The bright, frosty weather lasted nearly a month, and was followed by a
whole month of rain and squalls, culminating in a truly furious March.
The trees in the park bent and groaned beneath the lashing wind; and
night and day driving showers hurled themselves against the window panes
with a crash as of volleys of gravel. At such times, even from
Cranston, the thunder of the surf upon the cliff-girt coast could be
plainly heard, and safe in her comfortable, luxurious home Olive would
shudder at the dull booming of the billows and at the recollections
conjured up by the sound. But it was with feelings of deepest
thankfulness that she dwelt on that dark and terrible time, while
realising her present lot of joyfulness and peace.
And, during this period of conflicting elements, a great and singular
change had come over Roland Dorrien. He seemed like a man from whom a
great weight of care had been suddenly lifted, an impending danger
miraculously averted. His brooding despondency had completely left him,
and though he was grave at times, it was with a seriousness far removed
from that moodiness and settled gloom which had caused the charitable to
whisper hints about hereditary insanity. His cheerfulness, too, became
free and unaffected, displacing those wild, excitable fits of hilarity,
followed by their corresponding periods of reaction and gloom. The
neighbourhood marvelled, but it could do no more, for the cause of this
metamorphosis in the Squire of Cranston was known only to one living
person and guessed at by another--Dr Ingelow and Olive.
And the latter rejoiced with an exceeding great joy, and her cup of
happiness was now, indeed, full. Never by word, or hint, or look had
she sought to arrive at that which had caused her husband to return home
in the small hours of a certain dark winter morning with such an
expression of relief, yes, and of peace upon his face as she had never
dared hope to behold there again. Never, even to herself, had she
ventured to conjecture, except with the most reverential awe and
thankfulness, as to the instrument of this miraculously restored peace;
the power which had exorcised the evil spirit and restored to her this
man in whom her life was wrapped up--restful, free from care, happy. If
she dimly guessed at the nature of that power, she was content to stop
there.
This afternoon the rain crashed and volleyed on the panes in such wise
as to render the snug morning-room doubly snug. Suddenly Olive broke
into a peal of laughter.
"Roland, dear, that seems a desperately engrossing book you have got
hold of."
"Hullo! And why?"
"Because you haven't turned a page for eighteen minutes. Eighteen
minutes! I timed you by the clock."
"By Jove! no more I have! No. Fact is, I've been thinking out an
idea."
"Let's have it then."
"Well, then--how should you like to go away for a time? To travel, in
fact?"
"Oh, immensely," she cried gleefully. "Where shall we go. Italy? It
would be delightful to get out of this hideous weather for a couple of
months. No, I should like to go to a new country this time. What about
Spain? Or better still, Algiers? There--I've set my heart on Algiers."
"All right. We can't go too far, I think, nor yet too soon. So see if
we can't manage to get away at once. I feel as if my life depended on
it."
Hardly had he spoken the words than they struck him with a prophetic
import. The fact was, he had been revolving this plan for some time
past. It would be good for them both, in every way, besides which he
felt an irresistible longing to leave the neighbourhood for a
considerable period. It seemed to him in some instinctive way that such
a course would do away with the last lingering possibility of danger.
His apprehensions on the score of certain hints which Devine had from
time to time let fall, were lulling. The fellow could have had nothing
tangible to go upon. He was a shrewd rogue, merely talking at random in
the hope of hitting the right nail on the head, but he, Roland, was too
old a bird to hop upon any such palpably limed twig. Yet, on the whole,
it might be safe to take a long change. Time blunts the edge of every
weapon, even that dangerous one Suspicion.
They discussed the new scheme eagerly for half an hour, and then Olive
got up, declaring she should go into the conservatory to get a little
air. He laughed.
"Glad to get rid of you, dear. Only you won't get much air there, I
should think, unless it's hot air. Wait--I've just got to dash off a
couple of notes to a couple of tiresome fellows, and then I'll come
after you."
Ten minutes later he had finished his writing.
