"But don't you think, Reginald, that he ought to come here now? He
ought to be known in the county, if--if--"
"If he is one day to take his place here--is not that what you wanted to
say? Well, whether he does so or not depends upon himself. I may
bequeath Cranston as I choose. Most men would cast off a son for a
tenth of the undutiful conduct Roland has shown towards me; but I waive
that. I only desire to be just. Roland will take his place here just
as if he were the inheritor at law. But if ever he disgraces himself
again, not one shilling will he get from me, and Cranston will go to his
brother. So you had better find an early opportunity of warning him."
It is lamentable to have to record the fact, but her husband's
resentment against his son was not so displeasing to Mrs Dorrien as her
conscience told her should have been the case. For even as all his
affection is buried in the grave of his first-born, so does she dote
upon her youngest. For the exiled Roland she has little love. He is
too strong of will for her; and no more than over his father has she
ever been able to exercise over him that power she delights in. But to
see her idolised Hubert installed at Cranston as its heir--even though
in his brother's place--is a tempting picture to the eyes of this woman,
whose one weakness is love of her idol. To do her justice, conscience
prevails, and she is about to urge even more in defence of the absent
one, when a step is heard on the stairs, and the General exclaims:
"Hush. No more now. I hear Nellie coming down. Oblige me by not
mentioning this"--tapping the letter--"to her, or to anyone, at
present."
"Good-morning, papa," cries a fresh, cheerful voice, and the old man's
face softens perceptibly beneath his daughter's kiss. She is a tall,
largely-made girl, but not in the least gawky or ungraceful; and
although her features are too irregular for conventional beauty, yet a
profusion of soft brown hair, blue eyes and the warm flush tingeing a
clear skin, together with a bright, taking expression when she smiles,
combine to render Nellie Dorrien a pretty girl--some think, a very
pretty girl.
"You're late, child," says the General, not unkindly. "Better sit down
and get your breakfast. I must go and attend to my correspondence"--and
gathering up his letters he goes out.
"I do think, Nellie," began her mother, as soon as they were left alone,
"I do think you might take the trouble to be down a little sooner. Your
papa is so vexed when everybody is late, and now you are both late, and
he'll be doubly so."
"But he was not a bit cross, mamma, at least not with me."
"Not with you! No, perhaps not. But Hubert isn't down yet, and it'll
all fall upon him. However, as you are safe, it doesn't matter about
poor Hubert," added Mrs Dorrien acidly.
"Really, mamma, I don't think it's quite fair to saddle me with Hubert's
derelictions. Surely he is old enough to take care of himself," gently
objected the girl.
"Of course. Selfishness is the order of the day in this house, I ought
to have remembered that."
Nellie gave a little shrug of her shoulders, but made no reply. She was
far from being a selfish girl, but she could not see why everything and
everybody should be made to give way to Hubert and his convenience, as
it had to do wherever her mother's authority or influence reached. For
Mrs Dorrien chose to fancy her youngest son an invalid, on the strength
of which that interesting youth at the age of twenty-two would have
taken first prize at an unlicked cub show--supposing such an institution
to exist. Nellie herself knew this reputed debility to be sheer fudge--
which knowledge she unconsciously shared with certain convivial and
raffish spirits who were wont to meet more nights a week than was good
for them at the "Cock and Bull and Twisted Cable" in Wandsborough, and
these latter could have accounted for the poor boy's chronic seediness
more to his mother's enlightenment than satisfaction.
"Hallo, mother. Morning, Nell!" cried the object under discussion,
entering the breakfast-room and sliding languidly into his place. A
sallow, loosely-built, light-haired youth, somewhat deficient in chin,
and with an irritating drawl.
"At last, Hubert dear. I began to think you must have had a bad night,
and was getting anxious!" said his mother fondly. "How are you this
morning, my boy? You don't look at all well."
She was right--in one sense. He had had a bad night, the
above-mentioned sporting hostelry containing proportionately less whisky
and soda, not to mention other varieties of tipple more or less
deleterious. The General's hair would have stood straight on end had he
known when and how his youngest-born had arrived home.
