Christmas had come and gone, and Eustace Ingelow was at home again, but
things were not going well with him, and he was in consequence
proportionately gloomy. Never, since the day he surprised her in the
midst of her grief, had he had the chance of speaking to Nellie Dorrien
alone. Whether by accident or design, she had been invited to visit a
relative at a distance for Christmas. She had left Cranston a few days
before his arrival, and it seemed unlikely that her return would take
place before his departure, and he had failed in his undertaking, for no
trace could he discover of her missing brother. Venn had written
stating that he feared they would see no more of Roland Dorrien until
such time as that worthy chose to disclose his whereabouts. And
Eustace's heart had sunk. If Venn, a London man, could not trace his
friend, what chance had he himself, who could bring neither time nor
experience to bear upon his quest? His failure and misgivings he had
made known to Nellie, who had recognised the force of them. Poor
Eustace, however, was very unhappy. He had been looking forward to the
Christmas vacation with the bright, warm glow of first love fresh at his
heart, and with all the sanguine buoyancy of youth. Things would come
right somehow. But, now that his hopes were so cruelly disappointed,
and that the meetings, all the sweeter if stolen, to which he had been
looking forward, were not to be, the poor fellow hardly knew how to
conceal his despondency. In Olive he found a ready sympathiser, but
hers was a sympathy that was all on one side. Never since the receipt
of that last letter from Roland Dorrien had the girl opened her lips on
the subject of her griefs to any living soul. It was a strange
reticence--yet one that she heroically and rigidly preserved, and now,
though she entered lovingly into poor Eustace's troubles, of her own she
breathed not one word. With such elements of despondency in their midst
it was not to be wondered at that Christmas festivities this year had
seemed to the rector's family to fall somewhat flat.
At Cranston Hall the chronic atmosphere of gloom and constraint in
nowise tended to a clearance, and Time, so far from allaying General
Dorrien's resentment towards his eldest son, rather tended to heighten
it; as one or two incidents showed. Mr Curtis, the easy-going but
good-hearted vicar of Cranston, happening to be aware of the complete
ruin in which the exiled one had been involved through the bank failure,
took an opportunity of cautiously approaching this vindictive parent on
his behalf, but was met with such an angry rebuff as would have
constituted a mortal insult to a less good-natured man, but which the
easy-tempered vicar had suffered to pass over him unresented. It was
only his duty, he argued to his wife, to try and set things smooth if
possible; if not, well, he had done his best. The exile's other
advocate was Colonel Neville, who had thought Christmas a capital time
for putting in his word, but with like result; and the Colonel falling
far short of the parson in the quality of forbearance, something very
like a quarrel had taken place between the old friends and
companions-in-arms, and a coolness set in between their two houses.
Alone in this uncongenial home poor Nellie had a bad time of it. Her
father seldom addressed a word to her, or indeed, to anybody--for as his
moroseness increased he would shut himself up in his study for hours or
wander about by himself, going nowhere nor entertaining anybody, and
since he had discovered the meeting between herself and Eustace Ingelow
he had treated her as though very little better than her banished
brother. Between herself and her mother there had never been any
sympathy, and now there seemed to be less than any. One bright spot was
on her horizon--Christmas would come, and she would see Eustace again,
and to that she looked forward as to a forlorn hope. And Christmas had
come, and previously to it she had been sent away, as we have seen, a
procedure which, at any other time and under other circumstances, would
have met with her unbounded approval. But now?
The only one whose spirits were in nowise impaired was Hubert. Why,
indeed, should they be, seeing that he was now the assured heir to the
broad acres and splendid rent-roll of Cranston? So on the strength of
his prospects he found means of launching out into unlimited
dissipation. He was now leaving Oxford, and had already mapped out for
himself a dazzlingly attractive programme for the enjoyment of "life"
when he should take up his abode in London in a week or two to read for
his "call." Meanwhile, even in Wandsborough, Master Hubert found scope
for some very lively doings, and was only restrained just within the
bounds of prudence by the fear of certain of his high jinks reaching the
paternal ears, which possibility kept him in a state of periodical and
wholesome terror. And there was always the apprehension that
circumstances might combine to restore Roland to his rightful place,
which would mean nothing less than ruin to himself.
That "no one is all bad" is a favourite cant--but only a cant. In
common with not a few others Hubert Dorrien was "all bad"--emphatically
so. There was not a single redeeming point in his character, not even
the boldness which frequently attends utter want of scruple. The latter
quality he possessed in affluent measure, but ever subordinate to the
stronger passion of fear. His brother had helped him, very much to his
own hindrance, in his dire need, and not only was he dead to all sense
of gratitude, but felt only too glad that circumstances afforded him a
colourable excuse for neglecting to refund the loan now that he wae in a
position to do so.
And towards that brother he now felt all the bitter hatred, begotten of
fear and a sense of obligation, of which his base and craven nature was
capable, and, as fate would have it, the circumstance detailed in a
former chapter placed an efficient weapon in his hand. Rumour began to
circulate in Wandsborough, and with multifold winks and head-shakings,
and "I told you so," and "What else could you expect?" the many-tongued
assassin commented on the continued absence of Lizzie Devine. All
Wandsborough became aware, or fancied itself so, that the girl was play
acting, or worse, in London, but that whatever she was doing she was not
alone, for had not young Squire Hubert--he had got rapid promotion, you
see--met her, in company with his brother, at some theatre or other?
That was enough. Everybody knew she was never any better than she
should be. A fine girl--yes. A splendidly-handsome girl--yes--but--a
bad 'un, come of a bad stock. And those young Dorriens. A wild set,
and no mistake! Thus the gossips.
This rumour was quick to reach Gipsy Steve's ears, with the result that
the ex-poacher got furiously drunk, and went about vowing vengeance in
forcible and blood-curdling terms, thereby narrowly escaping summary
dismissal at the hands of Colonel Neville. It was not long, either, in
becoming known to Turner, and that reverend person, coupling it with the
upshot of his earlier observations, could not refrain from making
capital--pious capital of course--out of the knowledge. But
circumspectly as he had originated the rumour and disseminated it
withal, common consent attributed it to Hubert, and men wondered how his
brother could have been such a fool as to trust a fellow who couldn't
keep counsel in a delicate affair of this kind, but went blabbing it all
over the place. Finally, it became known to the General, as Hubert had
all along intended it should. From that moment he felt secure. The
heavens might fall, but never again would Roland set foot in his
father's presence.