Again we must ask the reader to stand with us in the cheerful
dining-room within which he obtained his first introduction to Cranston
Hall. Now, as then, the breakfast table looks bright and inviting, as
its owner sits at it, opening his letters with a grave, serious face;
but now, unlike then, no warm summer sunshine searches out every corner
of the floor, for the sky is thickly overcast, and tossing eddies of
snowflakes are whirling past, and powdering with a sugary carpet the
half-frozen lawn. Nor do the clustering roses softly beat their bruised
fragrance against the window panes; in their stead only bare branches,
tossing in the wintry wind which, dismally whistling round the corners
of the house, enhances the snugness of the cosy room, with its blazing
fire, whence reflects a sparkling glow upon the breakfast-things and the
snowy cloth.
And he who now sits at the table is not him whom we first saw there, for
this is a much younger man. Time, which brought its rude buffets, has
at length brought its compensations, and Roland Dorrien now reigns in
the halls of his ancestors. Let us look at him as he sits there. A
little thinner perhaps, certainly graver, and with a brow never quite
free from an expression of anxious care; there is an occasional thread
of grey in his dark hair, and in the deep blue eyes may be descried a
tinge of sadness which is seldom absent. He has aged, too, in
appearance, and that greatly; yet barely two years have gone over his
head since the night the mysterious stranger altered the hands of the
old clock standing in the hall of "The Silver Fleece Inn" at Battisford.
General Dorrien is dead--has lain in Cranston churchyard a year and a
half--and his son reigns in his stead.
But whatever our opinion of the deceased Squire of Cranston, the
important part he has played in our story entitles him to something more
than the above brief obituary. One evening at the period named, the
General failed to return home, whereas it was his wont to appear
punctually at the dressing bell. His wife, astonished at this deviation
from his rigidly unchanging habits, grew alarmed. The dinner-bell
rang--still the General did not appear. Then inquiry elicited that he
had been last seen by one of the under-gardeners strolling near the
ornamental water, it might have been an hour ago. No, the man noticed
nothing strange about his master, who seemed quite well, if anything,
rather cheerful. Thoroughly alarmed now, Mrs Dorrien collected the
gardeners and proceeded to the spot where her husband had last been
seen. It was, as the man had stated, close to the lake--being, in fact,
barely thirty yards distant therefrom. While directing the men to
scatter and proceed through the shrubbery in search of their master,
Mrs Dorrien's eye fell upon an object floating in the water, and the
sight well-nigh deprived her of speech and power. In response to her
signs as she sank down half-fainting, the men pushed off the boat and
quickly returned with the General's cane. That was enough. All hope
was at an end. But a few minutes more and the body of the missing
Squire was found, lying in barely four feet of water. Suicide? No.
The medical examination proved that the deceased had been suddenly
seized with a fit while standing on the brink of the pool, and had
fallen in.
Those who knew the family legend were now more awestruck than they chose
to admit. Within a few months of each other, two more Dorriens had
miserably perished--alone, unseen, _and by the agency of water_. Of a
truth there was something in the prophecy. When the exile, in response
to an urgent advertisement for the late Squire of Cranston's missing
son, presented himself at the offices of Messrs. Swan and Simcox,
solicitors, Furnival's Inn, and having duly satisfied those gentlemen as
to his identity, was informed that General Dorrien had died suddenly,
and that every search having been made for his will without avail, he,
the applicant--who, as he stood there, could not have put down two
shillings and a sixpence if his life depended on it--was heir-at-law to
the splendid estate of Cranston with its dependency, Minchkil Down, etc,
etc, and all personal property besides, the deceased having died
intestate, it struck those respected practitioners, Messrs. Swan and
Simcox, that this new client was a very extraordinary sort of man
indeed. For he had sunk into a chair muttering something about "too
late," and turning ghastly white, till they became quite alarmed on his
account. However, good news does not kill, and the first shock over,
Roland Dorrien, without any fuss, quietly, and as if he had never left
it, entered upon his own.
Yet when this happened his affairs were in a very desperate condition
indeed. For months after his terrible experience with Olive Ingelow on
the tide-swept coast he had supported himself by sheer physical labour,
more by way of forcing his mind to forget, than with the desire of
prolonging his wretched existence, for he had now no longer the means of
leaving the country. This could not last long. To a man of his
temperament there was but one end--mental prostration, with its dire
result, the lunatic asylum or the suicide's grave. And from this his
father's death had befallen just--but only just--in time to save him.
