"He said that Mrs. Beatson told him about the will found by Mr. Leigh, and how Mr. Leigh had mislaid it. The will, he declared, left the Hendle property to him entirely."
"I have not yet seen the will," answered Rupert, cautiously, "and, beyond Leigh's word, I don't even know that it exists. But he maintained that it did, as he came across it in the Muniment Room, and took it to the Vicarage to look into. Then he lost it, or mislaid it somehow. As I have access to his papers, as executor, I am trying to find it."
"Does it leave the property to my father?"
"Not directly, I understand," admitted Rupert, quietly, "but Leigh explained that John Hendle, from whom we are both descended, dear, hated his younger son Frederick, who inherited, and loved his son Walter, who was killed at the Battle of Waterloo. In the year when that battle was fought, he made this will, leaving the Hendle property to Walter's daughter, and cutting off Frederick, who represented the younger branch."
"Eunice Hendle was the daughter, my father said."
"Yes. She afterward became Eunice Filbert, as she married a man of that name," explained Rupert laboriously. "Her daughter, Anne Filbert, married Frank Mallien, your father's parent, so, if the will proves to be legal, your father will certainly get the property through his descent on the distaff side."
"And you?" asked Dorinda, apprehensively.
Rupert rested his elbows on his knees, linked his hands loosely together, and looked down at the shadowy turf of the lawn. "I shall lose everything," he stated calmly. "I descend in the male line from Frederick through Henry Hendle and Charles Hendle. And, as Frederick was cut off by his father in favor of Walter's child, Eunice, I am an interloper and a fraud. If this will is found, and can be proved to be legal, Dorinda, I shall not have a penny. As things stand, your father is better off with his five hundred a year than I shall be. It is a very unpleasant position, as it stops our marriage."
"Oh, does it?" cried Dorinda, flaming up, "in what way?"
"Well, in the first place, your father would never agree to your marrying a pauper, and in the second the pauper could scarcely ask you to share his nothing a year."
"Darling,"--Dorinda drew closer to her lover and laid her cheek against his--"I will marry no one but you. I don't care what my father says."