In due course, Roland availed himself of the invitation to which we
heard his father make reference, and transferred himself and his luggage
to the ancestral home of the Nevilles.
There the cordiality of his reception surprised and pleased him. The
Colonel was, as we have seen, very well disposed towards the son of his
old friend and comrade-in-arms, and, moreover, was delighted to have a
companion for the smoking-room and the morning lounge; one, too, who was
such a capital listener; for to Roland the old man's stories were all
new, and being good in themselves when not heard too often, the normal
quiet of Ardleigh was apt to be disturbed by much uproarious mirth when
the two got together. As for Clara, she seemed to have quite forgotten
any little unpleasantness which had taken place when they last met, and
had put on her most gracious and agreeable manner for their guest's
benefit; and as she knew how to show to advantage when she chose, and
was exceedingly clever and well informed, Roland found himself beginning
to feel rather ashamed of his former bad opinion of her. Mrs Neville,
who was somewhat of an invalid and of an argumentative--not to say
contradictious--turn, forbore to snub him as she was wont to snub
everything male under the age of fifty. "Young men want continually
putting down, even when they are right"--was her creed, and, truth to
say, she acted up to it most religiously. But in Roland's favour
exception was made; whether it was that he was known to possess "a queer
temper"--his father's own son, in fact--or that there was some ulterior
reason for making his stay a particularly attractive one, his
conversational remarks were allowed to pass unchallenged by his hostess
to an extent which caused the girls to exchange frequent glances of
surprise. Even Roy's presence was not only tolerated, but welcomed, and
the woolly rascal, before he had been twenty-four hours at Ardleigh, ran
in and out as he pleased, according to his usual way of making himself
perfectly at home wherever he went.
"By the way, how does our reformed black sheep, Steve Devine, get on in
the capacity of a thief set to catch a thief?" asked Roland, as he and
his host were smoking their after-breakfast cigars on the terrace one
morning.
"All right as yet," replied the latter, who being in want of an
under-keeper, had, on Roland's representations partly, appointed the
ex-poacher to that office a few days after his release from gaol--"in
order to give him a fair chance of starting afresh," as the kind-hearted
old soldier put it. The latter's friends, indeed, shook their heads
over the arrangement, and prophesied that it would lead to no good--but
the Colonel was not to be upset in his benevolent scheme once he had
made up his mind. So Devine found himself installed in a snug berth
with good wages, and if, being in such a fair way to doing well, he did
not do it, why, he would have himself only to thank for it as an
ungrateful rascal.
Now the ex-poacher knew perfectly well that he owed this piece of luck
largely to Roland's good word for him, for his employer had told him as
much; and this being so, of course, by all the rules of that maudlin and
slobbery optimism which usually characterises human nature in fiction--
especially cad human nature--he should have become eternally grateful,
and his former hostility straightway have been metamorphosed to lifelong
devotion. But was this the case?
Not even a little bit. No idea of gratitude ever entered his head. It
was only for his own purposes that the young Squire of Cranston had
helped him, argued this ruffian, with the low suspicious cunning of his
class, but he, Devine, would keep a weather eye open, never fear.
He was right in a way. Roland had acted to serve his own purposes, but
in a directly opposite sense to that suspected by Gipsy Steve.
"By the way, Roland," went on the Colonel, "that daughter of his is a
monstrously pretty girl, eh! By Jove, sir, but I don't believe you'd
have bothered your head about them if she'd had a snub nose and a
squint, eh?"
"No, I shouldn't. Beauty in distress appeals to the susceptibilities of
man, whereas hideosity in similar case does not--unchivalric, even
brutal as the confession may sound. But as the girl is only on a visit
to her father--doesn't live with him--my character may be regarded as
clear."
"Ha-ha! You dog!" laughed the jolly Colonel. "That reminds me of--"
But what it reminded him of did not transpire, for at that moment they
were joined by Clara, basket in hand. She was going to gather some
roses, she said. Roland, however much he might or might not have
preferred his cigar and his host's more or less sporting stories, could
do nothing less than offer to help her. Which offer was graciously
accepted.
"Ha-ha! Roland, she'll make you do all the finger-licking part of the
business," jocosely cried the Colonel after them.
"By the bye, what was the sequel to that unlucky smash in the
conservatory?" said Clara, as they turned into the garden path. "The
orchid, I mean. Did you get frightfully scolded?"
This in reference to a casualty which had befallen during the speaker's
stay at Cranston, when again the sweep of Roy's blundering tail had
wrought mischief, breaking a fairly valuable orchid.
