thought to himself that the result had not been wholly successful, for Mr. Brock looked sallow and wrinkled and hollow-eyed. He was a handsome, burly man, and he carried himself with an air of importance which many a bishop might have envied. His face was clean-shaven, and his features were clean-cut. His skin was of the particular hue one associates with old ivory, and a halo of silvery white hair lent an air of benignity to his expression. The Reverend Manners Brock had been vicar of Casterwell for over twenty years, and was as well-established as the church over which he presided. He was an industrious worker, an excellent orator, and a general social favourite with rich and poor alike. There was not in England a rector more popular or more admired. He might certainly have been a bishop, and--granting that the welfare of the community was the aim of those in power--he perhaps stood a good chance of becoming one. That he would adorn the position, as he adorned the rectorship of Casterwell, there could be no doubt. But, so far, there had been no hint of any such elevation for Mr. Brock.
As he strolled up and down chatting with Mallow, the click of the church-gate was heard. Simultaneously they turned to see a dark young man, with his arm in a sling, advancing along the grassy path. Mr. Brock started when he saw the face of the newcomer, and clutched the arm of his companion.
"Who--who is that?" he asked, his face grey and drawn, and his frame literally trembling with nervous agitation. "That is Mr. Carson," said Mallow, wondering.
"Carson! Oh, my God! Carson? Do--do the dead return?"
Mallow feared the old man was about to faint.
CHAPTER VII.
MARGERY.
Carson, with his usual amiable smile, came jauntily along the path, looking directly at Mallow and the Rector. He appeared to be amazed at the white and perturbed face of the latter, but, ignoring it, he held out his left hand in greeting to Laurence.
"Good morning," he said pleasantly. "I see you are an early bird like myself. I have been accustomed to rise at dawn in India, and to drop old habits is difficult, is it not? Yes?"
"India?" gasped the Rector, before Mallow could reply. "Do you come from India?"
"Yes. I arrived in England only a few weeks ago."
"Your name is Carson?"
"Angus Carson, at your service;" and the young man clicked his heels and bowed.
"The son of my old friend, Alfred Carson?" pursued the Rector, who was recovering his self-control somewhat.
"Yes. Are you Mr. Brock? Are you my father's friend? Yes?"
"I am," said the other, in a voice of emotion. "Ah! no wonder I felt queer when I saw your face. It was as if the dead were come to life."
"I am supposed to be very like my father," returned Carson, easily. "I don't wonder you were startled. My dear father often spoke to me of your devotion to him."
"Yes, yes; poor Alfred!" The Rector seated himself on a flat tombstone and fought down his natural feelings. "I wish I had known you were here, Angus; your great resemblance to your father has given me a shock. I feel ill--I--I feel very ill."
"Shall I go to the rectory and fetch you some brandy?" said Mallow, who was sorry for the old man.
"If--if you would be so kind," muttered Mr. Brock, burying his face in his handkerchief. "Poor Alfred!"--and his emotion again overcame him. Carson stood by and looked sympathetically on at this proof of a long-remembered friendship; but he made no remark, until Laurence returned from his errand.
"Thank you, Mr. Mallow; you are most kind," said Brock, gratefully, as he swallowed the brandy.
"Believe me, I am sorry my sudden appearance should have so alarmed you," said Carson, politely. "Did you know that I was coming to this place? No?"
"Certainly, I was aware of it," answered the Rector, in a stronger voice, "for Miss Slarge read me a letter from Mrs. Purcell. I also saw the communication you addressed to Olive from Bombay, advising her of your coming. But I have been absent, and I returned only last night; and the sight of your face--your extraordinary resemblance to your father--startled me not a little."
"Such emotion is natural," said Mallow; "the more so as you were so attached to Mr. Carson."
Mr. Brock rose and sighed. "He was my dearest friend," he said sadly; "and even thirty years have not banished his memory from my heart. I feel like a father to you, Angus--you must permit me to call you Angus?"
"I beg of you to do so," answered the young man, gracefully, giving his left hand to the Rector. "Who should do so, if not you, the oldest friend of my father, and the guardian of my dearest Olive."
Mallow bit his lip, and turned away to conceal his anger, for after all, being engaged to her, the man had every right to speak of Olive in affectionate terms. Angus, who had long since discovered that the Irishman was his rival, smiled blandly at this exhibition--for it did not escape him--of jealousy. But he had sufficient discretion to make no remark. With an inclusive nod to both men, Laurence walked away, and his feelings on climbing the hill on his way home were anything but enviable. He felt that fate was dealing hardly by him.
"Have you hurt your hand?" asked Brock, when the unnecessary third person had vanished through the gate.
"Yes, many months ago while shooting," replied Carson. "Indeed, it was this hand that detained me from paying my respects to Olive and yourself earlier. I arrived on the twenty-fourth of last month, and intended coming here at once; but my hand was so painful that I waited in London to see a surgeon about it."
"Where did you stay?" asked the Rector.
"With my friend, Major Semberry, in St. James's Street. Semberry took rooms there, and I made it my home. Indeed, my luggage is there at the present moment."
"St. James's Street!"
"Yes; that is, a little street off it--Duke Street, I believe it is called, No. 80B."
"No. 80B, Duke Street, St. James's," repeated Brock, slowly. "The first address you gave me was somewhat misleading."
"My ignorance of social customs in your large city," replied Mr. Carson, with a charming smile. "I am quite a barbarian, am I not? Yes?"
"Indeed, no; if Olive is not pleased with you she will be hard to satisfy."
"I think she likes me, Mr. Brock, but she does not love me."
"Oh, love is a matter of custom with young girls. You will gain it sooner or later--if not before marriage, then afterwards."
"I fear Olive has no love to give me," said Carson, shaking his head. "It is my impression that she has already given her heart to that gentleman who has just left us."
"To Mallow? Nonsense. She looks upon him as a friend."
"As a very dear friend, don't you think? Yes?"
"That may be," rejoined Mr. Brock, gravely. "She has known him for many years, for Mallow lived here a considerable time as tutor to Lord Aldean. But I am sure Olive is not the girl to disregard her father's dying wish. She
