Eustace Ingelow sat in the summer-house at the back of the Rectory
garden smoking his after-breakfast pipe, and with him his youngest
sister, Sophie, doing some needlework.
They were discussing a letter which the former had received from the
absent Roland, also an eventuality concerning Johnston, the Cranston
gardener, and the bite he had received from Roy.
"Do you think that abominable fellow really intends to bring an action
against him?" the girl was saying.
"He does. He says he's lamed for life. It's an arrant lie, of course,
on a par with that one about going into the coach-house to fetch a broom
and Roy flying at him. However, he won't get Dorrien's whereabouts out
of me, and I'm rather certain no one else knows it."
The fact was, that Johnston, seeing a good opportunity, in the mishap
which had befallen him, of being revenged on Roy and his master, and
withal extracting from the latter's pocket considerable compensation,
had complained to his employer in the first instance. But to his
surprise the General curtly and fiercely refused to listen to him, and
the man, seeing that another word on the subject would gravely imperil
his place, and not to be baulked, resolved to bring an action for
damages against the dethroned heir.
Sophie plied her needle thoughtfully for a few moments. Then she looked
up.
"Eusty, does Ro--er--Mr Dorrien, say anything about coming back?"
"N-no. He's sure to be back though, soon. But, I say, you'd better
apply to Olive for information on that score."
The girl shook her golden head sadly.
"Eusty, can you keep a secret? Because, if you can--I'll tell you one.
Well then, I think there's something wrong--in the first place, from
odds and ends I've heard out of doors, in the next--er--well--one
needn't look far from home. And dad had a letter from Mr Dorrien this
morning, and how awfully quiet he was all breakfast time?"
"There was a deuce of a row between Dorrien and his cantankerous old
reprobate of an ancestor--he let out as much as that to me," said
Eustace. "Poor old chap--I hope he'll turn up again soon."
"So do I," echoed the girl. "We don't see many nice people here--at
least not nice men--and he always was such fun."
"Rather. Especially when you got him quietly over a weed. The quaint,
dry sentiments of the fellow were enough to make a cat perish with
laughter. Poor old Dorrien! I hope we shall soon have him back as
jolly as ever. Hallo!--By George, there's that rascal Johnston himself.
Seedy looking cad with him--perhaps an attorney."
They peered through the thick foliage of the arbour, and approaching
from the other end of the gravel walk was the Cranston gardener and his
companion, whom a servant was apparently directing towards their
retreat.
"By Jove!" chuckled Eustace. "Now for some fun. Tell you what, Sophie.
I'll read them Dorrien's postscript."
"Better not," objected his more prudent sister. "No, dear, don't.
There'd only be a row, and I'm so frightened of rows."
"Pooh! I'd chuck the pair of 'em through the hedge."
"And they'd summon you, and dad would be annoyed, and there'd be no end
of bother. Now, Eusty, be a good boy, won't you, and--" But she had no
time for further remonstrance, for the two men had by this time reached
the arbour, and stood looking sheepish and awkward, as if each expected
the other to begin.
"Ah! good day, Johnston. Anything I can do for you? But--who's your
friend?" said Eustace with a careless nod.
"I ask yer pardon, sir, and the young leddy's, for intruding, but I
thought ye might a' heard from Mr Roland. And ye said if ye did ye'd
kindly let me know." This was a fact. Eustace, intending to "draw" the
Scot, had promised him that much.
"Yes?"
"And--have ye, sir?"
"Yes."
And Eustace, taking out his pouch, proceeded with the utmost coolness to
refill and light his pipe.
"And, if I might make so bold, sir, what does he say?" asked the man
anxiously.
"Well, to be candid with you, Johnston, I think you'll get no change out
of him at all. He won't even listen to your idea."
"Begging your pardon, sir," said the stranger, in response to an
appealing look from his companion--"begging your pardon, sir, but
wouldn't it be much better that Mr Dorrien should come to some
understanding with my friend, here, instead of compelling him to go to
law? Now, wouldn't it?"
"Begging yours--but I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance,"
replied Eustace, eyeing the speaker with perfect coolness. "Is this
your legal adviser, Johnston?"
"Eh, no, sir. It's just my cousin, who knows the law as well as most
lawyers, and--"
"Well, it can't possibly be his business, and I shall decline to discuss
it with him," decisively went on Eustace, who had a dim recollection of
having seen the seedy, ferret-nosed individual before him in the office
of a Battisford attorney, where he occupied a position, half clerk, half
errand-runner. "And for the matter of that, Johnston, it's none of mine
either, and I may as well tell you so. So I'm afraid I can't help you
any further."