"No--I was let down rather easily. The veteran said it wasn't a very
rare one, and only remarked in his glum way that he supposed dogs would
be happier outside conservatories than in them."
"Ah! I'm glad of that; I was afraid the General would have been
dreadfully vexed. Can you reach that, Mr Dorrien? There, if I hold
down the bough--so--thanks. Now that other one."
Her tall, elegant figure showed to advantage in the light morning dress,
as in easy attitude she reached up to hold the refractory bough--Clara
Neville was not one to indulge in unbecoming exertions. Her voice was
low and well modulated, and fell pleasantly upon the ear--around them
blossoming rose-bushes and the fragrant scents of the garden--and in the
background bits of the red-brick Elizabethan house peeped at them
through the trees. In no wise was he insensible to the influences of
the picture and its central figure, the graceful, handsome girl talking
to him in easy, familiar manner and with her most attractive smile; and
then for the first time his father's words, spoken on the evening of the
day he first saw Clara Neville, darted across his mind, "She will have
Ardleigh Court"--and now it also dawned upon him that the words had been
spoken with design.
Yet how many men would willingly have changed places with him! And,
even as things stood, his father's cherished scheme, for now he felt
instinctively that such it was, would not have come adversely to him--
if--ah! that little "if!"
"Oh, Mr Dorrien--there, look, you've splashed me all over by letting go
of that branch too soon," cried Clara, with a little shiver. "And it
has all gone up my sleeve, and it's rather cold. But never mind," she
added with a laugh, "you've come off second best. How you've scratched
yourself!"
"Oh, it's nothing," he replied hastily, apologising for his remissness
and feeling guilty. The branch which he had let go of was thorny, and
had torn his hand at the same time as it had sprinkled his fair
companion with the rain-drops which hung upon its leaves.
"I think we've picked enough now, so we can go in. By the way, papa
warned you that you would find the thorns your portion, didn't he?" she
said, with a smile.
In his present train of thought the phrase struck him as prophetic. He
feared that many thorns would encompass the path by which he was to
reach his desired goal, yet none the less was he determined to reach it.
"Mr Dorrien," said Maud Neville, at luncheon, "the Fates have ordained
that you shall go to a tennis party with us at the Pagnells' this
afternoon. Now, don't swear--secretly, I mean."
"Maud!" ejaculated her mother.
"If you only knew how urgently Isabel entreats us to bring you, Mr
Dorrien," said Clara, "you would be far too much flattered--or ought to
be."
"Ho-ho! Roland," laughed the Colonel. "No slipping away to smoke a
quiet weed this time, no matter how heavy in hand the entertainment."
"I don't think it'll be heavy," said Clara. "Isabel generally manages
to get together a lively enough set. Too lively sometimes, for it is a
favourite trick of hers to ask all the people to meet each other who are
most `at dead cuts.'"
"Very bad taste of her," put in Mrs Neville. "But I don't know what
girls are coming to now-a-days."
Bankside, the Pagnells' house, was a pretty, old-fashioned box, perched
on the side of a hill and commanding a lovely view of the Wandsborough
valley. A snug, leafy retreat, all shrubbery and flowers and smooth
lawns--it was just the place for open-air festivities. We have already
made the acquaintance of its lord on the magisterial bench, which is as
well, as we shall not see him here. He has a horror of social
gatherings, and leaves all duties of entertaining to his eldest
daughter, Isabel--a tall, handsome girl of five-and-twenty.
"So here you are at last, Clara," was the latter's greeting, as she came
forward to receive the Ardleigh party. "You disappointing girl! I
particularly asked you to come rather early, and so you wait until the
last moment. How are you, Mr Dorrien? And now--come and have some
tea."
"You seem to have got together a good many new people, Isabel," said
Clara, as they made their way to the tennis ground. "First of all, who
is that tall young fellow in white flannels over there, laughing as if
he would never stop?"
"Where? Oh, that. That's Eustace Ingelow. Nice looking boy, isn't he?
Odd you've never met him--and hasn't he grown handsome? I'll introduce
him," and in obedience to her beckoning signal, the subject under
discussion hastened lip and was introduced in due course. Even Clara,
who was not fond of the family, readily admitted that in appearance the
rector's son bore out her friend's eulogium. Tall and well-made, his
sun-browned, handsome face wearing the brightest and merriest of
expressions, and his manner, though perfectly free and unaffected,
devoid of all approach to bumptiousness, the young fellow had been
winning golden opinions from everybody.
"Ah, Mr Dorrien, I've heard of you," he said, turning his dark eyes
upon this new acquaintance. "Awfully glad to meet you," and a hearty
hand-grip cemented their friendship on the spot.