"Oh, I'm all right, mother," growled that guileless youth, "except that
I've got a deuce of a head on. But I say, what was the veteran looking
so mortally black about just now? I met him on the stairs, or rather I
saw him--he didn't see me, thank Heaven--and he was scowling like an
assassin. He had a lot of letters in his fist. By the way"--breaking
off with a start of alarm--"no one has been dunning him about--about me,
don't you know. Eh?"
"No, no dear," quickly answered his mother. "It was not about you.
Your father is put out over his correspondence, but it is not about you.
That I may say."
"That's lucky," said Hubert, greatly relieved. "I didn't know who might
have been at him. But, mother, what was it about?" he persisted, his
curiosity awakened in proportion as his fears were lulled.
"Nothing that you need mind," returned Mrs Dorrien, rising and taking
refuge from further questioning in flight.
"Nellie," began the young man, as soon as his mother had left the room,
"I wish you knew the Rectory people."
"So do I. I just met the girls once at the Nevilles' garden party, and
rather liked them. But mamma would sooner cut off her head than have
anything to say to them. But why do you wish it?"
"Oh, I don't know. The eldest isn't up to much--too cold and stuck up.
As for the young one--Sophie--she's a detestable brat. Tries to snub a
fellow, don't you know. Thinks herself no end clever. But the middle
one--Olive--fact is, she's a monstrously pretty girl."
"Ahem! And when did you make that discovery?"
"Why I saw her at the station the other day--and rather took stock of
her; and I tell you, a fellow might make something of her."
"Or the other way about--she might make something of a fellow," returned
his sister, with a slight curl of the lip.
"Go it!" exploded the other wrathfully. "Of course it's very funny and
all that. I see what you mean, and the joke's a poor one. I thought
you might be of some use to a fellow; but if you want to play the fool
instead, why there's an end of it."
"My dear boy, I can't help you in the very least. You know mamma hates
the sight of them, and as for papa he declares that if he had his will
he would try poor Dr Ingelow by drumhead court martial and have him
shot. It's hard lines that we are to be at daggers drawn with people
whom everybody says are awfully nice, just because their opinions are
not ours, I must say."
"Well, I rather agree with the veteran. All that papistical stuff is
awful bosh, and a parson who goes in for it is no better than a wolf in
sheep's clothing--as old mother Frewen always says. But all the same
that's no reason why we shouldn't know the girls."
"Why didn't you make acquaintance with the brother at Oxford?" asked
Nellie.
"Oh, I don't know. Didn't think it worth while then. These freshmen
are generally a bore."
"Freshmen! Why this is his fourth term."
"Is it? I didn't know. Hallo--I say--there's the veteran calling you,
outside. Better look sharp, the old man's face is getting apoplectic,"
he added teasingly, discerning that the French window was jammed and
wouldn't open, and that the frown was deepening on their father's face
where he stood at the other side of the gravel walk.
General Dorrien had been comfortably off before he succeeded his elder
brother, with whom he had been on bad terms, and whose death, some five
years previous to the opening of this narrative, took place on the high
seas during the voyage home from South America--a voyage undertaken by
medical advice. The General accepted his new position and its
responsibilities perfectly naturally and easily, and at once set to work
vigorously and with military precision to rectify the numerous
derelictions which had prevailed and thriven under the sway of his
easy-going predecessor. It stood to reason that many suffered by the
change. Consequently the new Squire was not beloved. But if unpopular
with his dependents, by his equals he was received with open arms. He
had been a brilliant soldier in his time, and had served with
distinction in more than one of our wars in the East; the county
therefore felt proud of his fame, being, in fact, not wholly free from
some idea of having itself contributed thereto. Then the late Squire
had been a bachelor, but here was a family who would keep up Cranston as
it should be kept up. There ought to be a law against old bachelors
occupying such a place as Cranston, said the county, in its joy at
seeing a family once more in possession at the Hall, and a family
comprising two eligible sons--one of them a right royal "catch"--and a
daughter who would certainly not be dowerless. So although on further
acquaintance the General was feared rather than liked, yet the county
was very well satisfied. But its feminine side longed for the return of
the eldest son to his ancestral home, with a solicitude that should have
been insidiously flattering to the unconscious wanderer had he been
aware of its existence.