CHAPTER XDORINDA

Here was a pretty kettle of fish. Hitherto, Rupert had led an easy life, wholly devoid of any great trouble. His mother having died when he was born, and his father while the lad was at school, Hendle had never been brought face to face with any heartbreaking sorrow. But, with the advent of Carrington, as a species of stormy petrel, had come one woe after another. In a remarkably short space of time, Rupert found himself in danger of losing his property, his position, his promised wife, and even his good name, if not his liberty and life. Should the will be found, and should it prove to be legal, Mallien, without the least compunction, would ascend the local throne as the new Squire of Barship, with an income of four thousand a year. And, in that event, there would be every chance that the marriage with Dorinda would never take place. Her father, having all he wanted, would never agree to the match, and, even if the girl remained true--as he knew very well she would--how could he ask her to marry one reduced to the position of a pauper? These things alone were sufficient to drive an ordinary man crazy; but the possibility of being arrested for a crime he had not committed, made Hendle feel that the burden was too great to be borne. He returned to The Big House with his mind in a turmoil, and his head aching with anxious thought.

Aware that Mrs. Beatson had acted treacherously, Rupert's first idea was to call her in and dismiss her straightway with a month's wages. But, on second thoughts, he decided to do nothing until he had consulted with Carrington. Certainly, the barrister, by refusing to help as a friend, had shown himself almost as greedy of gain as Mallien; but Hendle decided that the prospect of a fat fee would make the man more alert to earn it. Carrington, when all was said and done, had a shrewd brain and a great deal of experience connected with the seamy side of life, so he was just the man to handle the problems Fate had so unexpectedly given Rupert to solve. Mallien did not like Carrington, and if Mallien secured the property, Carrington would not even get his costs for taking up the case. Therefore, both as a professional man and as Hendle's friend, the barrister had every reason to work on the side of the Squire. What he would advise in the matter of Mrs. Beatson and her eavesdropping Rupert did not know; but he thought it would be just as well to see what he said. With this idea the Squire made no difference toward his treacherous housekeeper, and concealed his feelings so well that Mrs. Beatson had no idea that her batteries had been unmasked. All the same Hendle saw as little of her as possible, and, beyond giving her necessary orders, did not speak to her.

It must be noted that Mallien's estimate of Mrs. Beatson's brain was a perfectly correct one. She did not in any way connect the conversation about the missing will with the death of the vicar. All she knew was that Mr. Leigh had found an ancient testament which would probably transfer the property to Mallien, as the descendant of John Hendle's granddaughter; and, for this reason, she worshipped the rising sun. Had she guessed that there was any doubt about the legality of the will, or any danger of its not being found, she would have held her tongue until such time as she saw on what side it was best to range herself. But, in the conversation she had overheard, Leigh had seemed so certain that Rupert would lose the property and as certain that his cousin would get it, that Mrs. Beatson had lost no time in reporting the position. Mallien's conduct had justified her action, for he had promised her an annuity whenever he came into his own. And, to gain a certain income, the housekeeper was quite willing to see her kind-hearted young master driven as a pauper from his house.

Some natures are so strangely constituted that they resent kindness, and the more benefactions they receive, the more do they hate the person who bestows them. Mrs. Beatson was a woman of this class, and all Hendle's consideration for many years had only increased the dislike she had felt when she first set eyes on him. Moreover, she detested Dorinda for her beauty and sweetness, and for the certain happiness which the marriage with Rupert would surely give her. Mrs. Beatson knew enough of the girl's unsophisticated nature to be sure that no amount of money would make up to her for the loss of her promised husband. She did not like Dorinda getting a fortune through her father, but that could not be helped, and, after all, the breaking of the engagement would assuredly prevent the girl from enjoying the same. Therefore, the good lady smiled comfortably to herself as she went about her duties, and rejoiced to think, as she put it, in quite a Biblical way, that the pride of the young couple would soon be brought low. She might not have rejoiced so prematurely had she guessed the contents of the after-dinner letter which her master wrote. But she did not and gloried in her fool's paradise. Dorinda would be made miserable; Hendle would be made a pauper; and she, who had brought about these things, would retire on an annuity of two hundred a year for her services, as she thought that Mallien could not possibly give her less.

