Chapter 5

"LET THE DEAD PAST BURY ITS DEAD."

The insulting peroration of Dr. Carson's effusion was suppressed by Mallow; for Olive was already suffering severely under the knowledge of her father's misdeeds. He was a murderer, a blackmailer, a thief--he, her dearly-loved father, whom from a child she had set up as her idol. Who could cherish, nay, even respect, the memory of a man guilty of what she now learned he had been guilty? Small wonder, indeed, that he had implored her to conceal that guilt, even though it cost her a life's happiness in the doing. She had a rigid sense of right and wrong, and, despite herself, her idol crashed from off the pedestal whereon she had so lovingly set it up just as Mr. Brock had prophesied it would. And with it went all her dearest memories--all the recollections which she had cherished for so long--which in the cherishing had become a part of her self--perhaps, even the better part. She wept bitterly at the ruin of her world. And Mallow let her weep. He felt it was better so. And when she grew more composed he left her, holding over the fire, as he rose from his seat, the leaves that had brought such sorrow with them. She divined what he would do, and sanctioned it with a slow bend of her head. And then the flames destroyed for ever the tangible evidence of Mark Bellairs' sins.

When Mallow returned she was more herself. She had dried her eyes. "Would you like to talk about this, Olive?"

"No, dear, no. Of what use! Nothing we can say can alter such truths as these."

"Perhaps not; but we can at least hide them. No one save you and I knows this story. No one must know it, Olive--for your father's sake."

"Mr. Brock knows it?"

"Mr. Brock, yes. But we can trust Mr. Brock. Indeed, he has done all a man could do to spare you. I feel I am in no small degree myself to blame for the knowledge of this having reached you at all. I urged him to it."

"Oh, it is better I should know it, Laurence. At least, we know the worst now. Nothing--oh, surely nothing could be worse than this. Poor father is gone. But, Laurence dear, I have you, Laurence--I always have you. Thank God for you, Laurence."

"But remember, Olive, if your father sinned, he repented--bitterly repented."

"Yes, Laurence, I know. But he was willing I should be sacrificed to hide his sin--I, who loved him so--that hurts me terribly, Laurence; that is not easy to forgive."

"Is it not possible that he agreed to this man Carson's proposal to save you from the truth--that you might never know?"

"Even so, it was for his own sake--for his memory's sake."

"May be, yes. But that was only natural, Olive. Would it not be his great desire that you should think the best of him? And, after all, dear, this act of your father's was the act of days long bygone--thirty years or more ago--and from then to the time of his death he led an upright, honest life. Think of him, not as Trall's accomplice, dear, but as the father you knew. Try and do that, Olive--will you?"

"If you wish it, Laurence--yes, I will try."

And so the fateful missive was destroyed, and they made up their minds that they would put their knowledge behind them, and slip back again into the old life as though it had never been. Their Hegira was before them--from their marriage they would date it. And that was to be very soon now. Yet there were details which must be settled before they finally dismissed the past. And with these Olive prepared to busy herself. Great as was her sorrow, she did not allow it to sadden her. She determined it should permeate her every-day existence. She was quietly cheerful, and ever amiable to her guests. She was kindly sympathetic to Aldean and Tui, and listened with all patience to the disquisitions of Miss Slarge, even unto the doings of Ala Mahozim, the god of fortifications. Of Mrs. Purcell she saw little in these days. That good lady was indefatigably scouring the county, renewing early friendships, and conducting an orderly canvass in favour of Olive, and to the denunciation of her bigamist husband. Maids and matrons lifted up their hands in horror at Mrs. Purcell's revelations; men, old and young, expressed violent desires to have Carson within boot-reach. So vigorously did the clever old lady raise the countryside in Olive's favour, that the tide of sympathy soon set strongly towards the Manor House, and Miss Bellairs--Mrs. Carson no longer on friendly tongues--was pitied, petted, called upon, and duly wept over.

As a Dea ex machin�, Mrs. Purcell had been successful far beyond the thanks of those whom she sought to serve.

Meanwhile Trall had picked up his health in no small degree, and with it a courage long foreign to his timid nature. But, lest he should revert to his old habits, Mallow feared to let him out of sight. He kept him always within the grounds of the Manor. There he pottered about, from day to day, and the servants understood that he was a decayed gentleman pensioner of their mistress. Jeremiah, collecting his rags of gentility, supported the character well enough. He never alluded in any way to his stormy life of the past. His mind taking a religious turn, he dismissed his former state as one of sin, and not to be referred to; and he spent hours reading the Bible in preparation for his summons to another existence. And, seemingly, that call was not very far away. The man's once bulky frame had shrunk and dwindled greatly, so that his clothes hung loosely upon him now.

After the burning of the document, Laurence called at the Vicarage to tell Mr. Brock of what he had done. But this time the deaf spinster was successful, and he obtained no admission to the Vicarage. Mr. Brock sent out a message that he was much engaged, and could see no one for a week at least. Surprised somewhat, Mallow took himself off, and on the road up to the Manor met little Mr. Timson, the doctor, pounding along on his broken-kneed mare. At Mallow's halloo, he reined up--no easy task with his hard-mouthed veteran.

"The Vicar?" asked Mallow, gazing into Timson's red face--red with pulling; "how is he getting along?"

Timson was a pessimist, with a high average of deaths amongst his patients. He shook his flaxen locks dolefully. "Very bad, Mr. Mallow; I don't suppose he'll see the winter through. His heart is weak--very weak. Nasty murmur there--mitral valve wrong; any sudden shock--in fact, emotion of any kind--and he's done for," said Timson, solemnly.

