Chapter Twenty Four.
A Trespasser.
“Nellie,” said Hubert Dorrien to his sister, as he was hurrying through an early breakfast on the morning of his departure for Oxford, “do you ever hear from Roland?”
“No—why?” said the girl, with a startled glance around.
“Because—well, do you know anything about the state of his affairs? I mean, had he any interest in this Tynnestop Bank? I’ve a sort of hazy idea he had, don’t you see?”
Nellie turned very pale.
“Is—is there anything wrong with it?”
“By jingo!” replied Hubert with a whistle and stare of surprise. “Ra-ther! Why, it went up the gum—bang—smash. Heaps of fellows ruined—one that I know. But that was more than a month ago. Surely you had heard.”
“Never—until this moment. Hubert, I wonder if papa knows. Why, every shilling Roland had was invested in it.”
“No!”
“It was, though. Oh Hubert, and now he may be—starving perhaps!” cried the girl, choking down a sob. “What is to be done? We don’t even know where he is?”
“By Jove!” muttered Hubert gloomily. “If the veteran knew he might arrange something, eh? It’s hard luck on a fellow to be suddenly cleaned out.”
He was thinking of that cheque which his brother had sent him on the very day of his ruin. Comparing notes, Hubert now saw that Roland must have heard the fatal news immediately after—probably the same day—yet he had made no attempt to back out of his promise. Hubert Dorrien was by nature bad all round, shallow, intensely selfish and thoroughly mean; yet even he felt uncomfortable as he thought of how sorely his brother might be in need of that very sum he had so generously lent—if not given—him. And yet to-day he was no more in a position to repay it than he had been at the time to satisfy the demand to meet which it was borrowed. But he strove to quiet his conscience. He would repay it some day; besides, now it was impossible, for no one knew where the deuce Roland was to be found—in fact, it was his own fault for hiding himself away from everybody. Yes—that would do. It was Roland’s own fault. And conscience slumbered anon.
But all further discussion of the wanderer’s affairs was arrested by the entrance of their parents, and immediately the dog-cart drove round to the door to take Hubert to the station. A cold hand-shake from his father, and many final injunctions from his mother about avoiding draughts, sitting back to the engine, etc, all of which were somewhat impatiently received, and Master Hubert was bowling away at the rate of ten miles per hour towards Wandsborough Road Station, whence his brother had departed some weeks earlier, bearing with him a crushing load of heart-break and unexpected ruin. But no thought of this crossed the mind of this amiable youth, as he lounged back in a first-class smoking compartment, puffing at a choice Cabana. If he thought of his unfortunate brother at all, it was only with an uneasy fear lest he should ever be reinstated at Cranston, which would make all the difference in the world to his—Hubert’s—prospects.
Poor Nellie was in a grievous state of woe, and yet she must stifle her feelings. More than once in the course of breakfast the General coldly asked her if she was unwell, and her mother, guessing her grief was not on account of the brother who had just driven away from the door, and resenting the fact, made one or two amiable comments thereon in her most withering of tones. But at last the dismal meal came to an end, and she was free to wander away and indulge her grief when and where she chose.
Assuredly she had known nothing of this last blow which had fallen upon her unhappy brother—until this morning. She knew of the awful quarrel between him and their father, of course, and she guessed that Olive Ingelow was the subject of dispute—but this last stroke of Fate she had never even dreamt of. Roland was apt to be close about his private affaire, and it was only by the merest chance he had mentioned to her that he intended some day to withdraw from the ill-fated investment, and that, just before the crash. Probably her father knew, but beyond themselves no one in the neighbourhood would have any idea that the rather sensational financial crash could affect her or hers, and as she seldom took up a newspaper the knowledge of it had escaped her.
She threw a wrap around her and strolled out of doors. How desolate the ornamental water looked on this chill, grey, autumn morning! The swans greeted her approach with a resentful croak, and floated ill-humouredly away to a reed-sheltered corner. The boats, drawn up high and dry within their shed, looked forlorn and neglected, and the rustic bench where she and the absent brother had lounged away many a sunny hour of sultry morning or drowsy afternoon, was bestrewn with damp, fallen leaves. All the surroundings combined to strike a cold and desolate chill to poor Nellie’s heart. If only that brother were back again. She might have made much more of him, and now it was too late. The result of this dreadful quarrel was a foregone issue. Neither would ever relent, of that there could be not the smallest doubt. She sank down upon the rustic seat, and, secure in this secluded spot from all intrusion, gave way to her grief.
