Chapter 3

"MR. BROCK AND THE LETTER."

Margery's conscience had now the upper hand of her. All her acting was cast to the winds. "It was wrong to take it," she wept. "I can see that now, Mr. Mallow, but I did not think. Father said that all property should be shared in common, so I thought I would share with Mr. Brock; he has very nice property," she added, na�vely.

"Was this wrist-button put away carefully?"

"No-o-o. It was lying loose in a drawer; I didn't think it was of much value. I am very, very wicked."

Mallow drew the child towards him and consoled her. "Don't cry, Margery," he said, wiping her eyes with his handkerchief. "A fault confessed is half-redressed. Did you tell Mr. Brock that you were sorry?"

"Yes; I told him that I was converted, and that I repented of my wickedness. He said it did not matter; that I was not to trouble about what I had done."

"Then don't trouble, dear. There, there, it's all right. So you have given up the Anarchism?"

"I am a Christian now. I believe in----"

Before Margery could state her religious beliefs, Olive, looking rather anxious, came into the room. "Laurence, would you mind calling on Mr. Brock alone? Mrs. Drabble is not well enough to be left at present."

"Oh, is mother ill?" cried Margery, scared.

"She is not very well, dear. Put on your stockings and shoes, child; you will take cold. Laurence!"

"I'll go to Mr. Brock. Is that the letter, Olive? Thank you. How long will you stop here?"

"Until Mrs. Drabble is better. When you return home, Laurence, please ask Miss Slarge to come here. Margery!"

The child was shaking and white. "Please, please, what is the matter?" she asked, catching Olive by the hand.

Olive looked at her in silence and with pity. If it had been a painful task to inform Mrs. Drabble of the truth, it was a much more terrible one to inform Margery. With a nod to Mallow, she led the child from the room; and Laurence, feeling somewhat de trop in this scene of domestic grief, slipped away, not ill-pleased to have the opportunity. It was vexing, in one way, that Olive could not come with him; but on reflection he could not regret her absence.

At the corner of the Vicarage he was confronted by a she-Cerberus, in the person of Mr. Brock's deaf housekeeper. This grim and lean spinster might once have been a human flower, but the sap was now gone out of her, and she had withered on the stalk in a state of single-blessedness. Even Mallow's good looks and polite inquiries failed to impress her. She was the sworn enemy of all male-kind. At the outset she declined to admit Mallow; "indeed, he's much too ill," she said. But in the end she was so far prevailed upon as to consent to convey a message. This resulted in prompt permission for the visitor to enter the sick-room, whither the sour spinster led him with obvious reluctance. She closed the door on him with a bang, and returned to vent her ill-temper in the kitchen.

The vicar had transferred himself from his bedroom to the study. He was lying on a sofa drawn close up to the window. His eyes were unnaturally bright and sunken, and his skin was the colour of wax. The few weeks of confinement to the house had aged him inconceivably. But he appeared to be in good spirits, and received Mallow most cordially.

"You find me much afflicted, Mr. Mallow," said he, cheerfully, "but I am not without hope of recovery. I contrive to keep up my spirits, which is, I suppose, a greater preventive of inanition than the most stringent of medicines."

"I am indeed glad to know you are better, Mr. Brock. Will conversation tire you?"

"Not at all. It is a pleasure to converse intelligently. How is Mrs. Carson?"

"Miss Bellairs is quite well," said Laurence, prepared for this question. Brock turned an astonished look on his visitor. "But why do you call Olive by her maiden name?"

"Because that is her name for the present. She is not Carson's wife."

"Not Carson's wife, man? I married them myself" said the vicar, with a searching glance, not unmixed with uneasiness.

"True enough, Mr. Brock. But I am sorry to tell you that Carson has proved a scamp and a bigamist. At the time he married Olive he was already the husband of Clara Trall, the maid. They have left for England, and Olive has returned here as Miss Bellairs. She is shortly to be married to me."

"Angus already married?" gasped Brock, when he took in the full import of it. "Angus, the son of an upright man, act so basely? Surely, surely there must be some mistake."

"I--am--afraid--not. Lord Aldean followed the runaways to Florence, and saw them together. They confessed their marriage."

"But why did Angus so deceive Olive?"

Mallow shrugged. "To get her money, no doubt," he said carelessly. "It will come to you now, Mr. Brock, since the marriage has not taken place."

"Alas! I fear I have done with all use for worldly goods, Mr. Mallow. I am not so strong as I thought I was. My heart has been weakened by my accident, and any sudden shock would probably be fatal to me. If this money does come to me now, it will not remain with me long, for my days are numbered."

"Nil desperandum," said Mallow, not very originally. "You have years of clean living behind you, sir, and may mend sooner than you think. After all, you are better off than Drabble; he has met with a violent death in common with many others of his kidney."

"Drabble dead? Well, I am not surprised. I have been wondering if he was in that Soho explosion of which we have read lately. As that was his town address, it struck me that he might possibly have been. Ah!" sighed Mr. Brock, "a terrible end to a mistaken life. But I thought that Drabble was more of a Socialist than an Anarchist?"

"He was everything that's bad," said Laurence, shortly. "Olive is now comforting Mrs. Drabble, poor soul! By the way, Mr. Brock, Margery told me about that wrist-button."

