"I sat, Nellie, the ancient couple are getting quite dissipated in their
old age. What's at the bottom of it?" And Roland Dorrien, lounging at
ease in the stern cushions of the boat, gazed through a great cloud of
smoke at his sister's puzzled face, lazily awaiting her reply.
"I don't quite see," she began. "How do you mean, dear?"
"Why, your mother hoped I didn't particularly want to go anywhere this
afternoon, because some people were coming. In fact, a regular garden
fight. Croquet and scandal, and much chatter."
"Yes, there is. But as you say, they are getting quite lively. Why
it's more than a year since we have had anything of the kind."
The two were seated in one of the most comfortable and roomy of the
boats, on the ornamental water--whither they had betaken themselves, not
to row about, but to get into a cool place and take it easy and chat to
their hearts' content. The boat's nose was made fast to a stake driven
into the bottom about fifteen yards from the shore and well within the
shade of a great over-arching tree, whose boughs threw a network of
sunlight here and there upon the brown surface. There was scarcely a
breath of air, and at the other end of the lake the coots and moorhens
disported themselves, uttering now and again their loud chirrupy cry,
and little brown water rats glided from their holes beneath the slippery
bank. Roy, whom his master had taken into the boat and treacherously
flung overboard, was careering up and down the bank, looking like a
great woolly bear, every hair in his body shaken out to its fullest
length and standing on end--and barking his surprise and displeasure at
his master's treachery and his own involuntary bath, but feeling worlds
the better for the last, while a couple of swans floated in the centre
of the pond, looking the picture of ruffled and sullen dignity over the
irruption of these disturbing elements into their own especial domain.
"Well, it's rather a nuisance as far as I am concerned," he went on.
"As it happens I wanted to go into Wandsborough this afternoon--and over
and above that, I hate things of this kind."
"Roland dear, don't go into Wandsborough to-day. Papa will be mortally
offended if you do. I happen to know that he got up this affair solely
on your account; he thought it would be a good way of introducing you to
all the people here. And there'll be several nice girls."
"H'm!"
"Let me see," she continued. "There are the Nevilles, who are coming to
stay: the eldest girl is very pretty and the heiress of Ardleigh Court--
make a note of that. And the Colonel is such a dear old man. Then
there's Isabel Pagnell, she seems to take wonderfully with the men--and
the Breretons and--"
"Bother the lot of them?" cried Roland, flinging the end of his cigar
away in a sudden access of irritability. "Roy, don't make that
confounded row, sir. Lie down. D'you hear? And now, Nellie, we shall
have to quit this cool retreat, for there goes gong Number One. Yes,
it's a nuisance; I particularly wanted to go over to Wandsborough
to-day, but, hurrah for boredom instead!"
No more was said as they paddled back to the landing place and made
their way along the shrubbery path. Did the girl in her heart of hearts
suspect the reason of her brother's anxiety to ride over to the town?
If so, like a wise counsellor she held her peace.
Roland had transferred himself to Cranston some three days after we saw
him at the Rectory dinner-table--now more than a week ago, and even that
brief period had been sufficient to convince him that in his former
anticipations of the conditions of life there, he was not likely to be
agreeably disappointed. The same constraint pervaded everything, the
same latent antagonism seemed to underlie all intercourse, and in a
hundred and one small ways, the more risky because so trivial, the
general harmony seemed in a state of chronic peril.
One of his first acts had been to make a call at Wandsborough Rectory to
explain the circumstances of the assumed name. At first his explanation
had been somewhat stiffly received, but it was not in Dr Ingelow to
keep up resentment; moreover, a happy remark to the effect that the
_incognito_ had been the means of beginning what the speaker hoped he
might be allowed to call a valued friendship, which otherwise he might
never have known, completed the turning of the scale, and he was
absolved all round. Yet not quite all round, for Olive, remembering her
free and easy utterances made on the beach that morning, found an early
opportunity of taking him privately to task.
"I think you might have told _me_ at the time," she had said, "instead
of letting me run on with all sorts of local gossip as you did."
"Why? Oh, I see. But you didn't abuse us a bit more than we deserve.
I asked you a question and you answered it. And, between ourselves, the
answer didn't surprise me in the very least."
"That's all very well, but you ought to have stopped me."
"How hard-hearted you are, when all the others have forgiven me!"
"Have they? Oh, well, then, for the credit of the family I suppose I
must exercise the same Christian virtue," had said Olive mischievously.
"You may consider yourself forgiven by me too. There."
"One thing more," he had urged, "is wanted to make that forgiveness
complete. You must continue to mete me out the same treatment as you
did to the stranger, Rowlands; not categorise me as an obnoxious
Dorrien."
"That will depend entirely upon your future behaviour," she had
returned, with the same mischievous flash.
