"Can I see Mr Dorrien?--Yes, certainly. Show him in here," and the
rector, making a hasty note on the margin of his paper, laid aside his
pen as Roland was shown into the study.
A nervous man, full of the errand on which he had come, might have felt
his besetting weakness to a painful extent at the prosaic hour of 10
a.m., here, in this judicial-looking apartment, wherein multitudinous
papers disposed about seemed to speak of the more serious side of life,
while the shelves of heavily-bound volumes lent a somewhat severe air to
the room--and that notwithstanding the real cordiality of his reception;
for it is one thing to be on sufficiently intimate terms with a man to
justify your dropping in upon him informally for a friendly chat, and
quite another to offer yourself as his future son-in-law. But Roland
was not of the nervous order. Even had he been, it is probable that
experiences of _tete-a-tete_ interviews with a far more formidable
personage than Dr Ingelow would have eliminated from this one all its
imaginary misgivings, if only by contrast. So after a commonplace
remark or two he came straight to the point without difficulty.
Quietly, yet attentively, the rector listened to all his visitor had to
say, and listening, felt no doubt as to the eligibility of the speaker.
Possibly he was not wholly unprepared for the avowal, sooner or later.
Anyhow, he showed little or no surprise. It was his wont to receive
important matters calmly.
"And so I must give up my little Olive?" he said, with a pleasant smile.
"However, I suppose the certainty of having to part with them some day
or other is one of the disadvantages a man has to labour under if he
owns pretty and attractive daughters. But may I ask, Mr Dorrien,
whether you have informed your family--your father--of the step you
propose to take?"
Roland stared. He was considerably taken aback by this question, and,
in truth, not a little annoyed. And an unwonted formality about the
other's tone tended somewhat to disconcert him.
"Well, no--I can't say I have. Naturally, I imagined that you yourself
were the first person to be spoken to on the subject. To be candid with
you, Dr Ingelow, I have knocked about the world long enough to dispense
with the paternal sanction to any undertaking of mine. Moreover, you
may possibly be aware that my family and myself are never on very good
terms--unfortunately, I admit--but still it is so."
The rector did not at once reply. He was leaning back in his chair, one
hand thoughtfully stroking his beard, while the other toyed listlessly
with one of the buttons of his cassock, and his brows were slightly
contracted.
"It is unfortunate, Dorrien, because the fact of things being so, rather
tends to complicate the situation," he replied at length, as the
slightest possible movement of impatience, which Roland could not for
the life of him suppress, did not escape his quick perceptions. "For it
happens that I have certain old-fashioned ideas of my own on these
matters. Wait--just hear what I've got to say"--laying his hand on the
other's arm with a kindly, reassuring touch--"and bear with what you
think an old man's unreasonable whims. Now go straight to Cranston and
lay the whole matter before your father. Then come back here and tell
me the result."
"Am I to understand, then, Dr Ingelow, that you will only grant your
consent subject to the contingency of my father granting his?" said
Roland, in a tone whose bitterness it was impossible to conceal.
The rector felt puzzled by the directness of this query, but he did not
show it.
"I haven't asked you to do a very hard or unreasonable thing, Dorrien,"
he said, with a quiet smile. "Now do oblige me in this. Can you not
see that I am justified in requiring it? Then we can talk over matters
further."
Roland felt thoroughly outflanked. He could not tell his father-in-law
elect that his own amiable parent would more readily give his sanction
to an alliance of his house with the Prince of Darkness than with that
of himself--yet he knew perfectly well it was so. Here, indeed, was a
most formidable obstruction in the way; one, moreover, on which he had
never reckoned. He could only agree mechanically to the rector's
proposal, but his heart sank within him as he took his leave. No, he
had not bargained for this.
All seemed to augur badly for the successful outcome of his errand, for
the General was out, and was not expected back till nearly dinner-time,
he learned on reaching Cranston. But the General returned in such a
state of ill-humour that it was obviously useless to broach the subject
that night. On the morrow--well, it was just possible that some miracle
might interpose on his behalf, but hardly probable. Never did it seem
to him that he could remember a more thoroughly depressing evening than
this one. His father scarcely spoke, and when he did address him it was
in a tone of studied coldness; his mother would now and then make a
captious remark, while Hubert sulkily plied his knife and fork, and made
no attempt at conversation whatever. Heartily glad was he then to find
himself at last in the smoking-room.
"Hallo! Roland--there you are," cried Hubert, banging the door behind
him, and flinging himself into an armchair. "Now one can breathe
freely, at any rate. The veteran looks sweet to-night, doesn't he?"
