CARRINGTON'S ADVICE
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? You _are_ my 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 and _The Hendle Arms_ was 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."