It may seem strange that to a man of Dr Ingelow's standard of principle
and pronounced beliefs, such a cordial intimacy as that which had sprung
up between himself and Roland Dorrien should be possible; still more so,
that apart from the drawbacks we have narrated, and which were purely
mundane, he should be ready to accept him as a son-in-law. Yet he was--
and without prejudice to his own principles.
No man living was more thoroughly free from bigotry than the rector of
Wandsborough. Principle was one thing--sitting on the judgment seat,
quite another. So, although he suspected Roland Dorrien's private
opinions to border very closely upon infidelity, yet he did not consider
him a subject for social ostracism on that account. Indeed, had the man
shown a devout disposition in the face of early bringing up and
subsequent associations, he would have looked upon him in the light of a
natural curiosity. Roland was just the sort of man whom the ordinary
Anglican parson would have regarded with lofty disapproval. But then
Dr Ingelow was by no means an ordinary Anglican parson.
Of course, Wandsborough was not long in finding out that Roland
Dorrien's place in its midst would know him no more, and its curiosity
once awakened, it caught eagerly at the few "straws" floating on the
wind of popular report, and proceeded to piece together many romantic
and preposterous stories therewith. Dark rumours as to that stormy
scene in the study at Cranston Hall began to leak out. Servants have
long tongues and still longer ears, and more than one virtuous domestic
had stood on mental tip-toe, pausing in his or her then occupation, to
listen intently as the sound of angry voices proceeded from the dread
sanctum. Before night, the story had not only permeated Cranston
village, but had been whispered in Wandsborough, and Roland's abrupt
departure the next day seemed a direct challenge to all tongues.
What a good time of it had Miss Munch and Mrs Bunch _et hoc genus
omne_! Now was the time for unearthing all the little bits of
half-forgotten scandal and tagging them together, and weaving them into
a deliciously parti-coloured whole, amid much head-wagging and "didn't I
tell you how it would be?"--"and it wasn't likely that such a one as
Roland Dorrien would bury himself in a dull place like Wandsborough, and
hardly ever be with his own people, for nothing." First it was rumoured
that the General and his son had had a stand up fight in the former's
study, then that they had thrown all the chairs and tables at each
other. The more oracular declared that nothing short of a duel had
taken place, and least said soonest mended; and thus the ball rolled,
until the bare facts that actually were known or guessed at, became
quite too prosaic for credence.
But what had it all been about? "Ah! haven't you heard?" And then the
mysterious nods and winks would increase tenfold, and the whispered
communication would be received in various ways according to the
temperament or capacity for humbug of the hearer--but always with a
thirst for more particulars. For instance, why should Mr Dorrien have
interested himself on behalf of that precious rascal, Gipsy Steve? Must
it not have been on Lizzie's account, and, of course, all young men were
desperately wicked, and anyone with half an eye could see through _that_
brick wall; and so the matter had come to the General's ears. But this
story was very soon improved upon, and presently it was that Gipsy Steve
had sworn to shoot the young Squire unless he did justice to Lizzie--and
it was while Roland was making this announcement to his father, that the
latter had hurled an inkstand at his head, and now he had made himself
scarce, fearing the ex-poacher's vengeance. Others again scouted this
version. Roland Dorrien was not the man to be afraid of anyone--rightly
or wrongly--not he. Besides, Lizzie had no more to do with the concern
than they, the speakers, had. It was Olive Ingelow who was the real
apple of discord. Couldn't anyone see that the two were never apart,
that the young Squire spent most of his evenings at the Rectory, and how
he and the young lady wandered about the lanes together, or sat on the
beach all day long!--and now, it turned out that they had been privately
married, and that the General had sworn he would never recognise it or
set eyes on his son again.
This rumour, once let loose, ranged at will, and these and a dozen other
stories, each more preposterous than its predecessor, were circulated
throughout Wandsborough, and all the region round about, and gained more
or less of ready credence. Among those by whom they were accepted,
opinions were divided anent the respective conduct of the General and
his son in connection with the affair. Some held that the former was a
domestic tyrant of the very worst order, and that the latter had, at
last, justifiably rebelled--others again extolled the General as a model
parent and a high-principled Christian man, while poor Roland, it was
declared, had always been a depraved reprobate and an irreclaimable
scamp; in short--and whatever had happened now, he had been rightly
served. Then there were not wanting a few who held that between the two
it was six of one and half a dozen of the other--that the Dorriens were
at best an ill-conditioned, quarrelsome lot, and the less one had to do
with them the better.
At Ardleigh Court the tidings of the Dorrien quarrel were received with
surprise and dismay. The Colonel warmly espoused the cause of the
absent, wherein his wife differed with him wholly. Young men were so
intolerably self-opinionated now-a-days, she declared, that no doubt
General Dorrien had not been unjustified in what he did. However,
having so far vindicated her principles of contradictiousness, she was
fain to admit that Roland seemed far more sensible than most young men
of his age, and she liked what she had seen of him. Whatever Clara may
have thought, she said very little, though on one or two occasions she
had stood up--rather warmly for her--for the exile; and Maud, albeit she
had wrangled a good deal with him during his stay there, was really
sorry for him, though being of a romantic turn she was inclined to feel
very angry with him on her sister's account, her lively imagination
having long since settled all that.
"A pack of infernal lies?" cried the Colonel with heat, referring to
some of the reports which had come to his ears concerning the absent.
"Pooh! I don't believe a word of them. Dorrien's a quick-tempered
fellow--always was, by Jove! and Roland's a chip of the old block. I
suppose they lost their tempers with each other, and came to high words.
As for all that slander, and bringing girls' names into the concern,
why, it's scandalous."
"Well, where there's smoke there must be some fire," suggested his wife,
with characteristic originality.
"Fire be damned, ahem! I beg your pardon," exploded the good-hearted
Colonel. "And I tell you what it is. That libellous old Jezebel--
what's her name?--Frewen, for instance, will find herself in Court if
she doesn't look out. Libel's a criminal offence, and if she comes
before us, I'll commit her for trial--I will, by Jove, as sure as I'm
Chairman of Petty Sessions!"
"I think you're rather hard on her," objected Mrs Neville, true to her
colours. "She didn't originate these stories, remember."
"It's my belief she did!" retorted the Colonel. "She hates the
Ingelows, and would move heaven and earth to injure them--spiteful,
canting old harridan. I think Ingelow mistaken, and his vestments and
candles and popish fal-lal great bosh--but hang it! he's a thoroughly
good fellow in private life, and I'm not going to stand by and see him
worried and his girls' characters taken away by that slanderous old
Gamp, who probably began life in a chandler's shop--and I'll let him
know that I'm not. I'll call on him this very afternoon, by George, I
will?"
At Cranston, as may be supposed, cheerful times did not prevail. Always
gloomy and constrained, the gloom and constraint deepened tenfold in the
days following upon the rupture. The General's ill-humour was now
chronic, and when he did speak it was usually to make some incisive
remark calculated to render everyone thoroughly ill at ease. Mrs
Dorrien was freezingly acid, and the household saw no one and went
nowhere, and, needless to say, all reference to the erring one was
strictly taboo. Hubert heartily wished the Vacation would be quick and
come to an end, and being considerably bored, and proportionately
irritable, his sister had to bear the brunt of his--among other--
ill-tempers. As for poor Nellie, she felt the separation terribly. She
had little thought that morning that she had seen the last of Roland,
without even saying goodbye, too. And now she was forbidden even to
write to him. Life was very hard--would better times ever come?