Kitabı oku: «Dorrien of Cranston», sayfa 9
Chapter Sixteen.
The Die is Cast
“Rather perfect? I should just think it was,” cries Olive, gazing around. “Confess now, you hardened cynic, that in all your wanderings you never saw anything so perfectly lovely as this.”
“I’ll own up readily enough. I never did,” is her companion’s reply.
“But – you are not looking at it,” turning to find that his glance has been fixed upon herself while he spoke, and colouring softly at the discovery.
“Oh, yes, I am. I repeat, I never saw anything so perfectly lovely as this. What a distrustful little article it is, to require so much reassuring!” and his hand, which has been toying with her small fingers, closes upon them with a fond pressure, as looking straight into her eyes he repeats her words.
From their heathery resting-place on the summit of Minchkil Beacon, they gaze idly upon the glories of the panorama unfolded beneath and around. The great slopes of the downs are gorgeous with flaming gorse and crimson heather. A rich summer haze lying over the landscape adds distance to meadow and woodland, alternating in many an undulating roll – the latter just perceptibly assuming its first autumnal tints; and cosy homesteads, nestling among their sheltering trees, look doubly snug and prosperous as contrasted with their counterparts of the upland farms, whose corn-ricks and a few stunted firs form the only shade. Villages, too, and tiny hamlets, dropped about, as it were. Frondesham, beyond the lofty steeple of Wandsborough Church, which latter rises above that long, grassy ridge as if refusing to be hidden, and on the further side of the valley, the hamlets of Cranston and Ardleigh; the mile and a half of straight, dusty road connecting them looking like a mere streak of whitewash – and, higher up, Cranston Hall, half hidden in its noble park.
And turning to seaward – space. The broad expanse of limitless sea, far down, four hundred feet beneath – blue and placid as the firmament overhead. Two or three brown specks – fishing boats lying with listless sails – are the only signs of life upon its motionless waters. Not even a gull is on the wing, and the wavelets have forgotten to break on the shingly beach. The sun drives on his flaming chariot, slowly, slowly towards the west, and the great cliffs of the bold coastline reflect his lengthening rays in many a ruddy gleam – Hadden’s Slide, and beyond, Smugglers’ Ladder, a black fissure, rending the whole face of the cliff from brow to base. Then on the other side The Skegs, tranquil, and forgetting to look grim and dour, as they start sleepily from their setting of still, blue water – and above them the lofty headland where looms the grey tower of Durnley Castle – a mouldering ruin. Farther and farther recedes the outline of the rugged coast, in rocky bay and bold promontory, with here a strip of shingle, there a line of seaweed-covered reefs, till it loses itself in a faint confusion of distant blue.
It is golden August now – rich, glowing, sensuous, lovely August – when summer, as if suddenly awaking to a sense of opportunities neglected and to the consciousness that her days are nearly numbered, would fain crowd all her accumulated glories into the few yet remaining to her, pouring out her choicest gifts with a lavish hand, as though anxious that we should think kindly of her when she is no more, by virtue of her sudden repentance and amendment at the eleventh hour.
Should you, while taking your walks abroad some fine summer’s day, chance, unexpectedly, and in a secluded spot, to light upon about six foot of Young England taking it remarkably easy in a reclining attitude among the soft and fragrant heather; and should you, moreover, descry seated in very close juxtaposition to Young England aforesaid, a sweetly pretty girl, occupied mainly in dividing the shelter of her sunshade with the male and recumbent head, while listening attentively to words of wisdom – or the reverse – emanating from the male lips; you would, we trow, if of a kindly disposition, retire as you came, leaving the idyllic pair undisturbed. If of a cynical turn you would, we trow, chuckle, as you went, over one more instance of human fatuity. But whatever your nature you would decide that affairs between this particular couple had gone tolerably far.
Well – and so they had.