"Yes. What one might call re-entering the glacial period, eh?"
"Haw! haw! Rather. But 'pon my soul, you ought to thank your stars
night and day that you're out of this infernal house."
"H'm! Why don't you go abroad, or somewhere, during the `Long'! You've
heaps of time."
"Don't I wish I may get it! _He_ takes precious good care I don't--
that's why," rejoined Hubert, wrathful over the memory of his wrongs;
and then he relapsed into silence. The fact was, he began to feel
embarrassed, for he was trying to summon up courage to ask his brother a
favour. He had been leading a life of terrible anxiety for the last few
weeks. A bill was on the point of falling due, and he had not a notion
how it was to be met. Result--another exposure. For what made it worse
was the fact of his having denied further liability when his father had
paid off his debts a couple of months back, and now it would come out
that he had--well, stated what he knew to be contrary to fact. In his
extremity, he thought of Roland, and now the moment struck him in a
propitious light.
"Keeps you tight, I suppose?"
"Tight! I should just think he did," replied Hubert, with alacrity.
Surely the conversation was working round towards a favourable opening.
"Hard luck that. Try one of these weeds."
"Thanks. And--er--I say, Roland, there's something I rather thought--
er--you might perhaps do for me. The fact is, you see, I'm in a devil
of a fix just now--don't know which way to turn. And if the veteran
should find it out I'm clean done."
Roland eyed him rather curiously.
"Well, what is it? Cash--or petticoat? Those being the two main
sources of man's difficulties."
"Well, it's a bill."
"Been flying kites, eh?"
"Yes," answered Hubert in desperation. Why the deuce was the other so
infernally laconic and quiet over it--why couldn't he show a little
feeling? he thought--and then his heart sank, for he made sure Roland
would put him off with the usual excuse. But the next words reassured
him.
"H'm! That's better. If it had been the other phase of the root of all
evil, I don't see how I could have helped you to avoid reaping the
traditional whirlwind. But what's the amount?"
Hubert named it--rather shamefacedly. It was a fair sum, just topping
the three figures. More, a good deal, than Roland had expected, but he
showed no surprise. He had made up his mind to help his brother in
this, though Hubert's deportment towards himself had hitherto been
ill-conditioned enough--and row he speculated idly as to whether the
other would feel any gratitude towards him or hate him all the more.
Hubert, meanwhile, felt his fears revive during the silence that ensued,
and he thought enviously of all the advantages his brother possessed.
Here he was, free from this wretched home, with a handsome independence
of his own, over and above being the heir to the splendid family place.
Surely he would help him. He lived very quietly, and could not be short
of cash himself.
"What makes it worse," he went on desperately, "is that I told the
`Relieving Officer' there was nothing else outstanding, when he pulled
me through before, and now he'll find out there was. I don't know how
the deuce I did it--but, you see, this was such a big thing, and he was
so beastly satirical and sneering, that somehow I got in a funk and
shirked it. Hang it all, Roland," he broke off in a kind of irritable
despair, "it's all very well for you, you see. You're independent of
him, and are not driven to do these things; while a poor devil like me--
oh, well!"
"My dear fellow, there's not the least necessity for jumping down my
throat, I assure you. I wasn't going to offer an opinion on the matter.
Nor am I going to lecture you--unless, perhaps, you don't mind my
advising you to square this up and have done with it. I'll write you a
cheque when we go upstairs."
Even while he spoke it flitted across Roland's mind that the time would
probably come when, in a pecuniary sense, his own position would be
insignificant in comparison with that of his younger brother. Would he
have helped him, he wondered, were their positions reversed? But then
Hubert was an extravagant young dog, and would in all likelihood go
through life in a chronic state of "hard-up."
"By Jove, Roland, it's awfully good of you," he cried, in such a tone of
genuine relief as to draw that queer smile to his brother's face.
"Thanks, awfully. The fact is you've got me out of a deucedly deep
hole--and--er--"
"How about by-by?" said the other, recovering himself from a stretch and
a mighty yawn. "It's waxing late. Better lay hold of that candle, I've
got one in my room. Come along, and we'll draw the cheque."
Hubert took the hint to say no more about it, but he went to bed with a
lighter heart than he had done for many a night. He had that cheque
safe in his possession. Wiser thoughts might have prevailed in the
morning--his brother might have thought better of it--might have
discovered that he couldn't spare the cash--what not? He need not have
feared. Whatever his faults, Roland Dorrien was incapable of going back
on his word, and had the amount in question reached the limit of his
worldly possessions, he would still have parted with it.