But it happened that not so far from this spot, though concealed from it by a thick belt of shrubbery, ran a public road. It further happened, that on this particular morning, the figure of a tall pedestrian, a gun under his arm, might have been descried upon this road, clearly bent on reaching the arena of slaughter, wherever it was, at the rate of four and a half miles an hour. He was whistling, too, with all the light-heartedness of a healthy, energetic undergraduate, with whom Black Care has never yet shaken hands. Suddenly this pedestrian stopped short, and stood listening intently. A sound as of low sobbing—there could be no mistake about it.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Eustace to himself, transfixed with amazement. “Now what the deuce can this mean? Here goes, anyhow, for clearing it up!”
He vaulted over the low paling, advanced a step, and then stood irresolute. It occurred to him that he might be—probably was—intruding, and whatever was the matter it could not possibly be any business of his. It was a woman’s voice, too, and somehow it struck him as that of a refined and educated one—in fact, a lady. Though not naturally shy, the Oxonian yet hesitated. He was quick to realise that his intrusion might prove unwelcome to the last degree. Again he paused, but now the distressed one, catching sight of him through the rapidly-thinning foliage, started up in alarm. The knot of the difficulty was cut.
“Miss Dorrien, pray pardon my intrusion,” he began flurriedly. “The fact is I—I heard—er—I—I’m awfully grieved that anything should have happened to distress you. Do believe that?”
His tones, though stammering, were very feeling. His handsome face was thoroughly earnest and in his eyes was a tender sympathetic light. The first shock of his unexpected appearance over, Nellie experienced a feeling of satisfaction in his presence.
“You are very kind, Mr Ingelow; but really it is nothing,” she answered confusedly. “But—No, it is nothing.”
“Won’t you give me a great pleasure, Miss Dorrien—the possibility of being able to help you, or, if not that, of being able to sympathise?” pleaded Eustace, all his former shyness put to flight. What a sweet girl Nellie Dorrien was! he thought; indeed, it may as well be confessed that he had thought about her a good deal since their meeting at Bankside, and also that the chaff with which his sisters had plied him on the subject, had partaken far more of the nature of the “true word spoken in jest” than he allowed to appear. And now to find her again, like this! What susceptible heart aged twenty-two could resist such an appeal as beauty in distress, especially when strongly predisposed in favour of said beauty?
And Nellie? She had met the rector’s son but once since that festive gathering, and then only for a few minutes in a room full of people. But she had greatly liked him, and her interest in him had not been decreased by the cutting, virulent remarks in which her father was wont to indulge from time to time when reminded of the obnoxious youth’s existence. And now, as he suddenly appeared before her in grief, looking so strong and brave and handsome, and withal so gentle and sympathetic, she felt quite soothed by his presence.
“Mr Ingelow, I am in great distress about Roland,” she answered, looking up. “I’ve only just heard of—of that last cruel blow, which happened to him.” (A sob.) “He is ruined—he may be starving now—and we don’t even know where he is. It is cruel to think of. And no one but myself cares a straw whether he is alive or dead,” she added bitterly.
“Don’t say that, Miss Dorrien,” said Eustace gently, his heart somewhere in the region of his throat. “Indeed you are mistaken. We all liked him so much. In fact, my father went up to London to see if—if—we could be of any use to him, although Venn wrote to say it was quite useless, as Dorrien seemed to have made up his mind to cut himself adrift from everybody—in fact, had disappeared, and that it was impossible to trace him. And it was. But don’t be downhearted. We are sure to hear from him soon.”
“Your father did this?” said Nellie. “How good he is!”
“He is all that—the dear old ‘padre.’ I don’t mean on this account,” explained Eustace. “But he liked your brother very much, as, in fact, we all did.”