There are, we take it, about three ways which lead to what the provincial reporter delights to term “the hymeneal altar.” The first is the ordinary “proposal,” wherein John is conventionally supposed to sue humbly for the privilege of maintaining Mary for the term of her natural life, eke Mary’s prospective lineal descendants in any number – not exceeding seventeen – peradventure with a mother-in-law thrown in, and to count life as not worth living, in the event of these multifold advantages – we will not call them liabilities – being denied him. The second may be termed the extraordinary “proposal,” wherein the overtures are precisely the other way about, barring, it may be, the maintenance condition and the mother-in-law; and this, by the bye, is not so uncommon as Mrs Grundy affects to believe. The third differs in toto from the other two, in that it does not deal with “proposals” at all, but is the result of evolution – taking rise in a tacit and intangible understanding, and culminating in an arrangement neither more nor less definite than any entente à deux can be said ever to be. This way, on the face of it, is the most risky of the three, but it has its advantages.
Whatever its risks, however, just such an understanding exists between the pair whom we find alone here on the summit of Minchkil Beacon. Roy, curled up there among the heather and apparently asleep, will take good care that the intruding steps of any afternoon wayfarer shall not approach unsignalled – and meanwhile to all purposes these two have the world to themselves.
“Am I distrustful?” says Olive softly, in comment on her companion’s last remark.
“No, you’re not,” is the vehement reply, “but I am. I thought you were never coming back, and was very nearly going up to Town myself. Now look here. I can’t let you go again!”
“But I must go again,” she objected demurely, but with a flash of mirth in her dark eyes. “I shall have to go soon, too.”
“You shan’t.” His hand closes, on hers, as if the prohibition was to be put in force at that moment and by physical agency.
“Diddums teasums then!” says the girl in tones of mock soothing, passing her little hand over his forehead and hair caressingly. “You know, dear, I like sometimes to arouse the savage in your composition. It amuses me, because I can send him back into his shell in a minute. But it’s all very well. You had a very good time of it while I was away. At Ardleigh, for instance!”
For all answer he laughs – quietly, almost inarticulately, as a man will laugh over some proposition manifestly, absurdly preposterous.
“That’s all very well, but I hear the Nevilles are very delightful people, and – ”
“Broomsticks.”
” – And Clara and Maud, you know, were very sweet to you, and Isabel Pagnell – ”
” – And Mother Frewen, and Miss Munch and Mrs Bunch. Go on. Run through the whole list – of broomsticks.”
“And then you used to have snug talks with Margaret over the fire on wet afternoons, and I don’t believe poor little me was missed a bit. Margaret can be very entertaining when she likes.”
“A broomstick!”
“Mr Dorrien! That’s rude.”
“Excessively. But in evoking the latent barbarian, for whom you just now expressed – er – a flattering partiality – you have once more provided yourself with further amusement.”
Her only answer is a merry laugh, and for a few minutes neither speak. The whirr of a reaping machine – for the early harvest has already begun – and the sound of reapers’ voices is borne up from the valley, with now and then the barking of a farmhouse dog. The rallying note of a covey of scattered partridges, the distant cawing of rooks, and the hum of bees gathering their stores from the cells of the blossoming heather, all blend into a luxurious harmony, well in keeping with the still witchery of the waning afternoon. They are outside the world, for the time being, these two – away in a cloudland of their own, bounded by the purple heather around and the sapphire sea below, the ordinary considerations of mere prosaic, everyday life as far removed as the distant sights and sounds in the valley beneath. Stay, though. One of them cannot altogether shut out these obtrusive considerations. Roland, cool and cynical beyond his years, cannot forget that the brightest picture has its reverse side, and that there will be a morrow to this cloudless day of radiance and of love.
He has striven to cherish a vague and desperate hope that something may occur tending to smooth matters – yet it is hardly likely. That unlucky stay at Ardleigh – how far back it looked now – seemed somehow to have committed him to the fulfilment of his father’s wish; in the latter’s eyes, that is, for he stood committed in nobody else’s. Moreover, as General Dorrien’s hints on the subject grew plainer, so did his animosity towards the Ingelows increase, and this to such a pitch that more than once a terrible rupture was imminent, as Roland found himself compelled to listen to his father’s violent and unreasoning tirades. Still, he managed to conceal his feelings. But every hour confirmed him in the certainty that the day he decisively announced his intention of running counter to his father’s cherished scheme, that day would see him disinherited.