"Dear, dear; the poor child must not worry about that. I forgave her taking it; children will finger things, and Margery's mind was quite perverted by her father's peculiar views.--Still," he added, with a smile, "Margery really had more right to it than I. It originally belonged to Drabble."

"What! did you get it from him, then?"

"As a gift--yes. I saw it lying on his desk one day, and took it up to examine it. As it was of Indian workmanship, I asked him to give it to me as a curiosity. I was a missionary in India once, you know."

"Yes, I know. Did Drabble give it to you willingly?"

"Certainly. I should not have taken it otherwise. It is a pretty thing; Margery tells me that she gave it to Olive."

"Olive wears it as a brooch," replied Mallow, gloomily. He was distinctly puzzled.

He noticed, too, that the vicar was half dozing, and felt that perhaps he was overtaxing his strength.

"Well, I must be going now. Mr. Brock," said he, producing Dr. Carson's letter, "my principal reason for coming was to hand you this."

"What is it?" asked Brock, taking the blue envelope drowsily.

"A letter from your old friend, Dr. Carson."

Brock woke up with a start. He was clearly agitated. "From a dead man? What does it mean?"

"A message of some import, no doubt," said Mallow. "Young Carson brought it home with him, but forgot to deliver it."

"A voice from the grave!" muttered Brock, unheeding. His hands were busy with two papers--a closely written letter, and a dozen long pages of foolscap of aggressively official appearance. Mallow's fingers itched to take them up, but he judiciously restrained himself; and watched the vicar skim his eye over the letter. Its perusal seemed to move him greatly.

"Wrong, wrong," he said, folding it up. "Better to let the dead past bury its dead," and shuffling the papers into their envelope, he slipped it under his pillow.

Mallow was struck by his remark. It tended to confirm his long-entertained suspicions.

"Mr. Brock," he asked, after a moment, "was there a secret in the life of the late Mr. Bellairs?"

"Why should you think so?" said the vicar, nervously.

"I have not forgotten about the sealed letter which forced Olive into marrying Carson. She asked you what its hint of evil meant. You told her to take no notice of it."

"That was her best course," said Mr. Brock, still agitated. "So long as she married Angus, there was no need for her to trouble about the letter."

"Then there is a secret?" insisted Mallow.

Mr. Brock shifted uneasily. "Whose life is free from sin?" he said, in low tones. "Yes, there--is--a secret."

"Had it to do with Olive's marriage?"

"Yes; if she had refused Angus, there might have been trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Don't ask me," said the vicar, with a shiver.

"I must ask you. Olive guesses that there is a secret, and she wishes to know it."

"She shall never know it from me," said the vicar, his face more pallid than ever. "I say let the dead past bury its dead."

"You said that before when you read that letter. The secret is told in that enclosed document?"

"Yes," said Brock, reluctantly.

"Then Olive must read it--I must read it. We must know the truth."

The vicar remained silent, and his brow wrinkled. "Who gains knowledge gains sorrow," he said, aphoristically. "It will do neither you nor Olive any good to learn the follies of a young man. However, I will read the document, and--if I can legitimately do so--I will send it to Olive."

"Is the secret so very terrible, then?"

"It is very terrible."

"Is her father----"

"Mr. Mallow," protested the vicar, wiping his wet forehead, "I have said all I intend to say, until I read this letter. If I can send it to Olive, it shall be sent. Please leave me. I--I have overtaxed my strength. Touch the bell, please, as you go out."

Although Mallow would fain have stayed, there was nothing left for him to do but to obey this peremptory request. He could not but acknowledge that Mr. Brock was acting in an eminently reasonable way. A secret of such moment as this appeared to be could not be communicated hastily and without due consideration.

When next he saw Olive, Mallow told her what she might expect. With characteristic firmness, she chose to abide by her decision.

"I must know the truth," she declared, "at whatever cost. So long as you and I are together, Laurence, nothing can hurt us."

"You tempt the gods, my dearest," replied Laurence, and sighed.

The events of the last few months had shaken his nerve, and he was apt at times to give way to despondency.

Mr. Brock did not seem in a hurry to come to his decision. One, two, three days passed before word came to the Manor House. Having implicit faith in the vicar's judgment, Mallow did not urge him at all. He did not even go near the Vicarage, but curbed his impatience and that of Olive as best he could. Virtue was rewarded--if reward it was--for on the fourth day the document was delivered to Miss Bellairs, with a letter from the vicar.

"I send you the history of your father in India," wrote Mr. Brock, "though it is somewhat against my better judgment. I do so, however, as I can guess that your curiosity will allow you no rest. I give you the opportunity of appeasing it. Still, even at this eleventh hour, I would most earnestly advise you to put the enclosed paper in the fire unread. Its perusal can only give you pain, and remove from its pedestal the idol of your youth."

All this, and much more, Mr. Brock wrote, and Mallow read. He was alone with Olive in the library. He looked questioningly at her. She was silent, and for answer placed the document in his hands.

"Am I to read it?" he asked. Olive bent her head. "As you think wise, dear; or shall we burn it, as Mr. Brock advises, unread?"

Olive clasped her hands tightly together. The question was a weighty one. She hesitated. Then she crossed the Rubicon.

"Read," she said, in low tones; "at whatever cost, read."

Mallow silently spread out the paper and began.