"But under normal conditions, doctor, he'll pull through, won't he?"

"Oh, may last for a time; but he's bound to go--bound to go. The leg is obstinate, too. If he'd only rest, there might be a chance; but he goes on writing, writing."

Laurence pricked up his ears.

"Writing! What is he writing?"

"Some sort of diary, I should think--pages and pages of it. To make matters worse, he uses a cipher. Very bad for him that, you know--very bad. By the way," added the little man, "I hear poor old Drabble is taken."

"He is blown to bits, if that is what you mean by 'taken,'" said Mallow, grimly; "he played with fire once too often."

Timson sighed. "I know that he held pernicious doctrines, Mr. Mallow, and his medical methods were not such as I could endorse. I've taken over a good many of his patients. They are in a sad state--a sad, sad state!" and he shook his little head again. "Poor Drabble! Ah! well, we must all come to it."

"But not necessarily in the same way, I trust. Well, good day, Mr. Timson."

As the doctor's animal stumbled down the hill, Mallow, climbing upward, felt somewhat uneasy at the news of Mr. Brock's industry. It might be that there was yet more to tell of Bellairs' wickedness, and Mallow fancied that the vicar might be setting it down in black and white.

"Precious queer amusement for a clergyman on the point of death, anyhow," he muttered to himself. "He has no relative that his scribbling is likely to interest, that I know of."

That same evening, leaving Aldean and Tui at whist with the old ladies, he led Olive into the library.

"I want to talk to you, Olive about this money. You were saying something the other day about getting rid of it."

"Yes; I wouldn't use it for the world. Thirty thousand of it has gone with Clara and Boldini to South America. I want to give the remaining twenty back to the Indian Government."

"H'm; the Government will ask questions. We don't want that."

"Can't it be returned as conscience-money?"

"Even so, I fancy, some explanation would be necessary. It is a large sum, you see. Besides, there is another point which you have overlooked. The money--or, rather, what is left of it--is not yours."

"Not mine? Then whose is it?"

"You forget the will, Olive. In the event of your not marrying Carson, the money was to go to Mr. Brock. Well, as a matter of fact, the provisions of the will not being complied with, that is where it ought to go."

"He can have it, with pleasure; but I feel sure he won't touch it now."

"Perhaps not; but he said if he got it--that was before he read the story--he would give it back to you."

"I don't want it. If he does, I shall only forward it to the proper quarter. Strictly speaking, it should be given to the Rao of Kikat."

"There is no Rao now. Don't you remember how Dr. Carson said that the kingdom was absorbed in the Empire? I think it will be best to ask Mr. Brock's advice--and, not only ask it, but take it."

"Mr. Brock is an honourable man; he will agree with me that the money should be restored. I am half sorry we recovered it now."

"I'm not," said Mallow, grimly. "At least, we have done Semberry out of his haul. But I'll see Brock."

"Laurence, do you think Mr. Brock knew of my father's wickedness?"

"No; Carson explicitly says that Trall did not tell the Rao about either him or your father. When Singha got the papers, Brock was already on the road to Calcutta, and they were burnt before he returned. No; Brock did not know until he read Carson's story."

"He would never have published it, as Dr. Carson wished."

"No; that I'm sure he would not," said Mallow, warmly. "Carson was quite mistaken in his estimate of Brock's character. But, if Angus had lived, and you had refused to marry him, he might have held it over you as a threat."

"But the envelope was sealed?"

"Of course. Still, Angus knew the story as related there. Dr. Carson said that he told it to him. But things are square now. Carson is dead, with his story untold; the paper is burnt, and Mr. Brock will keep his own counsel for our sakes."

"After we see Mr. Brock, dear, we will never talk of these things again," said Olive. "But there are one or two questions I feel I must ask him."

With a sudden recollection of the cipher diary and its possible further revelations, Mallow withheld his approval. "Better let sleeping dogs lie, dear."

"But I want to know more of my father's life at Kikat."

"Don't, Olive, don't. What you do know has brought you nothing but unhappiness."

"That's just it, Laurence. Nothing can make me more unhappy. I may as well know everything there is to know."

"Well, as you please. But you must let me see Mr. Brock first."

"Why; to warn him, I suppose?"

"No, n-o-o. I think I ought to tell him of Angus Carson's death."

"What good will that do?"

"None, most likely. Still, I think he ought to know. I've always thought the motive for Carson's death was to be found in India."

"There was nothing in the story to lead one to think so."

"Nothing. But Mr. Brock may know something. At present he is under the impression that Boldini is the genuine Carson; but, when I tell him of the murder, and the whole conspiracy, it is possible he may recall some incident likely to throw light on what is now absolutely Cimmerian."

"I doubt it, Laurence. Are you still so bent on getting to the bottom of this murder?"

"Why not? An undiscovered mystery is like an unfinished tune. You feel a tantalizing desire for the closing cadence. All my life I shall worry about that poor fellow's death, until I really know how he was killed, and who killed him. Only one more try, Olive, I promise you. If Mr. Brock fails to help me, I suppose I must give up the chase."

"Well, see Mr. Brock, and then tell him the story. But I fear you will be disappointed."

"Who knows, dear. His knowledge of your father and Carson's life in Kikat should be precise. For all we know, Michael Trall may have done it."

"I can't think that, Laurence. Michael Trall has not been seen or heard of for thirty years."

"True, true. His own brother doesn't know of his whereabouts. I dare say the scamp is dead."

"And even if he were alive, I can't see where his motive could have been."

"True, again. But I think I'll ask Mr. Brock, nevertheless."