And now a sweet, serious look has come over Olive’s face, and it seems as if the bright, merry-hearted girl had been changed, all in a minute, into a tender, thoughtful, loving woman, who knew the world and its sorrows well.
“Darling?” she exclaims softly. “There is something I want to say to you, and I don’t quite know how to say it; however, I must try. I have been thinking so much lately whether you are not making a great mistake – whether I have any right to let you risk your future, whether it would not have been much better for you had we never met. Wait – don’t interrupt – let me say all, it’s difficult enough, Heaven knows. Why should you imperil your interests and perhaps be for ever separated from others you love – and all for me? Why should I bring sorrow upon you? Roland, darling, think well of what I say. Remember it is not too late now. The day may come when you will look back upon this sweet – this beautiful time” – a quiver in her voice – “with nothing but bitterness. What then?”
Has her love for him at its climax given her a sudden and magical insight into the future? Is the time coming when he will remember her prophetic words – but their fulfilment, it may be, in a different sense to that in which they are uttered?
“What then?” is the vehement reply. “Only this, that – that” – (the strong, cool-headed man finds himself helplessly stuttering) – “that this understanding of ours – delicious as it is to have it all to ourselves – must become public property to-morrow. You must never be in a position to say such things to me again.”
“Oh, my darling! I am only thinking of you and your happiness.” Then, with a warm rush of feeling: “Can such a day as this ever come again in a lifetime? It is very foolish of me, but I have a presentiment that there is trouble before us, and that even now it would be better for you had we never met. I want you to do nothing in a hurry. Better to wait – to go on as we are – than to risk your prospects for me.”
He finds no great difficulty in reassuring her as they sit there in their golden lotus-dream, with all the glories of earth and air spreading around them. The busy world lies far beneath; here, silence and the evensong of birds, and the flood of dazzling sheen on the purple sea, as the sun dips down nearer and nearer to his liquid bed. Just then, in silvery chimes, distant yet clear, the bells of Wandsborough steeple ring out the Angelus.
Then they descend the heather-clad slope, and make their way through the dewy, silent fields. And now a great orb of fire touches the farther edge of the glowing sea, tingeing it blood-red, and the horizon is all aflame. A passing gleam, as a ray from an enchanted world, strikes broadly over hill and lea, then fades, leaving the earth in shadow, and the fragrant breaths of gathering night fall thickly around. There is a scent as of crushed roses in the air, and the grass is already wet with dew. The distant bark of a sheep-dog from an upland farm, the lowing of kine wending their way to the milking yard, the whistle of the reapers leaving their labour – only these sounds breaking musically now and again upon this stillness of rural peace.
So ends the day. But what of the morrow?
Chapter Seventeen.
Check!
“Can I see Mr Dorrien? – Yes, certainly. Show him in here,” and the rector, making a hasty note on the margin of his paper, laid aside his pen as Roland was shown into the study.
A nervous man, full of the errand on which he had come, might have felt his besetting weakness to a painful extent at the prosaic hour of 10 a.m., here, in this judicial-looking apartment, wherein multitudinous papers disposed about seemed to speak of the more serious side of life, while the shelves of heavily-bound volumes lent a somewhat severe air to the room – and that notwithstanding the real cordiality of his reception; for it is one thing to be on sufficiently intimate terms with a man to justify your dropping in upon him informally for a friendly chat, and quite another to offer yourself as his future son-in-law. But Roland was not of the nervous order. Even had he been, it is probable that experiences of tête-à-tête interviews with a far more formidable personage than Dr Ingelow would have eliminated from this one all its imaginary misgivings, if only by contrast. So after a commonplace remark or two he came straight to the point without difficulty.