How it was that General Dorrien should not only have allowed his
unforgiven son to succeed him, but also, by dying intestate, have left
his wife and Nellie almost entirely dependent upon that son's bounty, is
one of those mysteries that will never be solved in this world. His
wife had a small income of her own, but out of the estate she could not
touch a penny otherwise than as a free gift from Roland. And this she
positively refused to do--and persevered in her refusal.
Greatly did the family solicitors puzzle over the non-transpiration of
any will. They were aware of the quarrel between the General and his
son, and that the former should die without testamentary instructions
was not quite satisfactory. At first they suspected that there was a
will, but that it had somehow got lost, but when after a most careful
search it was not forthcoming, then their suspicions took the direction
of foul play, in which, however, they acquitted the heir-at-law of any
complicity.
And the said heir-at-law shared their suspicions, though he breathed no
word of it to them or to any other living ear. But no precaution would
he neglect to render secure to himself that which he regarded as
rightfully his own, and which had come to him, if by chance, yet at the
most fortunate of times. If it should transpire that others had the
legal right, at any rate he had the moral right, and it should not be
his fault if he did not keep it. So the first thing he did upon
entering on possession was to institute a most thorough and exhaustive
search for the missing document on his own account. He would ensure the
safety of his position once and for all, and leave nothing to chance.
So for several nights, when no living eye could behold him, did he
remain up till early dawn, carrying on his search. Not a desk or a
drawer was left unrifled, not an article of furniture unmoved. Even the
very wails he carefully sounded for hollow places and sliding panels,
and more than one escritoire suspected of secret drawers did he hew in
pieces with his own hand, alone and with locked doors. Once, indeed,
his breath came thick and his heart stood still as he lit upon a bundle
of legal-looking parchments in one of these forgotten recesses. But
they were only records of a private and delicate transaction of his
father's early life, and with a sigh of relief he burnt them to ashes.
Had one of them been the genuine document, which was to dispossess him,
it would have shared the fate of the rest. No scruples would have
stayed his hand. He had drained the cup of poverty and destitution to
the very dregs; but the tide had turned at last. What he had got he
meant to keep, at all and every hazard.
But that was a year and a half ago, and now here he sits opening his
letters. A frown comes over his face as his eye falls upon the address
of one of them, and with a couple of impatient tugs at his moustache he
chucks the obnoxious missive aside. Then a light step is heard in the
passage and his brow clears. There is a place laid opposite his, and
behind the urn, evidently awaiting its occupant. Surely that is she
outside. Who is it? His sister, Nellie?
Then the door opens, and enter--not Nellie, but Olive. No longer Olive
Ingelow, however, for it is rather over a year ago that she changed it,
and never in all his priestly experience had the rector of Wandsborough
pronounced the blessing of his Church upon a happier union than these
the nuptials of his best-loved child have up till now proved.
Olive's happiness suits her well, for she is looking lovelier than ever,
and seems to bring a ray of sunshine in with her this biting,
tempestuous winter morning. She seems, too, to have recovered a large
portion of her old irresistible spirits, though the sparkling piquancy
of the beautiful girl whom we first saw in Wandsborough church has given
way to the more thoughtful sweetness of the woman who has passed to her
happiness through the dark days of trial and affliction. Her husband is
wont sportively to tell her that she is fast acquiring the staidness of
the conventional British matron--an imputation which she makes believe
greatly to resent. But Roland Dorrien's love and adoration of his
beautiful wife is as warm to-day as it was when they stood together two
years ago beneath the cliffs, in the dim gloaming, with the spray
dashing in their faces as they watched the huge waves thundering in, and
knew that in another hour they would be lying dead in each other's
embrace.
She goes across to him now and puts her arm round his neck and lays her
cheek against his.
"What is it, dear? Any bad news? No. Only those stupid old business
letters," she says, looking over his shoulder. "Put them away till
later and don't let them bore you. But just look how it's snowing. You
won't be able to shoot to-day."
"No, I shan't. But it doesn't really matter--Marsland won't care--and I
asked the Colonel, but I believe the good old chap will be only too glad
of the excuse to sit quietly at home. Tom Barnes will be rather sold,
I'm afraid--but we can give him a shoot at any time."
"Of course. And now we'll have a snug day together, all to ourselves--
won't we?"
"Olive, darling, I can't help thinking sometimes you must be dull here,
shut up all the year round with such a cross-grained animal as this," he
says, after a minute's pause. "It must be such a contrast as compared
with the jolly days at the old Rectory. Now confess."