The lake was barely five minutes' walk from the house, and as the two--
the three, rather, for Roy, all the fresher for his ducking, was
trotting along at their side--turned the corner of the garden walk, they
came face to face with their mother and two young ladies, who were
speedily introduced as the Miss Nevilles.
"We've been in the coolest corner of the county all the morning--on the
water," said Roland, catching his mother's displeased glance at his
sister. "Nellie wanted to go indoors half an hour ago, but I positively
refused to let her land."
"What a beautiful dog! Is it yours, Mr Dorrien?" said the eldest.
"Yes. Come here, Roy, and exhibit yourself." Roy obeyed, but
manifested no great effusion in response to the young lady's somewhat
timid caresses. His master decided that Clara Neville was at the moment
thinking more of the fit of her gloves and the pose of her head, than of
the dog or anything else. She was a tall, slight girl, faultlessly
dressed, and in good style altogether; but in spite of the regular
profile and wavy profusion of her golden hair, the face was not
altogether a taking one--an unfriendly critic would have pronounced it a
somewhat cold and ill-tempered one. But then she was the heiress of
Ardleigh Court--whose place in the county ranked little below that of
Cranston, and this would cover far graver shortcomings. Her sister,
Maud, was a quiet, dark-haired little thing, with no pretensions to
looks. Yet there were many who thought that a future lord might be
found for Ardleigh Court much sooner were she the heiress.
Their father, a jolly, bluff veteran with an ever-ready laugh, was as
complete a representative of one type of old soldier as his friend and
erstwhile companion in arms, Reginald Dorrien, was of another. The
Colonel was the kindest-hearted of men. Cheery, frank and full of life
and humour, he was an immense favourite with the rising generation, and
indeed with everybody. Everybody except his wife and eldest daughter,
by whom--such is the irony of events--the old man's jovial and
kind-hearted character went entirely unappreciated. They chose to
consider it lamentably lacking in dignity.
"Dorrien," cried Colonel Neville to his host as they sat at luncheon,
"is it true that your fellows have dropped down on that rascal Devine
again?"
"Yes. Caught him in the act. Two hares, or three--I forget which. He
was taking them out of the hangs when they dropped upon him."
"Ah! We must make it lively for him at the Sessions the day after
to-morrow. The law ought to empower us to send a regular poacher to
serve in the army. Why, when we were up country on active service some
of our best men were ex-poachers. Why, Dorrien, you yourself remember
poor Wilkins that time we--"
But the jolly Colonel's reminiscence was cut short by his eldest
daughter, who appealed to him to settle a divergence of opinion between
herself and Nellie. This was a regular tactic of Clara's. Her father
was never to be suffered to launch out in reminiscence. Old men, she
declared, old soldiers especially, with a mania for reminiscence were
always bores. So the exploit of "poor Wilkins, ex-poacher," was
destined to remain unnarrated.
Of all the more or less inane phases of entertainment devised by society
with a view to doing its duty by its acquaintance, the garden party is
not far from being the most tiresome. The Cranston one bore a striking
family likeness to others of its kind.
Roland, who hated the whole thing, and wished all the people at the
deuce, and through whose head was buzzing a confused string of names--
belonging to people to whom he had been introduced--found himself,
before he was aware of it, in a vacant seat next to Clara Neville, and
almost felt grateful to her for being there. She would do to talk to,
as well as anyone else, and he would be spared the trouble of opening up
fresh ground. So an involuntary sigh of relief escaped him, which that
young lady, for all her imperturbable calm, made a careful note of.
"Don't you play croquet, Mr Dorrien?" she said.
"I don't. Nothing on earth would induce me to embark in the very
feeblest attempt at amusement ever devised by a stark idiot for the
scourge of civilised man."
She laughed. "Do you know, between ourselves, I quite share your
opinion. The game is, as you say, terrible boredom. But you have been
a great traveller, have you not?"
"No. Nothing out of the way. I've knocked about a good deal, but only
where everyone else has."
"Ah, you must have seen some strange things. And I think every man who
can should travel. Not in the beaten tracks--on the Continent--but in
far wild countries where he is entirely dependent on himself. It must
open up the mind a great deal, and do a world of good."
"Yes, it has a very salutary and hardening effect; there's no doubt
about that."
"I suppose now you are home again, you will settle down for good," she
went on. "And this is really a very beautiful spot, is it not? But you
travellers are never happy for long in one place?" she added, turning to
him with a very engaging smile, the more valuable on account of its
rarity.
"Likely enough it'll be my bounden duty to become moss-grown now," he
answered with a laugh.