Meanwhile, after a meal to which he gave little attention, Hendle retired to the snug little library of The Big House and sat down to his desk. After a few moments of reflection, he wrote a long and exhaustive letter to Carrington, setting forth what had taken place in the study of the late vicar. He pointed out that what the barrister had conjectured had actually come to pass, for Mallien, in possession of the secret, now deliberately accused him of the crime. Rupert added that he had been given a week to think over things, and then asked whether it would not be well to dismiss Mrs. Beatson at once, lest she should act in a further treacherous manner. Finally, the young man ended with inviting Carrington to come down and stay at The Big House until everything was put straight, hinting that any fee Carrington liked to demand would be given to him for his services. In a postscript, Rupert significantly added that if Mallien got the property, Carrington would either receive less remuneration, or none at all. Therefore, and this was the end of the letter--it remained for Carrington to say whether he would give his services on these doubtful terms. Having placed the position before the barrister thus fairly and squarely, Hendle slipped the epistle into an envelope, addressed and sealed it, and sent a special messenger to post it in the village. Afterward, as there was no more to be done, he lighted his pipe, and, sitting in one chair with his feet on another, he began to read the morning paper, which he had not yet glanced at, so deeply had he been involved in the direction of his own affairs.

But the young man's brain declined to interest itself in public doings and, before he knew where he was, Rupert found himself thinking of what had happened in connection with Dorinda. Laying the newspaper on his knee, and placing his hands behind his head, he leaned back to think what was best to be done. He sorely needed a sympathetic soul to converse with, and there was no one so fitted to help him as Dorinda. Carrington's request for a fee had placed him in the position of a business man rather than in that of a friend, so there was nothing to be gained in that quarter. But Dorinda always understood and always gave good advice, and always soothed his feelings. Hendle longed for her looks, and touch and words so much, that he very nearly decided to cross the park and visit the cottage. But two considerations caused him to alter his mind, one was that Mallien, now openly hostile, would be present at the interview; the other was, that he could not speak straightly to the girl, seeing that her father had so much to do with the matter. Dorinda knew that her parent was what is known as a hard case, and had not much respect or affection for him, since he did not deserve the first, nor demand the last. All the same, it was impossible, as Hendle felt, for him to tell the girl frankly that her father was little more than a blackmailer. With such a delicate perception of what was right and just as Rupert possessed, such a course of action was not to be thought of, so he subsided again into his chair, whence he had risen, and determined to carry his heavy burden all by himself. And, considering that the young man had no experience of burdens, he carried it well and bravely.

Then Fate, who had interfered so much in his affairs that matters had been brought to this pass, interfered again with a kinder motive. Just as Rupert was wondering how he was to get through the long night without receiving human sympathy, there was a tapping at the right-hand window of the room, which brought him to his feet. In the stillness of the library, the sound was so unexpected and imperative that even Hendle's steady nerves were unstrung for the moment. With an effort he pulled himself together, and went to the window to lift it and see who had made the signal. Through the glass he saw Dorinda standing on the terrace in the luminous summer night, and she nodded smilingly to him when he lifted the sash.

"Why didn't you go to the door?" asked Rupert, leaning out, and more astonished by her unexpected appearance than he would admit.

"I don't want that prying Mrs. Beatson to see me," replied Miss Mallien, advancing toward the window, the sill of which was so low that she could very easily step over it. "I don't want her to know that I am here. Help me in, Rupert. No!" she suddenly stepped back. "Better come out and join me in the garden. I have much to say to you, and I don't want to risk Mrs. Beatson listening at the door."

