Chapter 9

"TWENTY-ONE."

On calm reflection, Mallow did not consider that he had behaved very well to Olive. His passion and impetuosity had carried him beyond himself. He had been too rough; too masterful. Instead of suing with soft words, he had sought to dominate by sheer strength of will. A cave man of the stone period could scarce have wooed in style more savage; and when Mallow had regained his self-control, he was heartily ashamed that his fiery temper had got the better of him. But his pride would not allow him to apologize to Olive. Nor did he even excuse himself by letter. He preserved an absolute silence, and kept away from the Manor House. He had not been quite sincere when he declared his intention of proceeding at once to Athelstane Place, but for very shame he could not now withdraw from a position taken up so definitely. Accordingly, on the day preceding Olive's birthday, he announced to Aldean that he was going to London.

"Oh, hang it! I do call that shabby," cried Jim, with a look of dismay. "You promised to stay here at least two months."

"I'll come down and complete the term shortly, Aldean."

"Oh, you don't wish to be here when Miss Bellairs marries Carson, I suppose?"

"Miss Bellairs shall never marry Carson if I can help it."

"Perhaps not, Mallow, but I don't exactly see how you can help it. This morning I saw Carson, and he tells me the ceremony is to take place in a fortnight."

"A great deal can be done in a fortnight, Jim."

"Old man?" questioned Jim, with a stare, "have you anything up your sleeve?"

"Only my mistrust of Carson, as Carson."

"What! that old game? You are becoming a maniac on that subject, Mallow. It's all bosh, you know. Carson is Carson, right enough. Mrs. Purcell, Semberry, Mr. Brock,--they've all said as much."

"No doubt," replied Mallow, dryly. "But not one of them has explained why Carson's clothes should be impregnated with sandal-wood as were those of the man in Athelstane Place."

"You'll find nothing there to help you," said Aldean, shaking his head. "What the police couldn't do, you won't."

"Then I shall go to the police themselves."

"You'll look for a needle in a haystack, you mean. However, if you have made up your mind, I suppose you must go on your wild-goose chase. When may I expect you back from it?"

"Before Carson marries Miss Bellairs."

"Does that mean at the end of a fortnight?"

"If I make no discoveries associating Carson with the murder, it does."

"Oh, Lord! do you want to hang the man as well as rob him of his wife?"

"Jim, I'm not vindictive."

"Goodness only knows what you are, Mallow. Well, least said soonest mended; go, and good luck go with you."

After this conversation, in which, it will be noticed, Mallow gave no hint of his interview with Olive, he went to London, and was absent for the greater part of a fortnight.

Olive, too, kept her own counsel about that stormy wooing. But she felt a strange joy in recalling to herself its every detail. It was the joy of a woman who loves to be dominated and to be ruled by the man she adores. Had Mallow cut the Gordian knot of her difficulties, and, in the face of all her objection, forced her to marry him, secretly she would have been pleased and relieved. As it was, he had left her with an enigmatic utterance which she could not understand.

Yet this time of trial was in some ways beneficial to her. It strengthened the better qualities of her nature, which otherwise might have weakened in the sunshine of perpetual good fortune. The ills of this life, like drugs, are unpleasant but necessary. They brace our mental organization as do tonics our physical.

Olive's twenty-first birthday was celebrated by a dinner to her friends and tenantry. The Manor House and its grounds were thrown open in the old-fashioned, hospitable style, and a plentiful spread was provided under a temporary tent. Here farmers and labourers toasted their young mistress in the strongest and most stinging of ales. Speeches were made and congratulations were offered, and had Mallow but been present in the character of her future husband, Olive would have been completely happy. As it was, she had to introduce Carson in his place. But she accepted the encomiums passed upon his pleasant face and amiable speeches with such show of pleasure as she could command from herself. She could not deny that the husband chosen for her by her father was both attractive and agreeable, that he was even lovable in some ways--perhaps in his very weakness. Laurence was pre-eminently a man of strength; a man imperious and self-sustaining; a man who would love a woman and master a woman, and fulfil the fundamental law of Nature that the male is the lord of creation from an oyster to a wife; in short, a man stable as the universe, fixed as the stars. Angus was pleasant, good-tempered, handsome and weak. He would have made a charming woman, Olive thought with contempt. The Indian bangle was not much out of place, after all, upon his wrist.

On this festive occasion even poor Mrs. Drabble took a holiday. She brought with her Margery, Danton, and Brutus, of whom the first-named clung to Olive's skirts most of the day. She had brought with her and presented to Olive a birthday ode, in its way a marvel of rhyme and of spelling:--

"Oh, may no ethly cares
Anoy Olive Bellairs,
And may she never fear
Her birthday every year,
But give up teres and sighs.
Till she most hapy dyes."