"No, don't move, Roland," said his father, as he rose to give up his
seat. "I'm not going to sit down," and there was a cordiality in his
tone, as well as in the light touch of his hand upon his son's shoulder,
which caused that worthy to marvel greatly. But Roland was glad to be
left in peace, so he sat chatting with Clara Neville, heedless of the
notes of invitation thrown out to him from many pairs of bright eyes,
till at last, feeling bored, he seized upon some pretext to slip away
and have a stroll round the shrubbery with Roy.
But the first person he encountered on turning into it was Colonel
Neville, who started guiltily, and then burst into a hearty laugh.
"Aha!" he cried, "another defaulter! Come along, my boy, and we'll have
our smoke together," and he puffed away at his half-smoked cigar. "We
must bind ourselves not to betray each other, unless we are caught
red-handed, as I thought I was just now, by Jove!" And the jolly
Colonel gave vent to another of his ringing laughs, to the jeopardy of
bringing about the very discovery he wished to avoid.
"Don't let's go towards the lake," laughed Roland. "People are sure to
wander down in that direction. This'll be our best way."
"But bother it! you've no business to desert the ladies, sir," cried the
Colonel, as they turned into an unfrequented path. "It's all very well
for an old soldier like me, but you've your time to serve. They'll be
raising the hue and cry for you."
"Let them. Fact is, Colonel, I've been so long outside the civilised
world that I was dying for a smoke up yonder just now. So the fragrant
weed beat lovely woman clean out of the field."
The old man laughed again. He had taken a great liking to this, as he
thought, unfairly treated son of his old friend.
"Look here, Roland, my boy," he said, suddenly becoming grave. "I can't
tell you how glad I am to see you here, safe home again. You mustn't
mind my speaking plainly to you--for, although we've never met before,
your father and I fought in the same lines and quarrelled like fury
together, over and over again, before any of you were born or thought
of--so I don't mind what I say to you. Your father's a queer fellow,
but I think he's fond of you in his own way underneath it all, so don't
run more counter to each other than you can help."
There was such genuine warmth in the other's address that Roland was
touched. He was about to reply, when voices were heard approaching, and
almost immediately a footman hove in sight.
"Colonel Neville's horse is at the door, sir," he said, and from the
expression of his face no doubt he added to himself, "and a precious
long time he's been waiting."
"Ha! I'm afraid they've been looking for me far and wide. You must
come over and see us, Roland, as soon as you can. My wife was hoping to
have been here to-day, but she didn't feel up to the attempt. So mind
you come, for we shall all be very glad to see you."
They had reached the party by now, and many a glance of reawakened
interest was levelled at the younger of the truants, but in the slight
stir attendant on the Colonel's departure he escaped unscolded.
"Well, Roland," said his father, entering the smoking-room late that
evening. "How did the affair go off to-day? Pretty well?"
"Oh, I think so. It struck me that all the world looked contented with
itself. And it made its fair share of row, a sure sign that it wasn't
bored, anyhow. Do you mind my lighting up, sir?"
"No, no. Light away. Why yes, I think the people seemed to enjoy
themselves. By the bye, you were talking a good deal to Clara Neville.
What do you think of her?" And the General stood with his back against
the mantelpiece as though about to wax quite chatty.
"She seems a sensible sort of girl, on the whole, and can talk
rationally. But she always gives you the idea that she is thinking more
of her dress than of what you are saying to her."
"Perhaps there is a little of that in her manner, until you get
accustomed to her, that is. But after all, it's a very pardonable
fault; more than made up for by the corresponding virtue of neatness,"
replied this veteran martinet, who had been wont to visit with the
severest penalties a single speck on shining boot or pipe-clayed belt
when parading his men. "And she is as you say, a sensible girl--a very
sensible girl--and she will have Ardleigh Court."
"Indeed?" said Roland, in an uninterested tone. "Are there no sons,
then?"
"No. Only those two girls. Clara will come in for Ardleigh, as to that
there is no doubt whatever. It is one of the finest places in the
county, and adjoins this. You can just see the village away on the
right as you come here from Wandsborough. Ah, Hubert, and have you come
to do the `chimney' too?" as that hopeful burst unceremoniously into the
room, pulling up short at the unwonted vision there of his father.
"Well, I suppose you two fellows will be able to entertain each other,
so I'll say good-night."
For a moment Hubert sat in silence. Then he opened the door and looked
out, and returning to his seat gave vent to a low, prolonged whistle of
astonishment.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "What the very deuce is in the wind now, that
the gallant veteran should condescend to honour this classic den with
his high and mighty presence?"
"Doesn't he ever, then?"
"Never; never by any chance. And so confoundedly affable as he was,
too. Well, it beats me."
"Perhaps he's going to turn over a new leaf and develop a vein of
sociability hitherto undiscovered. It's never too late to mend, you
know," said the other nonchalantly.