"Now, Mr Dorrien, no shirking, if you please," cried Isabel laughingly.
"It has been my sole object in life this afternoon to let no two men
hang together; so come along and be introduced all round, and do your
duty. Can't help it, Clara, must be done," she added, with the faintest
possible significance in her tone as she turned away.
Roland felt rather savage. He wanted to elicit some information from
Eustace Ingelow, by dint of a few carelessly worded questions, but no
opportunity was vouchsafed him. However, he descried Margaret on the
other side of the lawn, and upon her presently he bore down.
"--Expecting them home? But they are home, Mr Dorrien," said Margaret
in surprise, answering a question as to her sisters' return. "They came
back yesterday. Olive is rather unwell to-day, and is staying at home.
Have you met my brother?" as the latter passed them, talking to Nellie
Dorrien, to whom he had obtained an introduction.
"I say, Margaret," said the graceless youth, stopping a moment, "old
mother Frewen seems as sulphurous as ever. Look at her over there,
`testifying.' You ought to have converted her by this time," with a
quizzical glance in the direction of an old lady, who was an "aggrieved
parishioner" of a perfervid type.
"Don't talk nonsense, Eusty. Someone will hear you."
"Ha! ha! Let's go and hear her, at a respectful distance, eh, Miss
Dorrien?--it'll be fun," suggested crafty Eustace, with the object of
beguiling Nellie for a walk round the shrubberies--an object in which he
succeeded; and judging from the frequency with which the fair, sweet
face was convulsed with laughter, it seemed that they managed to make
the time pass right merrily.
"Nellie, your mother has been looking for you everywhere. It's time to
go home," said a cold voice at her elbow, and turning with a little
start of dismay, she found herself face to face with her father, who was
looking very stern and gloomy.
"Yes, papa. I'm so sorry," and, with a hurried farewell to her
companion, she proceeded to obey the implied injunction, her experience
warning her that there were squalls ahead; while her late escort,
disconsolately anathematising the lord of Cranston as a cantankerous old
ruffian, betook himself once more to the assemblage of his fellows.
"Who was that boy with whom you spent the afternoon, Nellie?" asked
General Dorrien, in the carriage on the way home.
"I didn't know I had spent the afternoon with anyone, papa," she
replied, as gently as she could. "But if you mean who was I talking to
when you came up, it was Mr Eustace Ingelow."
"Was it? A most impertinent boy, I call him," went on her father, with
a very dark look. "Because he meets anyone in society, that seems a
sufficient reason for monopolising them for the rest of the afternoon.
An impudent, pushing, and most forward young cub, to come thrusting
himself upon us, and you to encourage him! Who is he, I should like to
know? We've never seen him before, and, if I can help it, we shall
never see him again."
Poor Nellie made no reply, beyond a weary little sigh. What had she
done? Why, the duration of their harmless little walk had barely
exceeded half an hour. And in her heart of hearts she owned to herself
that the said half-hour had flown very quickly indeed.
"I say, dad," cried Eustace Ingelow that evening at the dinner-table.
"I like that man Dorrien. Rather reserved and--er--quiet at first--the
sort of man who wants knowing, eh?"
"H'm, so that's your opinion, is it?" said the rector, somewhat
attentively. "Now I shouldn't have thought he'd have been at all the
sort of fellow you'd have taken to at first sight, Eustace."
"Yes, he is," replied the Oxonian decidedly. "He's a man with a lot in
him, I should think. Now that brother of his--the one that's at
Queen's--he's a--a--well, a scrubby sort, but I like this one. Roland,
don't they call him, eh?"
"It strikes me, from all accounts, that you like his sister a great deal
more," cried Sophie. "Why, Eusty, you disgraceful boy, you know you
flirted outrageously with her all the afternoon."
"Bosh! What next?" he protested, growing very red. "You girls think a
fellow can't speak to another girl without--er--without--. Besides you
weren't there, and you should never take hearsay evidence, Sophonisba,
my jewel."
"Never mind her, Eusty," struck in Olive, who had recovered her spirits
simultaneously with the return of her brother full of the doings at the
Pagnells'. "Never mind her--Nellie Dorrien's a dear, sweet girl, and
you might do worse."
"What do you think of that, dad? Just listen to them, how they badger a
fellow."
"No--no--I won't come to your rescue," cried the rector, with a hearty
laugh. "You must fight them single-handed. What's the good of going to
Oxford if it doesn't teach you to take care of yourself, and against a
pack of women, too?"