putting on his pince-nez and
blinking. "You are certainly a most ill-conducted person. You should
marry, and see if the softening influence of the feminine nature----"
Mallien turned from a cupboard of black oak, in which he was
rummaging, and answered viciously. "I have been married."
"Dear me," mused the vicar, as if aware of this for the first time,
"so you have been. And how is Miss Dorinda?"
"I believe his wits are going," grumbled Mallien to himself: then
raised his voice. "She's busy, and can't waste her time in seeing you.
Here"--he flung a heavy sheaf of papers on the table--"this is the
diary kept by my silly father when he was treasure hunting in Yucatan.
Old fool, he got nothing but rheumatism. If he'd found gold and
jewels, there would have been some sense in his explorations. Don't
you think so? don't you think so? don't you? Oh, hang you, vicar; one
might as well call the dead."
Leigh nodded absently, for the sound rather than the sense of this
polite speech had reached him. Already he had opened the manuscript
diary at random and, with his nose close to the pages, was pouring
over the faded writing. Mr. Mallien growled as usual, and walked
across to the mantelpiece to pick up his pipe for a morning smoke.
When blue clouds made a haze round the eagerly reading parson, Mr.
Mallien brought out a handful of precious stones of little value from
his trousers pocket, and began to fiddle with them, after his ordinary
fashion. He strewed ruby and emerald and moonstone about the table,
where a shaft of sunlight struck across the room, and watched the many
colored sparkles, emitted by the tiny gems. Leigh, taking no notice,
turned over page after page with great interest. After a long while he
grunted and spoke, maliciously anxious to spoil the scholar's pleasure
if he could.
"Dull stuff my father wrote, didn't he?"
"Dear me, Mr. Mallien, are you there? Dull stuff. Oh, dear me, no.
Most interesting. These Maya buildings are quite fascinating, and the
manuscripts he discovered, and the stone carvings, and the
hieroglyphics, similar to those of Egypt. Yes," went on the vicar
dreamily, "I must go there."
"Go there; go to Yucatan," cried Mallien, staring; "an old buffer like
you?"
"Yes, sir," said the vicar with dignity. "For quite a year since you
mentioned the diary of your father, it has been in my mind to fit out
an expedition to so interesting a place."
"How can you fit out an expedition on your income?"
"Money. Ah yes, I shall require money, of course."
"And a jolly lot, too. Expeditions are not fitted out for nothing."
"I believe not," murmured Mr. Leigh, again dipping into the
manuscript. "Well, well, the money will be forthcoming."
"Who will give it to you?" asked Mallien contemptuously.
"I thought that Rupert----?"
"Pooh! You might as well try and get blood out of a stone, Mr. Leigh.
And why the dickens should he give you money to go on a wild-goose
chase? Rupert is a wise man, and keeps his cash in his pocket, as I'd
do if I had his income."
"Would you not give me the money if you had four thousand a year?"
asked the vicar, with an extraordinarily keen look.
Mallien stared, quite unable to speak, so indignant was he at the
audacity of the parson. "Give it to you?" he burst out. "I'd give it
to nobody."
"Ah, then I hope you'll never get money," said Mr. Leigh, placidly,
"you would make bad use of it."
"I would," retorted the gracious host, "if I gave it to you to make
ducks and drakes of in expeditions. You can be buried less expensively
in England than in Yucatan, believe me."
"I have no idea of being buried anywhere," said the vicar with
dignity, and yet with a scared look which puzzled Mallien. "I am old,
it is true, but my health is good and I live a reasonable life."
"You wouldn't if you went exploring Yucatan," retorted the other.
"I would take the risk of that, Mr. Mallien. The place is so
interesting"--his nose was glued to the manuscript again--"that I
really must raise the money and go. I have plans--oh yes, I have plans
to get it."
"You won't from Rupert."
"Nor from you, apparently," said Leigh, who appeared to be much
more alert than usual, "but I prefer Rupert's youth to your avaricious
age. However, I shall come again and resume my reading of this
manuscript--unless you will let me take it away."
"I'll do nothing of the kind, nor help your expedition," said Mallien
grimly, "nor even give you the rubbish my father wrote."
"Rubbish," cried the parson indignantly; "that diary is worth all the
property which John Hendle left to the son he didn't love. Well! Well,
it's a case of pearls before swine," and, paying back Mallien in his
own coin, by making this remark, the vicar departed with his shadow at
his heels.
"Old fool," commented Mallien; "but I wish John Hendle had made that
will."