Hubert Dorrien's sad fate soon came to be recognised as an accepted fact
by Wandsborough and its neighbourhood. He had fallen down Smugglers'
Ladder in the dark, for had not young Mr Ingelow found a bit of the
cord of his eyeglass hanging from the brink of that fateful chasm? And
his body had been carried away by the tide, as to that there was no
doubt. Why, only a fortnight afterwards, the rector's daughter would
have lost her life at the same spot, to a dead certainty, had it not
been for a stranger, who must have been sent there by Providence,
specially for the purpose, said Wandsborough and its neighbourhood. And
no sooner had the community arrived at this conclusion than its verdict
was confirmed beyond a doubt. The body of the missing man was cast up
on the shore a few miles from Wandsborough, and though in a dreadful
state after its long immersion, the face was unrecognisable, the
clothing, watch, and other possessions of the missing man were not, and
the identity thus established, a coroner's jury returned a verdict of
"Death by misadventure," and the remains were interred in Cranston
churchyard. One juryman, burning with zeal, was anxious to append a
rider, censuring the absence of fencing along the dangerous part of the
cliffs, but was stifled by the remainder, who were alive to the fact
that although part of such fencing would be at the cost of the
deceased's father, by far the larger portion would fall upon the rates,
i.e. themselves.
Then the gossips began to speculate as to the probable effect of the
fatality upon domestic affairs at Cranston Hall. Would it result in a
healing of the breach between General Dorrien and his eldest--now his
only--son. In its heart of hearts the neighbourhood hoped it would.
Him, at any rate, it knew, and if he was somewhat cold and reticent, he
would none the less keep up his position as it should be kept up, an
eventuality by no means so certain in the case of poor Hubert, had he
been the one to inherit. But if the feud were to run on to the bitter
end, the probability was that some stranger, wholly undesirable, would
eventually reign at Cranston.
But as time went on, it brought with it no sign of reconciliation. No
communication passed between Roland Dorrien and his father, indeed the
General was in as complete a state of ignorance on the subject of his
son's whereabouts as the most curious of the busybodies who interested
themselves in his affairs. In truth, there were times when the old man
realised his loneliness and would fain have had the prodigal return, but
then it must be unreservedly as a prodigal and not as one with whom
terms were to be made, that must be distinctly understood. To be sure,
he forgot that his son had inherited his own unyielding nature, but that
is just the very thing parents of his type invariably do forget.
Finally, as the prodigal made no sign, he grew more hardened than ever
in his resentment. He would not have been unwilling to abandon his
cherished idea--to wit, the Cranston-Ardleigh alliance; perhaps, in
time, might have brought himself to waive his opposition to the Rectory
one, had the exile only approached in an apologetic spirit. In fact, it
was one of those rare cases where a judicious friend, having touch of
both parties, might have been invaluable. But no advances did the
erring one make, conciliatory or otherwise, and the stern old man,
sonless and unloved in his old age, grew more morose and reserved every
day.
On his wife, the bereavement told with terrible effect. All the love of
her hard, yet strong, nature had been poured out upon her youngest-born.
He was her Benjamin, and now that he had been taken from her, she felt
that it would, indeed, bring down her grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.
And what lent tenfold anguish to her bereavement was that she regarded
it as an act of the direct vengeance of Heaven. Like all women of her
hard, uncompromising opinions, she believed firmly in "judgments";
unlike most of them, however, she did not believe in these applying to
her neighbours to the exclusion of herself, and now fully, yet
unresignedly, did she admit to herself that her passive acquiescence in,
if not indirect attempts at the robbing of her eldest son of his
birthright in favour of her idolised younger, had been visited by the
signal and direct curse of Heaven. And, perhaps, in one sense she was
not altogether wrong, for partiality and favouritism in family life is
dangerously likely to breed, at any rate, the spirit of Cain.
Though fully recognising the justice of the visitation, yet, none the
less, was she furiously rebellious. She remembered Roland's last words
to her as he went forth in anger from his father's roof, words spoken in
bitter and wrathful satire. "_Let me congratulate you upon having
things at last exactly as you have long wished them to be_." And now it
seemed to her that there was menace in the words. And from that moment
she hated her eldest son. Her former want of love now turned to
something more positive, and she felt that she fiercely hated him, as in
some mysterious degree the cause of his brother's death.
She had not even the poor consolation of once more gazing upon the
beloved face, all cold and unresponsive as it would be. Even that was
denied her. Ah, but how little had she grieved for that other son when
he had gone down beneath the buffeting storms which had so fiercely
swept the ocean of his life, how secretly exultant she had been that his
birthright had passed to his brother, whom she loved!
All that a daughter could do had Nellie done for her mother at this
terrible crisis. Her patience was unbounded, even when her hardest and
most unselfish efforts were met with fierce reproaches and ironical
taunts. What had she cared for poor Hubert when he was alive, that she
should feign grief for him now? Why, if she thought of anyone but
herself, it was Roland, to whom everything must give way. At other
times the grievance would be that she did not show feeling enough. No
one would think that her brother had barely lain a month in his cold
grave, to see the cheerful expression of her face. These and similar
reproaches were her daily portion, till at last the poor girl had begun
to think she really was without feelings, and if not, that the sooner
she became so the better.