"What an infernal day," he muttered, as he took his way down the covered
passage leading to the conservatory. Suddenly he stopped short,
arrested by the sound of a voice. In the harsh, northern tones he
recognised that of Johnston, the Scotch gardener.
Strange as it may seem, this worthy was still in the Cranston service.
That it was so may be due to various reasons. The canny Scot, on the
sudden and unlooked-for accession of the General's exiled son, had
hastened, with many plausible yet abject apologies, to make his peace
with the reigning lord, for the berth was an uncommonly good one, and
one to be kept at all costs. Roland, who knew the fellow to be a great
rascal and felt towards him a hearty contempt, had kept him on, and his
reasons for doing so were various. In the first place, it would save
trouble, for the man was good at his work; then he had an idea that he
might ascertain whether Johnston really had recognised him that day at
Battisford, but as time went on and the man made no sign, his suspicions
were lulled. However, the arrogance of so presuming a knave must be
kept within bounds, and Johnston no longer dared tyrannise over his
betters, by virtue of his office, as he had been wont to do in the old
times. On one or two occasions, Roland had come up in time to overhear
him rebuking in his old bumptious strain a guest who had ventured to
pick a flower, and the trouncing he had got had made the worthy Scot
squirm.
He hated his master with a bitter, rancorous hatred, but still he stayed
on, for he foresaw the day when he might be revenged on him upon whom he
now fawned, saw it dimly still, but opening wide possibilities. So
patiently and warily the crafty Gael had watched and waited until the
weapon should be ready to his hand, and then how he would strike! But
to resume.
A frown of terrible import came over Roland's face as he paused for a
moment. The rain was volleying against the glass sides of the
conservatory, but above its rattle, he could hear his wife's voice,
speaking in what seemed to him a tone of scared expostulation, and then
the Scot replied:
"--A don't want to hurrt yere guidman, but after these yeers of surrvice
a' think ye might promise me that place for my bairn, Davy. Ye wouldn't
be wanting to leave this bonny hoose yeerself, awm thinking."
"Johnston! How dare you talk to me like that!" came the startled and
indignant rejoinder.
Roland waited to hear no more. The blaring insolence of the fellow's
tone set his blood surging. There was a half-scream from Olive as he
entered suddenly, confronting the astonished speaker.
"Go," he said. "You are discharged this instant. Go out of my sight,
before I forget myself."
But Johnston had been drinking; yet, even though backed by a certain
amount of "Dutch courage," he deemed it advisable to withdraw a few
paces.
"Would ye murrder me--too?" he yelled.
Roland still controlled himself with an effort little short of
superhuman, but his face was white and icy.
"Go," he said. "You are discharged."
"Dischairged!" echoed Johnston sneeringly, for he had backed away to a
safe distance. "Dischairged, am I? I'll have the law on ye if ye
assault me, but it's a noose ye'll come to for this day's wurrk."
And with this parting shot, he took himself off.
Olive was terribly alarmed and disturbed. The violence of the incident,
and the dark and mysterious threats had upset her not a little.
Tenderly, Roland set to work to soothe her.
"My darling, tell me all about it."
She told him--how Johnston had accosted her directly she entered the
place, asking her to use her influence to get his wages raised and also
to procure a place for his son, who, by the way, was an out-and-out
young rascal. She could see that the man had been drinking, and so had
answered him quietly at first. Then his manner had become insolent and
threatening, and he had hinted at terrible mischief which it was in his
power to work his employer in the event of refusal.
"It was only talk, Roland, wasn't it?" she urged, clinging to him.
"Darling, tell me that he has no power to harm you. He has not--has
he?"
As a matter of fact the threat had momentarily struck him with a pang of
the old alarm. Momentarily, because, invoking reason to his aid, he
decided that the rascally Scot had got his suspicions at second-hand
from Gipsy Steve when the precious pair were in their cups. The
suspicions of these two scoundrels were harmless. Only if he flinched
might they become dangerous. So he had acted with decision, as we have
seen.
"Not the slightest?" he answered reassuringly. "If he has I'll give him
every opportunity of putting it to the test. Off he goes this very
evening, bag and baggage."