The Indian Bangle. Fergus Hume

       CHAPTER II.

      THE SEALED LETTER.

      Casterwell is an aggressively antique village, the delight of landscape painters and enthusiasts of the hand camera. It has been painted and photographed times without number, and its two crooked streets, its market cross, its mediæval church and ruined castle are all of them familiar enough to the frequenters of London art galleries. Bicycles converge to it from the four quarters of England, transatlantic tourists twang the melodious American tongue under the gabled roof of its principal inn, the omnivorous kodaker clicks his shutter at donjon, battlement, and ivy-covered tower, and unscrupulous authors thieve its local legends for the harrowing of the public in Christmas numbers and magazines. The name is obviously of Latin origin, and from the Castraville of the middle ages we have the Casterwell of to-day. On the brow of an adjoining hill the circumvallations of the ubiquitous Romans show that the village originally received its name from a military post of the days of Caractacus and Boadicea. But the Imperial legions have marched into the outer darkness, the baron of the castle is a handful of dust, the founders of the church lie mouldering in their ornate tombs, and Casterwell survives them all: a quaint, pretty, peaceful spot, beautiful even in its decay.

      The village lies in a dip of the ground--hardly to be called a valley--between two wooded hills swelling gently from the surrounding plain. On one of these rises a square palace of white free-stone ornate, and conspicuous by force of its many windows and lofty tower--this latter well-nigh offensively incongruous with the general architectural design. This grandiose barrack is "Kingsholme," the country seat of Lord Aldean. In it he lives like a mouse in a haystack. It is many times too large for a single young orphan, and it takes much more of the orphan's income to keep up than he likes.

      Thither Aldean and his friend spun as fast as a quick-trotting mare could take them. As they turned into the park Mallow cast a wistful look towards the other hill, where, surrounded by its ancient woods, lay embosomed the dwelling of Miss Olive Bellairs--the lady of Casterwell Manor. The soul of this hapless lover was full of regret in that he was not the occupant of Mr. Dimbal's fly, and he sighed as he mastered his feelings, in subservience to the exigencies of social intercourse--a necessity for the moment, but one by no means to his taste.

      Meanwhile the fly--the tortoise to the Aldean hare--crawled doggedly along the dusty road. Mr. Dimbal, with a complacent smile on his rosy face, and his black bag established safely on his knees, glanced absently out of the window. Through incessant clouds of dust he caught glimpses of the flowering hedges, and now and again behind them of the corn waving in the hot wind. Then a cottage or so with its thatched roof and tiny garden marked the proximity to the village, and soon he was rumbling through Casterwell High Street. At last the avenue leading to the Manor House came in sight, and, as his eye rested on the mansion, Mr. Dimbal heaved a sigh of relief to think that he was at his journey's end. Three hours of continuous travelling on a hot midsummer day are not exactly the height of bliss to a comfortable elderly gentleman.

      The house was typical of its kind. Here were diamond-paned casements, tall oriel windows, lofty-tiled roofs surmounted by stacks of twisting chimneys, terraces of grey stone with urns and statues--in fact, all and everything which we are accustomed to associate with the conventional old English manor-house.

      The whole place was radiant with roses. The walls of the house were draped with them; they clambered over the balustrades of the terraces; they flamed in the wide-mouthed urns; they clothed the antique statues, and rioted round the lawn in prodigal profusion, dazzling the eye with their glorious tints, and filling the air with their perfume. "A dwelling fit for Flora, truly"--it was an unusual flight of fancy for Dimbal, but he gave way to it even as he stepped from out his dusty old fly. He raised his eyes, and lo! the "lady of flowers" was waiting to greet him. In truth she was comely enough, this young woman, for the most beautiful of goddesses. Not an ideal Venus perhaps, or an imperial Juno, but an eminently healthy and withal dainty goddess of spring was Olive Bellairs--a trifle reminiscent maybe of Hebe, the girlish and ever young.

      Neither divinely tall nor unduly slender, her figure was neatness exemplified. Her hair was brown, so were her eyes; while, did you seek to compare her complexion, you must perforce fall back upon the well-worn simile of the rose-leaf.

      She was dressed in pure white. "And how are you, Mr. Dimbal?" she said. "For a whole hour have I been watching for you."

      "If', like the Lord Chancellor in 'Iolanthe,' I were possessed of wings, my dear, you would not have had to wait at all."

      "Well, now you are here, I'm sure you're very hungry. Lunch is quite ready; come along!"

      "Yes, my dear, and I am quite ready, too; but I should not eat my luncheon in peace did I not first discharge, at least, the more important part of my mission."

      "Oh dear," pouted Olive, "won't the horrid thing keep for an hour?"

      "My dear," said Dimbal, taking the girl's hand in his own, "let me make myself quite clear. I am here to impress upon you the terms of your father's will, which, as you know, has been in my possession since you were a baby, and to hand to you a sealed letter which he left for you. Until this is done, I cannot eat my meal in comfort."

      "A sealed letter?" queried Olive, leading the way into the drawing-room; "why was it not given to me before?"

      "Because your father's instructions were that you were not to have possession of this letter until after the arrival of Mr. Carson in England. Well, Mr. Carson has arrived. He was in my office yesterday; so, you see, I have lost no time."

      Olive sat down and took off her sun-bonnet. She looked put out. "I know that Mr. Carson is in England," she said; "I got a letter from him three or four days ago, in which he says he is coming down here at the end of the week."

      "Oh, well, I hope you are pleased," said Dimbal, looking dubiously at her. The kind-hearted little lawyer feared, from her expression that she was not.

      "No, Mr. Dimbal," replied the girl, decidedly. "I cannot pretend that I am. You must remember I have never seen the man. Indeed, I do not want to see him, and I am very sure I do not want to marry him."

      "But you must marry him, Olive."

      "I don't see that I must marry anybody I don't like. I am sure I shall hate him!"

      "My dear, you really must not talk like that. Remember you lose a large sum of money if you do not fulfil the conditions of the will."

      "I would rather lose anything than marry him," said Olive, recklessly. "I don't love the man; why, I have never seen him; how can you--how could papa expect me to marry him? He may be horrid--indeed, I am sure he is horrid."

      "Mr. Carson is a very charming and handsome young man," was Dimbal's reply, as he opened his bag. "You will find that he is everything your heart can desire."

      "My heart does not desire him at all. I object to being married without being consulted."

      "But Olive--dear child, remember, you loved your father!"

      "Yes"--the girl's face grew very tender, "my father was the dearest and best of men. I loved him very dearly--better than any one else in the world. You know I love his memory still."

      "Then you will surely obey his last expressed wish?" said Dimbal, persuasively. "In that way alone can you show your love and affection for him."

      "Mr. Bellairs's heart was set upon your marrying the son of his oldest and best friend."

      "Where is this letter, Mr. Dimbal?" asked Olive, irrelevantly.

      "All in good time, my dear. Let me first explain the will to you."

      "Do you wish Miss Slarge to be present?" said Olive, as the lawyer spread out the formidable parchment.

      "Oh, that is not necessary. I suppose she is busy?"

      Olive shrugged her pretty shoulders. "She is hunting, I believe, through Layard's Nineveh in search of Nimrod," she answered. "Lucky Aunt Rubina, she hasn't