"You never did like her," said Hendle, vaulting through the open window onto the terrace. "But why do you suspect her of eavesdropping?"

"My father has told me what she told him," rejoined the girl calmly. "It is for that reason that I have come over."

Rupert took her arm, and they descended the shallow steps to the second terrace, and then gained the lawn, which was dry and warm to the feet. For a few minutes the Squire said nothing, but guided her down a narrow path, which wound deviously to a kind of glade, wherein stood an ancient sundial. Near this and against a dense shrubbery stood a low marble seat on which he placed the girl. Then he sat down beside her and, still remaining silent, strove to collect his scattered thoughts. Dorinda did not hurry him into speech by making any further observation. She had said all that was necessary, and the next remark must be made by her lover. So the two sat quietly under the calm beauty of the stars, breathing the cool fragrance of the night, and the myriad odors of the dreaming flowers. There was no moon, yet the light of the dying day, which still lingered, revealed the garden in a kind of warm twilight. It was such an evening as would have inspired Romeo to venture into the magical garden of Juliet; and love-talk was the only language fitted for such an hour and scene. Yet the stern necessities of the hour demanded that this bachelor and maid should talk on more prosaic matters. A sad waste of time and opportunity, to be sure, as both regretfully thought; but there was no help for it, if future peace was to be insured. Only by the two solving the problems which Fate had set, could happiness come.

"I am sorry that your father told you," said Rupert at last.

"Why?" Dorinda turned her thoughtful face toward him, and saw his white shirt-front glimmer in the half-light.

"Because I did not intend to tell you myself."

"Why?" she asked again, and very calmly--even wonderingly.

"Is there any need to worry you?" fenced the young man evasively.

"If you are worried, as you are, it is only fair that I should be worried also, which I am. We are not yet married, dear; all the same, we are as perfectly of one mind as any two people can be. And, if I am to be your wife, I must naturally share your burdens; it is easier for two to bear them than one. You understand?"

Hendle took her hand, which lay lightly on her lap, and pressed it in token of thanks. "I understand that you are a staunch and true woman," he said, in a soft voice, "how you came to have such a father----?"

"Oh, don't let us speak of him," interrupted Dorinda impatiently.

"My dear, we must speak of him, as he is part and parcel of the affairs which we must discuss. Yet, had he not spoken to you, I should have held my peace, although I was sorely tempted to come to you for sympathy no later than a few minutes before you tapped at the window."

"I knew, from what my father said, that you were in trouble, Rupert, and I felt that you needed me. For that reason I flung a cloak over my dinner-dress and came on here. Mrs. Beatson would be very shocked if she knew that I was sitting alone with you in the garden in this hour."

"Mrs. Beatson is the kind of woman who would be shocked, however innocent the thing that startled her might be. So your father told you of our interview in Leigh's study?"

"Yes. That is, he told me about the missing will, and how Mrs. Beatson overheard what poor Mr. Leigh had to say on the matter."

"What else did he tell you?" asked Hendle anxiously.

"My dear," Dorinda's eyes opened widely, "what else was there to tell?"

"Hum!" murmured the Squire doubtfully. "Your father let out just as much as suited him. Let us talk of what he did tell you to begin with; afterward, we can talk of what he did not tell you. Yet"--Rupert tugged at his moustache nervously--"I am not quite sure if I should speak frankly."

"I am," retorted Dorinda, giving his hand a squeeze, "if I am to help you, I must know everything."

"I don't feel quite certain if that is playing the game."

"Is my father playing the game?" questioned the girl, with a shrug.

"No," answered Rupert decidedly, "he isn't. And it is that which makes it so hard for me to be frank. After all, your father is your father, dear, and I have no right to say anything which will lower him in your esteem."

Dorinda laughed rather sadly. "Dear, I have no illusions left about my father," she said, in a low tone, "he has never been a father to me, as you know very well. I have tried my best to respect and love him, but his actions and life are such that I can do neither. Be as open with me as you can, Rupert, for you know that my father will not spare either of us where his own feelings are at stake. Therefore, it only seems fair to me that we should not spare him, more than is necessary, on account of my unfortunate relationship to him."