"And ye won't give me his address?"
"Whose?"
"Meester Dorrien's."
"No."
"But perhaps we can mak' ye," answered Johnston, whose tone was
gradually becoming less respectful and more threatening.
Eustace turned slightly in his chair--his tall, fine frame the picture
of listless ease, and cool self-possession in every feature of his
handsome face.
"Eh? I didn't quite catch?" he said suavely, merely lifting an
eye-brow.
The Cranston gardener, who had obtained his position of awe among the
little community of his colleagues and dependents by mere bluster and
bullying, was an arrant coward at heart, and simply dared not repeat his
remarks.
"But, my dear sir," began the other insinuatingly, cutting him short in
the middle of a whining speech about poor men being denied their
rights--"my dear sir, don't you see--"
"I'm afraid not," was the imperturbable reply. "At least I see this--
that no good will come of discussing the concern any further. But--eh--
by the way, Johnston, you didn't poke at the dog at all--with a stick,
for instance, did you?"
The man's face changed colour, and Eustace, who was watching him
narrowly, detected it at once. It was only a random shot, but it had
evidently hit the mark.
"Ah! well," he went on carelessly, "in any case it doesn't much matter.
And now, I suppose, we have nothing further to discuss. So I'll say
good-day--"
Both men stood irresolute for a moment. Then they turned to go.
"Aweel, sir, it's a queer warrld," said Johnston, "and, of course, we
must just help each other. An' if ever I get a chance o' doing you a
good turn I hope I'll do it."
"That I'm sure you will, Johnston," carelessly assented Eustace, fully
alive to the irony and veiled vow of vengeance in this speech, and
hardly able to contain his mirth, so comic was the expression of baffled
malice which the man strove to conceal. "Well, good-day, again!"
"Eusty," said his sister, when they were out of earshot. "You'd better
look out. I'm sure that horrid man will have his revenge, somehow."
"Pooh! A couple of mean-spirited cads. For two pins I'd have chucked
the pair of 'em into the fish-pond. The impudence of the dogs! The
very sight of them evoked in me what old Medlicott defined in his sermon
the other night as `a surging of the worst passions of our fallen human
nature.'"
All the same he was destined to learn--and that before very long--that
the Scotchman's significant promise might not prove so harmless as he
imagined.
While Eustace was making merry over his friend's letter, the rector was
cogitating over a very different style of communication, though from the
same source. In it the writer set forth briefly and circumstantially
the completeness of his own ruin, adding, that as a beggar and
penniless, he had now no alternative but to take as final the answer
which the rector had given on the occasion of their last meeting. There
was one thing more--an enclosure directed to Olive, and this the writer
ventured to hope might be handed to her. He had purposely left the
envelope open in case Dr Ingelow should prefer to peruse its contents,
but in any event he trusted it might be delivered, as it was the last
communication that would pass between them. It was characteristic of
the old priest's honourable and generous nature, that his first act was
to fasten down the flap of the envelope then and there.
Now the letter was curt, stiff and constrained in wording, but its
recipient could "read between the lines." He knew the world thoroughly,
and his insight into that most complex of machinery, the human heart,
was all but exhaustive, and now, as he sat with the open letter before
him, he could gauge with wonderful exactitude the state of mind of its
unfortunate writer. Its very curtness was the outcome of a studied
expression of feeling, as of one who should nerve himself to the numbing
consciousness of sudden and overwhelming ruin. This man had lost all
which made life valuable to him. It had fallen from him, one might say,
in a single day. How would he bear it?
"Poor fellow--poor fellow! He is ruined, indeed?" broke from the old
priest's lips, as he turned over the whole situation in his mind. "What
will become of him?"
He thought of the mutual liking that had sprung up between them--of
their many pleasant interchanges of ideas and experiences--their
reminiscences of the Great Wild West, gone over together many a time
during the cheerful evening meal--and how these things had carried him
back to the life and spirit of adventure of his own youth. He thought
of the unfortunate man now plunged in ruin and despair, and the picture
thus conjured up moved and distressed him more than he cared to own.
