THE REVEREND MANNERS BROCK.
The young men were seated on the terrace in the warm summer twilight.
The plains of corn beyond the dark trees were filled with floating
shadows, and the pale radiance of the long-set sun still lingered in
the western skies. Overhead a few stars shone with mellow lustre in
the warm, purple arch; but the moon had not yet rolled her wheel over
the distant hills, and the dusk was faintly luminous, so that the
landscape was indistinctly visible, as through a filmy veil. There was
no breath of wind, and the trees seemed to extend their opaque
shadows, even to the verge of the glimmering white terrace. At
intervals a nightingale filled the dusk with silvery strains, and
occasionally the hoot of a distant owl sounded like depreciative
criticism of the bird music. So still, so dreamy, so peacefully
beautiful, it was a magic night for love and lovers, for dancing elves
and poet's singing. Yet this unromantic pair were talking the crudest
commonplaces--harsh music for such an hour, for such a scene. But
there are times when man sympathizes with Nature as little as does she
with him.
"Well, Jim," said Mallow, after a pause and a sip of warming liqueur,
"it is now a week since those marplots came on the scene. What is your
candid opinion?"
With a flick of his finger, Aldean sent the stump of his cigarette
flying over the balustrade.
"That is what I should like to do," he said, in his deep voice; "chuck
them both into space."
"I did not ask you what you would like to do to them, but what you
think of them."
"They are two bounders--at least, Semberry is one."
"You are prejudiced, my James," said Mallow, coolly; "Semberry is a
well-bred man, but Carson--ahem!--Carson is not a gentleman."
"In other words, Carson is not Carson."
"Upon my soul, Jim, I don't believe he is." Mallow jumped up, and
balanced himself on the railing of the terrace immediately before his
friend. "I don't believe he is," he repeated. "He is supposed to have
come from India. Well, he knows precious little about India, although
I have questioned him repeatedly. He talks with a distinct foreign
accent; his every action is suggestive of continental society, and he
looks like an Italian. See here, Jim"--he slipped down, clicked his
heels together, and made a stiff bow from the waist--"is that
English?" He mimicked Carson's speech: "You think so, yes? Is that
English, Jim? I ask you plainly, is there anything English about the
man?"
"Well, he isn't English, you know," was Jim's reply.
"His father was a Saxon, and, from all accounts, a public school boy,
a University man, gently born and well-bred. Why isn't his son--if
this man be his son--more like him?"
"The poor chap hasn't had his father's advantages, Mallow. His mother
was a half-caste, and, I suppose, no pattern of breeding. He has been
brought up in exile amongst niggers, and has received a scratch
education. I don't see what you can expect. Carson's pretty good,
considering his disadvantages."
"Confound you, Jim; don't desert to the enemy!" cried Mallow, in a
huff.
"I'm not deserting, but I see both sides of the question, and you
don't. You believe that the real Carson is dead, and that this man is
an impostor."
"And if I do," said Mallow, defiantly, "it was you who put the idea
into my head."
Aldean laughed.
"You don't usually take my suggestions so seriously," he said,
smiling. "Besides, I had no proof for my assertion, and you--however
much you wish to--can't find one. On the other hand, there is ample
evidence to show that Carson is the man he declares himself to be.
Mrs. Purcell's letter describes him exactly: he has a weak heart and
an injured hand; also, he wears the golden bangle, which, as he showed
Mrs. Carson in Bombay, cannot be removed. Finally, Carson has been in
Semberry's company ever since he left his father's death-bed."
"Semberry is a plausible scamp," growled Mallow, biting his fingers.
"I heard no good of him in India."
"Perhaps not; but a man can be a scamp without being a blackguard."
"Pooh, pooh! you split straws. That is a distinction without a
difference."
"Well," rejoined Aldean, with equanimity; "let us say that a fellow
can be a spendthrift and a Don Juan without being dishonest. I hardly
think, Mallow, that Semberry would risk his commission and his
position in the world by supporting an impostor such as you believe
Carson to be."
"You have certainly found your tongue, Jim," said the Irishman,
recovering his good humour, "and your arguments are moderately
convincing. But you seem to forget that some fifty thousand pounds are
involved in this marriage contract."
"Who told you so?"
"Miss Slarge. She is a dreamy, up-in-the-clouds old lady, as you know,
but she can open her eyes and descend to the contemplation of ordinary
things occasionally. Olive is the apple of her eye, and her wish is to
see the girl happy; therefore, she does not approve of this marriage.'
"Isn't she pleased with Carson?"
"No, she dislikes him thoroughly, and she believes that he is marrying
Olive solely for the sake of the money. Now Major Semberry is a
chronic bankrupt, and half--even a quarter--of fifty thousand pounds
would be a great temptation to him."
Aldean looked earnestly at his friend.
"I see what you mean," he said slowly. "Your idea is that Carson was
murdered at Athelstane-Place, and that Semberry has substituted this
impostor so that the marriage may take place, and they may share the
proceeds. My dear Mallow, if you argue thus, you argue a rope round
the Major's neck."
"Bosh! Did I say that Semberry was a murderer?"
"I am only bringing your argument to a logical conclusion, Mallow. If
the real Carson has been murdered, Semberry must know of it, else he
could have no reason to substitute the false one. Admitting as much,
he must either have killed Carson himself, or he must know who did. In
either case he is a criminal. Q.E.D."
Mallow shook his head.