"Do you really think so, Dorinda?"

"Yes, I do. If my father deserved filial affection, he should have it. But, as he has made no attempt to secure it, how can I give it to him? And remember, you are to be my husband and your interests are mine, even though my father's selfish desires intervene. You have the greatest claim on me."

Rupert heaved a sigh of relief. "I am so glad to hear you say that," he remarked thankfully, "for I badly need some one who can help me and sympathize with me. I thought Carrington would prove to be a pal, but, like everyone else, he is eaten up with greed for money."

"What makes you say that?"

"He said that he would only help me on condition that I paid him."

"Ah-r-r-r," said Dorinda, much disgusted. "I told you that I did not like him, Rupert. He is a bad man."

"Oh, not so bad as that, dear. A little greedy perhaps, but not wholly bad."

"He is a bad man," repeated Dorinda, obstinately. "As my father said, long ago, all he wants is to get money out of you."

"As your father does," said Rupert dryly.

Dorinda looked down at her white shoes and placed them both together before she answered. "I have told you my opinion of my father," she said with a sigh, "so what is the use of going over old ground. But time is passing, Rupert, and there is much to say. I wish to go home soon, lest my father should find out that I have come here. I left him busy in his study with his jewels, so we are safe for half an hour, at least. Come now, what took place in the Vicarage library?"

"What did your father tell you?"

"He said that Mrs. Beatson told him about the will found by Mr. Leigh, and how Mr. Leigh had mislaid it. The will, he declared, left the Hendle property to him entirely."

"I have not yet seen the will," answered Rupert, cautiously, "and, beyond Leigh's word, I don't even know that it exists. But he maintained that it did, as he came across it in the Muniment Room, and took it to the Vicarage to look into. Then he lost it, or mislaid it somehow. As I have access to his papers, as executor, I am trying to find it."

"Does it leave the property to my father?"

"Not directly, I understand," admitted Rupert, quietly, "but Leigh explained that John Hendle, from whom we are both descended, dear, hated his younger son Frederick, who inherited, and loved his son Walter, who was killed at the Battle of Waterloo. In the year when that battle was fought, he made this will, leaving the Hendle property to Walter's daughter, and cutting off Frederick, who represented the younger branch."

"Eunice Hendle was the daughter, my father said."

"Yes. She afterward became Eunice Filbert, as she married a man of that name," explained Rupert laboriously. "Her daughter, Anne Filbert, married Frank Mallien, your father's parent, so, if the will proves to be legal, your father will certainly get the property through his descent on the distaff side."

"And you?" asked Dorinda, apprehensively.

Rupert rested his elbows on his knees, linked his hands loosely together, and looked down at the shadowy turf of the lawn. "I shall lose everything," he stated calmly. "I descend in the male line from Frederick through Henry Hendle and Charles Hendle. And, as Frederick was cut off by his father in favor of Walter's child, Eunice, I am an interloper and a fraud. If this will is found, and can be proved to be legal, Dorinda, I shall not have a penny. As things stand, your father is better off with his five hundred a year than I shall be. It is a very unpleasant position, as it stops our marriage."

"Oh, does it?" cried Dorinda, flaming up, "in what way?"

"Well, in the first place, your father would never agree to your marrying a pauper, and in the second the pauper could scarcely ask you to share his nothing a year."

"Darling,"--Dorinda drew closer to her lover and laid her cheek against his--"I will marry no one but you. I don't care what my father says."

"It is not of your father that I am thinking of, but of my honor," rejoined Rupert, slipping his arm round her waist and holding her tightly to him. "If we got married, how could I support you? I have no trade, and no profession, so the only thing that I could do to keep body and soul together is to enlist. I might emigrate certainly, but then your life as my wife would be as hard and impossible in the backwoods as it would be if you followed the drum along with me."