"I'll confess this much--that if you don't get that idea out of your
wise old head, I shall begin to have a bad opinion of you," she replies
affectionately. "Why, I can run over at any moment and look them up, or
get them up here, as in fact I'm always doing. What more can you think
I want? Now let's see what the arbiter of Fate has brought forth,"
continues she, going round to her place. "Two bills--that's your
department. Letters--only one, and that from Eusty. His regiment has
been ordered to India--wonder how Nellie will like that--and he is
coming down here the week after next. He will be here in time for the
festival."
"That's a goodish bit of news. Will he come to us or to the Rectory
first?"
"Don't know. That'll have to be decided."
"By the way, where's Roy?" he asks suddenly. "He hasn't been in this
morning. Ah, there he is."
For the servant entering with a tray has also admitted our woolly
friend, who makes for his master and thrusts his nose into his hand with
an affectionate whine, his brush wagging like a flail.
Roy, too, is restored to his rightful place in society, as his master
puts it. One of the first things Roland did when the tide of his
misfortunes turned, was to take steps for the recovery of his faithful
follower, and Roy's new owner, who was a good-hearted fellow, had
refused the somewhat extravagant sum which was offered him for his
purchase, and had handed him back at the same price. Roy's exuberant
glee on his restoration to his old master was something indescribable.
But now he has long been an institution in the Cranston household and is
a favourite with everyone, except Johnston, the head-gardener, of whom
more anon.
The airy mood of the new Squire of Cranston fades as suddenly as it
arose. He eyes for a moment the unwelcome missive which he has cast
aside, then, as if with an effort, he tears it open. It is only a
letter from his mother.
"Oh! What is it, darling?" cries Olive anxiously, half starting up.
For with a furious imprecation Roland has dashed down the open sheet
upon the table, and sits back in his chair, his face ashy white.
Only a couple of lines does this letter contain, and they are in his
mother's handwriting.
"_Since you force me to speak plainly, I will--I can hold no
communication with a murderer--a fratricide_."
"Roland, tell me what it is. Tell me, darling, and let me share it with
you," urges Olive pleadingly. "What cruel thing does she say?"
His hand is trembling as it heavily lies upon the open paper, as if to
blot out the accusing words.
"Nothing but what is evil and ill-conditioned," he answers hoarsely.
"See what comes of doing the right thing. It's only her reply to that
letter of mine offering to make a settlement upon her. This is the
fifth time I've done it, and each time I get more abused than before.
One's mother!"
Oh, the biting satire in the last two words. Roland Dorrien has never
seen his mother since the day he passed her in anger on the stairs.
There had been no affection between them at any time, and now he would
not pretend to any. But he had his code of honour, and under this he
would willingly have made a liberal settlement upon her out of the
estate. Mrs Dorrien, however, refused to touch a penny--and went
further. She rejected his overtures with scorn and even reproach. An
idea had rooted itself in her mind that he was responsible for his
younger brother's death--that he had made away with him, in short, for
his own advantage. It was the merest fancy, wholly destitute of the
slightest clue, but it took firmer and firmer hold upon her till she was
convinced of its truth, as though she had beheld with her own eyes that
terrible scene on the cliff. But she had never gone so far as to put
her suspicion into words until now, when, in an access of fierce grief
for the lost, and fury against those who had benefited by her
bereavement, she had penned those fearful words.
"I won't let you leave me while you are like this," pleads Olive
tenderly, with her arm on his shoulder. He had been gathering up his
letters to go, a move which she was determined to circumvent. "Whatever
it is, remember nothing can separate us now."
He almost shudders at her words. Can it not? he thinks. Yes, but it
can--and in a manner so grisly and awful as she would never dream of
suspecting. His brain is in a whirl. What could have set his mother's
suspicions to work? Even though they could have no foundation to go
upon, a fixed idea like that, in such a mind as hers, might be in the
highest degree dangerous.
"I must go," he answers. "But, my darling, I promise to come back to
you here in half an hour. Will that do?"
She is satisfied. A clinging kiss, and then she stands gazing after the
tall, fine figure in its shooting-suit of light homespun. She sees him
enter the study--his father's study that was--and hears the snap of the
key in the lock, then, turning to the window, she stands looking
thoughtfully and with a troubled expression out upon the whirling
snowflakes and the white, cold earth, in contrast whereto the dark
trunks and gaunt limbs of the trees in the park show out like starved
spectres, and the dismal howling of the wintry blast is as the warning
voice of impending woe.
Amid the joys which encompass Olive Dorrien's married life there is yet
room for one great sorrow. Over her husband's peace there hangs some
dark and terrible secret, the weight of which he must bear alone.