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<h4>CHAPTER IV</h4> <h5>THE COTTAGE</h5> 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." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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