During the few months of their acquaintance he had accurately read
Roland Dorrien's character, and now felt pretty certain that it was not
of the sort to gain by such a blow as this last. He remembered
remorsefully the dark, reckless face as he had last seen it, full of
impatience, resentment and stormy passions, and knew too well that the
owner of that face was not the man to accept misfortune as a thing to
rise superior to and over-rule to his own ultimate good. No! for him he
feared the worst.
Then his eye fell once more upon the enclosure. He took it up
thoughtfully. It was not strange that the writer should have sent it to
him first instead of forwarding it direct by post, but the act was
highly creditable to Dorrien's sense of honour. He conveyed a covert
hint, too, in the letter to himself that they would probably never meet
again. It was all terribly sad, and now with characteristic
scrupulosity the rector blamed himself severely for unnecessary
harshness. Yes, he had been hard and unfeeling in that interview. The
poor fellow was now overwhelmed in the bitterness of his ruin, to an
extent which he was too proud to show, and desperate. He was a man of
little or no religion, consequently a man without hope--and thus
thinking, a warm wave of pity swept over the old priest's heart. Could
nothing be done for this lonely, uncared-for wanderer--nothing to raise
him from where he had gone down beneath the rising tide of adverse
fortune? Yes--it could and it should. He would go himself and seek him
out and convey to him that he was not without friends; nor would he
confine himself only to words of sympathy and friendship, but would
think what offer of material aid he could make. Ah! but--would it be
accepted? The man was proud. A man who had deliberately put away such
a position as Roland Dorrien had done would be difficult to deal with.
And for the first time it struck him that he had made far too light of
that affair, and the conviction began to dawn upon him, that come what
might, do reconciliation would ever take place now between General
Dorrien and his son. And what would become of the latter? Again and
again the rector's sensitive conscience smote him. Had he been a little
less decisive in refusing his consent--had he left the other some ground
for hope, it might be the saving of him now--might act as an incentive
to him to rise above his troubles. Yes--he must see what could be done,
and that without loss of time.
Then, taking the now sealed letter, he went upstairs to find Olive.
"Something for you, darling," he said in his tenderest tone.
"Yes, father. What is it? Oh!"
Her face paled and her hand trembled slightly as she caught sight of the
well-known writing, and there was a terrible air of wistfulness in her
eyes. Ever since the day her father had told her--with all the
consideration and gentleness he could command, as well as with
decision--that he could not consent to anything between Roland Dorrien
and herself, and had so carefully reasoned out the matter that she could
not in her inmost heart accuse him of harshness or injustice--ever since
the day her lover had left the place suddenly and without a word of
explanation, Olive had been as one metamorphosed. Her brightness and
unquenchable flow of spirits had left her; she seldom smiled, never
laughed, and spoke but little.
Now she gained her room, and having locked herself in tore open the
letter. It consisted of several sheets, closely written, and as she
read on, the girl's eyes were dimmed with tears, and at last she could
go no further--great, choking, heart-broken sobs were all that she was
conscious of. It was a strange letter--there was something solemn and
awe-inspiring about it, for it was written as a man might write when
certain that he has but a few hours to live, and yet every now and then,
it would be traversed by a gleam of humour that was heart-rending, so
obvious was it that this was brought in only when the anguish of the
writer became too unbearable. Yet there was not a trace of self-pity in
the letter from beginning to end. It was all on her account that his
misgivings were set forth. As for himself, well, he took a lot of
killing, and supposed he must endure things as they were--and, for her,
Time might work wonders, and she might live to be happy yet, far happier
than she could ever be if tied to a thoroughly broken and disappointed
man like himself; and so her father's decision was right after all. His
day was done; ruin had come upon him, out of which nothing could save
him, and if she could learn to forget him, all the better for herself,
for henceforth to all who had ever known him he must be as one dead.
Then it all came back to her in a moment. She had resented his
departure without a word--now she saw how he had been bound in honour
not to speak it. She had felt proud, hurt and angry, while all the time
he had been crushed beneath an accumulation of ruin and the woe that it
involved. How she loved him now--how her heart went out to him in his
adversity as it would never have done in his prosperity--how she longed
and thirsted to be with him in this dark hour of his distress! All
those bright, beautiful summer months passed before her, with their
golden hours of love and sweetness and peace--and now! Those first
furtive glances exchanged in the church, that accidental meeting on the
beach, and the many rambles and long hours together, all rose up to mock
her--and the moment when she had tottered between life and death on the
slippery cliff path--with him. And now he was gone--gone for ever--and
she was left.