But there was an ever-brightening spot on her horizon. Although he had
been unable to see her, Eustace Ingelow had made of the catastrophe an
opportunity of renewing his vows by letter, and even this was as balm to
the girl's empty, aching heart. The rector's son was no half-and-half
lover, and in a trice the correspondence had become brisk. Of course
his letters were supremely incoherent and foolish effusions, such indeed
as would convulse a callous court were they produced in a breach of
promise suit, but they were so thoroughly genuine, breathing throughout
such a spirit of manly affection and real hopefulness, that poor Nellie
took vast comfort, and found herself looking forward to the expiration
of the few weeks which should bring the Oxford vacation and the writer
in person with a degree of eagerness such as she had never before
experienced about anything.
Yes. Eustace was hopeful. That mournful search in which he had borne
so active and intrepid a part had, he felt, rendered him yeoman's
service. Not only had Nellie's father spoken gratefully to him on that
occasion, but he had since received a--for him--very kind letter from
the General, expressing appreciation of his energetic aid and true
sympathy, and trusting that when he returned to Wandsborough he would do
him the favour of calling at Cranston, in order that he might adequately
thank him in person, he, the General, having given up visiting for the
present.
So Eustace saw light ahead, and being very young and proportionately
sanguine, his hopes flew off at a tangent and took in the interests of
others besides himself. Who knew but that he might be instrumental in
bringing about a reconciliation all round? Perhaps the old General was
not such a bad sort at bottom, he reasoned, and if only the "padre"
could be got at him, why, he was sure things would come right. Then the
next thing would be to find poor, dear old Roland. They could advertise
for him, or set some of those private-inquiry fellows on his track, and
find him somehow, and then Olive and himself could have a
double-barrelled wedding, and henceforth they would all be as jolly
together as jolly could be, more so in fact by contrast with all these
wretched rows which had gone before. So reasoned glowing youth, leaving
out of account such considerations as that rancorous feud--bitter,
burning words, which, once spoken, cannot be forgotten, no, not in a
hundred life-times--black misfortune, and hope turned to the gall of
despair do not pass over those concerned without leaving terrible traces
of their deadly blight, even if the fruit which they have borne be that
of ruin and of crime.
But if Eustace left out of sight these reflections, his father did not.
The rector smiled sadly to himself as he read his son's sanguine
outpourings--sadly, for he speculated how soon and to what extent
contact with the hard world would rub off the boy's fresh, wholesome
warmheartedness. Yet one suggestion had fixed his attention, for it
bore upon the very plan which he had himself been meditating for some
days. It was that he should pay a call of condolence at Cranston. He
did not pretend to himself that it was otherwise than distasteful, but
it seemed his duty. The Dorriens were not his parishioners, but they
were neighbours. They had always treated him with hostility, and on one
or two occasions with studied insult; yet they were now sorely
afflicted, and for him to allow resentment because of his trifling
wrongs to stand in the way at such a time, would be more than unworthy.
It was not to be thought of.
So, actuated by these considerations, Dr Ingelow found himself one
afternoon ringing at the great door of Cranston Hall. He noted the
stare of surprise which came over the stolid visage of the domestic who
opened it, and who in a minute returned to inform him that General and
Mrs Dorrien did not see visitors at present, but that they desired that
their compliments should be conveyed to him. A few days later the
rector received a note stamped with the Dorrien arms, which he opened
with considerable curiosity. Though stiff and formal, it was not
uncivil, as in curt phraseology General Dorrien expressed his
appreciation of the Rector of Wandsborough's kindly attention, and
indeed that of all other sympathetic inquirers, etc, etc. And the good
priest felt that he had done his duty.
But he still had plenty of anxieties, the first and chiefest of which
was on Olive's behalf. She had never quite recovered from the effects
of that terrible night, and the Wandsborough M.D., together with a great
London luminary whom the rector had privily got down to see her, had
confessed themselves baffled. At any rate they were clear upon one
point. She must have a change; that was imperatively needed, and it
must be a thorough one. For a long time she resisted. She did not want
to leave Wandsborough, she protested, and why not wait until the summer,
when it would be so much pleasanter abroad? But Margaret's diplomacy
overruled all these objections, and it was decided they should leave for
the south of Spain almost immediately.
On one point Olive's lips were sealed. No word passed them as to the
identity of the mysterious stranger. Her lover had more than hinted at
some terrible shadow overhanging him, apart from his ruined prospects.
Her quick intellect put two and two together. His disguise must have
been assumed with no light object, and with no living soul, not even her
own father, would she share the key to the mystery. But she lost no
time in despatching to the address which he had left, such a letter as
should ensure her against losing sight of him again, repeating, as it
did, all--and more than all--her assurances to him during that last
meeting on the lone seashore; breathing a world of comfort and
hopefulness and love.