The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher (book reader for pc .TXT) 📖

CHAPTER IV

THE FORTUNATE POSSESSORS

 

Collingwood at once realized that he was in the presence of one of the

two fortunate young people who had succeeded so suddenly—and, according

to popular opinion, so unexpectedly—to John Mallathorpe’s wealth. This

was evidently Miss Nesta Mallathorpe, of whom he had heard, but whom he

had never seen. She, however, was looking at him as if she knew him, and

she smiled a little as she acknowledged his bow.

 

“My mother is out in the grounds, with my brother,” she said, motioning

Collingwood towards a chair. “Won’t you sit down, please?—I’ve sent for

her; she will be here in a few minutes.”

 

Collingwood sat down; Nesta Mallathorpe sat down, too, and as they

looked at each other she smiled again.

 

“I have seen you before, Mr. Collingwood,” she said. “I knew it must be

you when they brought up your card.”

 

Collingwood used his glance of polite inquiry to make a closer

inspection of his hostess. He decided that Nesta Mallathorpe was not so

much pretty as eminently attractive—a tall, well-developed,

warm-coloured young woman, whose clear grey eyes and red lips and

general bearing indicated the possession of good health and spirits. And

he was quite certain that if he had ever seen her before he would not

have forgotten it.

 

“Where have you seen me?” he asked, smiling back at her.

 

“Have you forgotten the mock-trial—year before last?” she asked.

 

Collingwood remembered what she was alluding to. He had taken part, in

company with various other law students, in a mock-trial, a breach of

promise case, for the benefit of a certain London hospital, to him had

fallen one of the principal parts, that of counsel for the plaintiff.

“When I saw your name, I remembered it at once,” she went on. “I was

there—I was a probationer at St. Chad’s Hospital at that time.”

 

“Dear me!” said Collingwood, “I should have thought our histrionic

efforts would have been forgotten. I’m afraid I don’t remember much

about them, except that we had a lot of fun out of the affair. So you

were at St. Chad’s?” he continued, with a reminiscence of the

surroundings of the institution they were talking of. “Very different to

Normandale!”

 

“Yes,” she replied. “Very—very different to Normandale. But when I was

at St. Chad’s, I didn’t know that I—that we should ever come to

Normandale.”

 

“And now that you are here?” he asked.

 

The girl looked out through the big window on the valley which lay in

front of the old house, and she shook her head a little.

 

“It’s very beautiful,” she answered, “but I sometimes wish I was back at

St. Chad’s—with something to do. Here—there’s nothing to do but to do

nothing.” Collingwood realized that this was not the complaint of the

well-to-do young woman who finds time hang heavy—it was rather

indicative of a desire for action.

 

“I understand!” he said. “I think I should feel like that. One wants—I

suppose—is it action, movement, what is it?”

 

“Better call it occupation—that’s a plain term,” she answered. “We’re

both suffering from lack of occupation here, my brother and I. And it’s

bad for us—especially for him.”

 

Before Collingwood could think of any suitable reply to this remarkably

fresh and candid statement, the door opened, and Mrs. Mallathorpe came

in, followed by her son. And the visitor suddenly and immediately

noticed the force and meaning of Nesta Mallathorpe’s last remark. Harper

Mallathorpe, a good-looking, but not remarkably intelligent appearing

young man, of about Collingwood’s own age, gave him the instant

impression of being bored to death; the lack-lustre eye, the aimless

lounge, the hands thrust into the pockets of his Norfolk jacket as if

they took refuge there from sheer idleness—all these things told their

tale. Here, thought Collingwood, was a fine example of how riches can be

a curse—relieved of the necessity of having to earn his daily bread by

labour, Harper Mallathorpe was finding life itself laborious.

 

But there was nothing of aimlessness, idleness, or lack of vigour in

Mrs. Mallathorpe. She was a woman of character, energy, of

brains—Collingwood saw all that at one glance. A little, neat-figured,

compact sort of woman, still very good-looking, still on the right side

of fifty, with quick movements and sharp glances out of a pair of shrewd

eyes: this, he thought, was one of those women who will readily

undertake the control and management of big affairs. He felt, as Mrs.

Mallathorpe turned inquiring looks on him, that as long as she was in

charge of them the Mallathorpe family fortunes would be safe.

 

“Mother,” said Nesta, handing Collingwood’s card to Mrs. Mallathorpe,

“this gentleman is Mr. Bartle Collingwood. He’s—aren’t you?—yes, a

barrister. He wants to see you. Why, I don’t know. I have seen Mr.

Collingwood before—but he didn’t remember me. Now he’ll tell you what

he wants to see you about.”

 

“If you’ll allow me to explain why I called on you, Mrs. Mallathorpe,”

said Collingwood, “I don’t suppose you ever heard of me—but you know,

at any rate, the name of my grandfather, Mr. Antony Bartle, the

bookseller, of Barford? My grandfather is dead—he died very suddenly

last night.”

 

Mrs. Mallathorpe and Nesta murmured words of polite sympathy. Harper

suddenly spoke—as if mere words were some relief to his obvious

boredom.

 

“I heard that, this morning,” he said, turning to his mother. “Hopkins

told me—he was in town last night. I meant to tell you.”

 

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe, glancing at some letters which

stood on a rack above the mantelpiece. “Why—I had a letter from Mr.

Bartle this very morning!”

 

“It is that letter that I have come to see you about,” said Collingwood.

“I only got down here from London at half-past eight this morning, and

of course, I have made some inquiries about the circumstances of my

grandfather’s sudden death. He died very suddenly indeed at Mr.

Eldrick’s office. He had gone there on some business about which nobody

knows nothing—he died before he could mention it. And according to his

shop-boy, Jabey Naylor, the last thing he did was to write a letter to

you. Now—I have reason for asking—would you mind telling me, Mrs.

Mallathorpe, what that letter was about?” Mrs. Mallathorpe moved over to

the hearth, and took an envelope from the rack. She handed it to

Collingwood, indicating that he could open it. And Collingwood drew out

one of old Bartle’s memorandum forms, and saw a couple of lines in the

familiar crabbed handwriting:

 

“MRS. MALLATHORPE, Normandale Grange.

 

“Madam,—If you should drive into town tomorrow, will you kindly

give me a call? I want to see you particularly.

 

“Respectfully, A. BARTLE.”

 

Collingwood