"Even assuming that I am right, Semberry could not have murdered
Carson, as it would be sheer folly for him to support an impostor when
the real Simon Pure was his friend. However, I don't say that the real
Carson has been murdered, nor do I identify him with the Athelstane
Place victim; although," added Mallow seriously, "it is a strange
thing that the clothes, both of the living and the dead, should smell
of sandal-wood."
"It is strange," admitted Aldean, "and not to be easily explained. But
we have argued the subject threadbare. What is your final opinion?"
"My original opinion--Carson is not Carson."
"Mallow, you are developing a monomania. Come and unbend your great
mind over billiards."
The Irishman laughed and agreed. For the next hour or so they were
taken up with cannons and breaks, and they left further discussion of
Carson's identity to a more fitting occasion. The argument was not
renewed that evening, and Mallow retired to bed with his mind less
taken up with the subject than usual, and had a good night's rest.
However, he woke early the next morning, and his thoughts at once
reverted to Olive and her doubtful lover.
Beyond the fact of the sandal-wood perfume, he had no reason for
connecting the man who had put in an appearance at Casterwell with the
victim of Athelstane-Place, and his good sense told him that this was
but a slender foundation upon which to build the superstructure of an
imposture. And yet there remained with him an instinctive feeling that
all was not right. Do what he would, argue as he might, he could not
get rid of the idea that Semberry and his friend were brother rogues,
bent upon obtaining the dowry of Olive.
"I cannot believe in Carson until I find some one who can identify
him," thought Mallow, as he dressed himself. "If Mrs. Purcell were
only in England, she would settle the question at once. But, according
to Miss Slarge, she will not be back for three months, and this man is
to marry Olive in two. On the 24th of August she comes of age. By the
terms of the will, she must become Mrs. Carson before the 24th of
September. After that date, be the man genuine or an impostor, I am
powerless."
The matter agitated him so greatly as to render him irritable and
restless. Unwilling to inflict his state of mind on Aldean, as it was
yet early, he slipped out of the house and walked down to the village.
He found the rural population astir and busy in the freshness of the
morning air. During his tutorship of Aldean he had become friendly
with many of these villagers, and those who met him now were glad to
renew acquaintance with him. After strolling through the quaint High
Street, admiring once again the old-fashioned houses, with their black
beams diapered on the whitewashed walls, he turned into the
churchyard, and strolled round the sombre grey building, which was the
oldest of all the old things in Casterwell. The blackened tombstones,
their queer inscriptions half obliterated by brown moss and yellow
lichen, toppled askew amongst the uncut dewy grass, and from out the
general untidiness rose the ecclesiastical fabric, its obtuse roof
hidden by the open stonework and crocketted pinnacles. The massive
square tower, draped with fresh green ivy, loomed out at the western
end, and round it the swallows were wheeling and glancing like flying
arrows. Thrush and blackbird and starling piped in the adjacent
thicket, white pigeons whirled overhead, and wreaths of smoke curled
from the village chimneys. Mallow enjoyed to the full the freshness of
it all--the mellow sounds of waking life, the atmosphere surrounding
him. The peace and beauty of it soothed his mind, and he fell to
musing. He started when a voice at his elbow greeted him.
"Ah, good morning, Mr. Mallow, this is an unexpected pleasure!"
"Mr. Brock!" cried the Irishman, turning suddenly. "I thought you were
away."
"So I was," rejoined the Rector, holding out his hand. "I have been
recruiting by the sea. I only returned last night. I see you are like
myself, Mr. Mallow; you love the freshness of the early morning."
"I felt restless within doors, Mr. Brock, and came out to be soothed."
The Rector nodded approvingly.
"'You fly to Nature's breast for Nature's balm,'" he quoted in a deep,
rolling voice. "It is to be regretted that all young men are not so
sensible. Well, Mr. Mallow, and how are you?"
"I am in capital health and spirits," replied Laurence, lightly. "And
you? You are not looking quite so fit as usual."
"Age, sir, age. Years are beginning to tell on me. After sixty the
human frame begins to fail. I lose tone. My recent visit to the
seaside was to restore it."
Mallow thought to himself that the result had not been wholly
successful, for Mr. Brock looked sallow and wrinkled and hollow-eyed.
He was a handsome, burly man, and he carried himself with an air of
importance which many a bishop might have envied. His face was
clean-shaven, and his features were clean-cut. His skin was of the
particular hue one associates with old ivory, and a halo of silvery
white hair lent an air of benignity to his expression. The Reverend
Manners Brock had been vicar of Casterwell for over twenty years, and
was as well-established as the church over which he presided. He was
an industrious worker, an excellent orator, and a general social
favourite with rich and poor alike. There was not in England a rector
more popular or more admired. He might certainly have been a bishop,
and--granting that the welfare of the community was the aim of those
in power--he perhaps stood a good chance of becoming one. That he
would adorn the position, as he adorned the rectorship of Casterwell,
there could be no doubt. But, so far, there had been no hint of any
such elevation for Mr. Brock.
As he strolled up and down chatting with Mallow, the click of the
church-gate was heard. Simultaneously they turned to see a dark young
man, with his arm in a sling, advancing along the grassy path. Mr.
Brock started when he saw the face of the newcomer, and clutched the
arm of his companion.
"Who--who is that?" he asked, his face grey and drawn, and his frame
literally trembling with nervous agitation. "That is Mr. Carson," said
Mallow, wondering.
"Carson! Oh, my God! Carson? Do--do the dead return?"
Mallow feared the old man was about to faint.