Quietly, yet attentively, the rector listened to all his visitor had to say, and listening, felt no doubt as to the eligibility of the speaker. Possibly he was not wholly unprepared for the avowal, sooner or later. Anyhow, he showed little or no surprise. It was his wont to receive important matters calmly.
“And so I must give up my little Olive?” he said, with a pleasant smile. “However, I suppose the certainty of having to part with them some day or other is one of the disadvantages a man has to labour under if he owns pretty and attractive daughters. But may I ask, Mr Dorrien, whether you have informed your family – your father – of the step you propose to take?”
Roland stared. He was considerably taken aback by this question, and, in truth, not a little annoyed. And an unwonted formality about the other’s tone tended somewhat to disconcert him.
“Well, no – I can’t say I have. Naturally, I imagined that you yourself were the first person to be spoken to on the subject. To be candid with you, Dr Ingelow, I have knocked about the world long enough to dispense with the paternal sanction to any undertaking of mine. Moreover, you may possibly be aware that my family and myself are never on very good terms – unfortunately, I admit – but still it is so.”
The rector did not at once reply. He was leaning back in his chair, one hand thoughtfully stroking his beard, while the other toyed listlessly with one of the buttons of his cassock, and his brows were slightly contracted.
“It is unfortunate, Dorrien, because the fact of things being so, rather tends to complicate the situation,” he replied at length, as the slightest possible movement of impatience, which Roland could not for the life of him suppress, did not escape his quick perceptions. “For it happens that I have certain old-fashioned ideas of my own on these matters. Wait – just hear what I’ve got to say” – laying his hand on the other’s arm with a kindly, reassuring touch – “and bear with what you think an old man’s unreasonable whims. Now go straight to Cranston and lay the whole matter before your father. Then come back here and tell me the result.”
“Am I to understand, then, Dr Ingelow, that you will only grant your consent subject to the contingency of my father granting his?” said Roland, in a tone whose bitterness it was impossible to conceal.
The rector felt puzzled by the directness of this query, but he did not show it.
“I haven’t asked you to do a very hard or unreasonable thing, Dorrien,” he said, with a quiet smile. “Now do oblige me in this. Can you not see that I am justified in requiring it? Then we can talk over matters further.”
Roland felt thoroughly outflanked. He could not tell his father-in-law elect that his own amiable parent would more readily give his sanction to an alliance of his house with the Prince of Darkness than with that of himself – yet he knew perfectly well it was so. Here, indeed, was a most formidable obstruction in the way; one, moreover, on which he had never reckoned. He could only agree mechanically to the rector’s proposal, but his heart sank within him as he took his leave. No, he had not bargained for this.
All seemed to augur badly for the successful outcome of his errand, for the General was out, and was not expected back till nearly dinner-time, he learned on reaching Cranston. But the General returned in such a state of ill-humour that it was obviously useless to broach the subject that night. On the morrow – well, it was just possible that some miracle might interpose on his behalf, but hardly probable. Never did it seem to him that he could remember a more thoroughly depressing evening than this one. His father scarcely spoke, and when he did address him it was in a tone of studied coldness; his mother would now and then make a captious remark, while Hubert sulkily plied his knife and fork, and made no attempt at conversation whatever. Heartily glad was he then to find himself at last in the smoking-room.
“Hallo! Roland – there you are,” cried Hubert, banging the door behind him, and flinging himself into an armchair. “Now one can breathe freely, at any rate. The veteran looks sweet to-night, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. What one might call re-entering the glacial period, eh?”
“Haw! haw! Rather. But ’pon my soul, you ought to thank your stars night and day that you’re out of this infernal house.”
“H’m! Why don’t you go abroad, or somewhere, during the ‘Long’! You’ve heaps of time.”