"Thank you, Margery," said Olive, kissing the little poetess, who was anxiously watching the effect of her ode.

"I hope your good wishes will come true;" and she sighed.

"I have brought Charlotte Corday," remarked Margery, holding up a battered doll with a red cap on its head. "Poor dear! she has had no pleasure since we cut her head off."

"Who cut her head off?" asked Aldean, who was close at hand.

"Brutus, because he said she must 'dree her weird.' It should have been Danton of course, but Danton was at school. I have glued her head on again, but she will never have a strong neck. But I love her all the same."

"Shall I give you another doll?" said Carson, smiling amiably.

"No, thank you," replied Margery, shaking her curls, "I must keep Charlotte Corday after she has suffered so much for the cause."

"Ah! that is my Margery," roared Drabble; "she's a true chip of the old block."

"True chip of the gallows!" growled Semberry, who hated the doctor.

"When our day comes, there will be no gallows," retorted Dr. Drabble.

"Guillotines only, I suppose," said Aldean, with a twinkle.

"There will be love and fraternity, and equality."

"Be my brother or I will kill you," quoted Tui. "I've heard that sentiment before, Dr. Drabble."

"Miss Ostergaard, I thought you were a disciple of mine."

"I stop short of murder, doctor."

Major Semberry appeared disturbed. "Nasty word 'murder,' in a young lady's mouth;" he jerked; "let's talk of something agreeable."

"Of Olive, for instance," smiled Angus. "Olives are always agreeable."

"After dinner only," said Miss Bellairs, spoiling the pun, "I don't feel complimented, Angus, by your comparison."

"My dear, you are a flower--a rose!"

"And you are a smiling cabbage," muttered Tui, turning away. "Lord Aldean, take me to the tent."

"The Major is not engaged," hinted Aldean, slyly.

"Neither am I," retorted Miss Ostergaard, "so there is still a chance for your lordship;" and she led him away wondering if he could not construe a confession of love from her last remark.

While this desultory conversation was going on, Miss Slarge had the Rector well in hand, and was bombarding him with hard Babylonic facts. "Our Good Friday hot cross-bun is an emblem of idolatry," she was saying; "we should tread it underfoot rather than eat it."

"Oh, my dear lady," remonstrated the shocked Mr. Brock, "it is stamped with the sacred symbol of our religion!"

"I don't care what it is stamped with; it is none other than the sacred bread of Babylon, which was offered to the pagan queen of Heaven fifteen hundred and more years before the Christian era. Even the name is the same. The sacred cake was called 'boun;' our Good Friday cake is termed 'bun.'"

"A bun!" interposed the rector.

"With or without the article, it is the same thing. 'Boun;' 'bun'--what can be plainer? The first is pure Chaldee, the last Scottish."

"I don't understand Chaldee, Miss Slarge," said Mr. Brock, in hope of changing the conversation. "What a pleasant scene this is."

"The scene is all right," snapped Miss Slarge; "but it would be better if Mr. Carson were not here. Ugh! I can't bear the sight of him."

"Why not? He seems to be a pleasant young man."

"No backbone, Mr. Brock. If you dropped him into the mud he would stay there. Mrs. Purcell said that he had a strong will and a stubborn nature; but I can see neither myself."

"It is, of course, possible your sister may have been mistaken."

"Perhaps so; but in every other respect her description of him has been particularly accurate, even to the bracelet he wears. Bangle--bracelet--" said Miss Slarge, with contempt; "the idea of a man decking himself out like a woman!"

"Still, he is agreeable enough, Miss Slarge; and you must remember that to me he is always the son of my dear old friend. In memory of his father, he intends to present my church with a new altar-cloth."

"Marked 'I.H.S.,' I suppose, Mr. Brock?"

"Well, yes; it is customary to mark them with the sacred letters."

"What do they stand for?"

"'Iesu hominum salvator.'"

"Nothing of the sort," cried Miss Slarge, delighted that the rector had fallen into her trap. "They are the initials of the Egyptian trinity: Isis, Horus, and Seb."

"Miss Slarge, how can you treat sacred things so lightly?"

"I don't treat sacred things lightly," retorted Miss Slarge. "I.H.S. is a heathen symbol; and I am not an idolater, I hope."

"Really, I do not know what to say."

"You should study more," said Miss Slarge, satisfied with her triumph, as she walked away, leaving the rector quite angry.

"I wonder where she can find all this rubbish," murmured the outraged Mr. Brock. "It is really not respectable the way she talks. Eh, what is that shouting?" he asked a bystander.

"The tenants are toasting Mr. Carson."

"As Miss Bellairs' future husband, I suppose?" said the rector, cheerily. "Ah, what a pity that Mark and Alfred did not live to see this happy day!"