Dorinda sighed. "You take a very prosaic view of the position."

"In justice to you I must take a prosaic view. Romance is all very well, but without money romance means trouble and sordid cares."

"Yes," sighed the girl again; then added, after a pause. "And if the will is not found?"

"I shall keep my own," answered Rupert firmly. "It's no use my being a silly fool, and giving up what isn't proved not to be mine. But I am looking for the will, Dorinda, and if it comes to light, I shall hand it over to the family lawyers to be adjusted. And, of course, you may be certain that I shall take advantage of everything likely to prevent my losing The Big House and the income."

"That is quite right," said Dorinda, in a tone of satisfaction, patting her lover's hand consolingly. "I daresay my father will fight, but if you have right on your side, you will be sure to win. Money would do my father no good, as he would only waste it in collecting jewels, whereas you make good use of your income. After all the will may not exist. Mr. Leigh may have dreamed that there was such a document."

"He seemed to be very positive that it did exist, dear," said Rupert, with a shrug, "and, although Leigh was a bit of a dreamer, I don't think he would have or could have made up such a fairy tale as this. For my part, I believe that there is such a testament, and that it will come to light sooner or later. I shall make use of the Statute of Limitations, and of any flaw in the will to keep the property, but if everything is legal and shipshape, I shall hand over what I have to your father. As an honest man I can do no less."

"It's very hard on you, dear."

"It is," admitted Rupert quietly; "but I may have to bear harder things."

Dorinda stared. "I don't see anything harder to bear."

"The loss of liberty and, perhaps, of life----"

"Rupert, what are you talking about?"

"Ah!" Rupert rose and stretched himself. "Your father did not tell you all that we spoke about in the Vicarage study. You don't know what he proposes to do, Dorinda, and I don't know if I ought to tell you."

"You must! you must!" She sprang up and laid her two hands on his shoulders with a grasp of which he did not think she was capable. "I share all your troubles--all your sorrows, all--all."

Hendle caught her hands, and holding them to his heart looked into her eyes dimly seen in the light. "Your father declares that I murdered Leigh to get the will," he said quietly; "don't scream."

"I am not going to scream," replied Dorinda, looking aside and speaking rather rapidly. "What on earth makes my father say such a ridiculous thing? On the face of it, such an accusation is absurd."

"Your father doesn't seem to think so, dear. And if Inspector Lawson learned what was at stake with regard to this will, he would not think so either. Remember that I had every reason to steal it, even at the cost of a life."

"What rubbish," declared the girl, vehemently. "You would never, never, never----"

"No," said Rupert positively, and his heart leaped when she defended him. "I would never save my property at the cost of a crime, however small or however necessary. You know, Dorinda, that I would let everything go rather than lose my honor and my good name. Your father thinks otherwise, so he is determined to get my money and my position, and my good name into the bargain."

"I can't believe it, I can't! I can't!" gasped the girl, overwhelmed. "My father may be selfish, but he wouldn't surely----"

"But he has. He accuses me of committing the crime, and has given me one week to think over the matter. If I come to his terms, he will shut up Mrs. Beatson's possible chatter and will hold his own tongue."

"Did he offer you safety on those terms?"

"He did, and I refused them."

Dorinda flung her arms round his neck and her lips sought his. "I knew you would; I knew you would. Oh! don't say anything more, Rupert. I am glad you told me, as I now know where I stand--where you stand. We have a week to think over things, and in that week much may happen. God will never permit such an injustice. Cheer up, dearest"--she kissed him again--"it will all come out right; it will all come out right."

"I hope so," said Rupert, doubtfully, and adjusting the cloak on her shoulders. "But what will you say to your father?"

"I don't know, I can't say, I must think. Meanwhile, see me home, Rupert."

Thus abruptly she ended the interview, and the Squire escorted her to within sight of the cottage. But he did not enter.