“Don’t I wish I may get it! He takes precious good care I don’t – that’s why,” rejoined Hubert, wrathful over the memory of his wrongs; and then he relapsed into silence. The fact was, he began to feel embarrassed, for he was trying to summon up courage to ask his brother a favour. He had been leading a life of terrible anxiety for the last few weeks. A bill was on the point of falling due, and he had not a notion how it was to be met. Result – another exposure. For what made it worse was the fact of his having denied further liability when his father had paid off his debts a couple of months back, and now it would come out that he had – well, stated what he knew to be contrary to fact. In his extremity, he thought of Roland, and now the moment struck him in a propitious light.
“Keeps you tight, I suppose?”
“Tight! I should just think he did,” replied Hubert, with alacrity. Surely the conversation was working round towards a favourable opening.
“Hard luck that. Try one of these weeds.”
“Thanks. And – er – I say, Roland, there’s something I rather thought – er – you might perhaps do for me. The fact is, you see, I’m in a devil of a fix just now – don’t know which way to turn. And if the veteran should find it out I’m clean done.”
Roland eyed him rather curiously.
“Well, what is it? Cash – or petticoat? Those being the two main sources of man’s difficulties.”
“Well, it’s a bill.”
“Been flying kites, eh?”
“Yes,” answered Hubert in desperation. Why the deuce was the other so infernally laconic and quiet over it – why couldn’t he show a little feeling? he thought – and then his heart sank, for he made sure Roland would put him off with the usual excuse. But the next words reassured him.
“H’m! That’s better. If it had been the other phase of the root of all evil, I don’t see how I could have helped you to avoid reaping the traditional whirlwind. But what’s the amount?”
Hubert named it – rather shamefacedly. It was a fair sum, just topping the three figures. More, a good deal, than Roland had expected, but he showed no surprise. He had made up his mind to help his brother in this, though Hubert’s deportment towards himself had hitherto been ill-conditioned enough – and row he speculated idly as to whether the other would feel any gratitude towards him or hate him all the more.
Hubert, meanwhile, felt his fears revive during the silence that ensued, and he thought enviously of all the advantages his brother possessed. Here he was, free from this wretched home, with a handsome independence of his own, over and above being the heir to the splendid family place. Surely he would help him. He lived very quietly, and could not be short of cash himself.
“What makes it worse,” he went on desperately, “is that I told the ‘Relieving Officer’ there was nothing else outstanding, when he pulled me through before, and now he’ll find out there was. I don’t know how the deuce I did it – but, you see, this was such a big thing, and he was so beastly satirical and sneering, that somehow I got in a funk and shirked it. Hang it all, Roland,” he broke off in a kind of irritable despair, “it’s all very well for you, you see. You’re independent of him, and are not driven to do these things; while a poor devil like me – oh, well!”
“My dear fellow, there’s not the least necessity for jumping down my throat, I assure you. I wasn’t going to offer an opinion on the matter. Nor am I going to lecture you – unless, perhaps, you don’t mind my advising you to square this up and have done with it. I’ll write you a cheque when we go upstairs.”
Even while he spoke it flitted across Roland’s mind that the time would probably come when, in a pecuniary sense, his own position would be insignificant in comparison with that of his younger brother. Would he have helped him, he wondered, were their positions reversed? But then Hubert was an extravagant young dog, and would in all likelihood go through life in a chronic state of “hard-up.”
“By Jove, Roland, it’s awfully good of you,” he cried, in such a tone of genuine relief as to draw that queer smile to his brother’s face. “Thanks, awfully. The fact is you’ve got me out of a deucedly deep hole – and – er – ”
“How about by-by?” said the other, recovering himself from a stretch and a mighty yawn. “It’s waxing late. Better lay hold of that candle, I’ve got one in my room. Come along, and we’ll draw the cheque.”
Hubert took the hint to say no more about it, but he went to bed with a lighter heart than he had done for many a night. He had that cheque safe in his possession. Wiser thoughts might have prevailed in the morning – his brother might have thought better of it – might have discovered that he couldn’t spare the cash – what not? He need not have feared. Whatever his faults, Roland Dorrien was incapable of going back on his word, and had the amount in question reached the limit of his worldly possessions, he would still have parted with it.