Listening to, and sympathising with, Nellie’s trouble, Eustace blessed the luck which had brought him that way this morning. She looked so pretty and engaging as, the first feeling of shyness over, she talked to him as freely as if she had known him all her life. And time went by so quickly that somehow or other he clean forgot about the tempting day’s rabbit-shooting which awaited him at the goal whither his steps had been tending, and where two other ardent sportsmen were heartily anathematising “that lazy beggar, Ingelow, who seemed to think it was all the same, by George! if they didn’t begin to put in the ferrets till the afternoon.” Forgot everything, except that a sweetly pretty girl, with the most delicious blue eyes and brown wavy hair, was pouring her grief into his sympathising ear, and that he was pledging himself again and again to move heaven and earth to find the object of that grief.
Suddenly a sound of approaching footsteps, Nellie looked up, and turned as white as a sheet.
“Go—go!” she cried. “Quick! It’s papa.”
“Whoever it is it’s too late to go, for he’ll have seen me,” replied Eustace quietly, but fearlessly. “But keep perfectly cool, and don’t show any sign of alarm. It isn’t your father.”
Nor was it. It was, however, a personage who might, though vicariously, prove not much less formidable.
“Good-morning, sir. But it’ll be raining presently, I’m thinking!” said Johnston, the head-gardener, as he walked by the pair. And although his tone was civil, even good-natured, Eustace was not slow to mark a look of exultant malice in the Scot’s cunning features. His turn had come now.
“Oh, Mr Ingelow!” cried Nellie aghast, when the man had gone by. “What if Johnston were to let out to papa, that—that he had—seen you here?”
“But he won’t. Why should he?” said Eustace gaily. “No fear of that, I should think. And what a trespasser I am—here, with a gun.” All the same he was very uneasy in his own mind, remembering the fellow’s parting shot in the Rectory garden.
“I think I had better go in,” said Nellie, who was really frightened. “Good-bye, Mr Ingelow. Thank you very, very much for your kindness to-day. And you will let me know when you hear anything of poor Roland.”
“Indeed, I will,” answered the young man earnestly, taking both her hands in his, and pressing them very tightly. “And—Nellie—I shall not see you again till Christmas. I am going back to Oxford to-morrow. But you will let me see you then in spite of that awful parent of yours. Good-bye—my darling?”
It slipped out. A start. A tell-tale, blushing face—then—a kiss. But the colour faded from the girl’s cheek, which grew white again.
“Hark! Someone is coming. Please go—Eustace—and—good-bye.”
She was really alarmed, and it would be cruel of him to stay a moment longer. But his heart was light within him. She had called him “Eustace,” and had spoken affectionately to him. A hasty, murmured word, and he was gone.
And as Eustace Ingelow regained the high road, it seemed that five years had been added to his life since he leaped that low paling into Cranston Park, barely an hour before. He had gone in there a light-hearted, thoughtless boy—he returned a man, with a new purpose to engross his life.
That evening the rector received a note. He could not repress a start as his eye fell upon the Dorrien crest and legend stamped on the flap of the envelope. Had the wanderer decided to return to them at last! A second glance, however, showed that the letter was not a postal missive, but had been delivered by hand. Breaking it open, this is what he read:
“General Dorrien present his compliments to the Rector of Wandsborough and Mr Eustace Ingelow, and begs to remind the latter gentleman that no portion of Cranston Park is, in any sense, public property, and also to draw his attention to more than one notice-board there placed, which affects the question of trespass.
“General Dorrien takes the further liberty of remarking that gentlemen, having occasion to communicate with young ladies living under the care of their parents, would, in his opinion, be acting more honourably by obtaining lawful sanction prior to such communication, rather than by meeting clandestinely in secluded corners of the said parents’ private grounds.
“Cranston Hall.
“Thursday.”
A flush of anger came over the rector’s face as he read this precious missive, which, though the sender had bare legal right on his side, was clearly intended as a studied insult. Then he dropped it, as if it were something loathsome, and quietly busied himself again with the work which he had in hand. But when the girls had gone to bed he called his son into his study.
“Eustace, turn in here and smoke your pipe. It’s warmer than in that belittered den of yours upstairs.”
“All right, dad. I’ll just run up and put on a ‘blazer.’”
”—There,” as he returned in the oldest and most comfortable of loose jackets. “Now, dad, we’ll be able to have our last smoke for a couple of months or so, in snugness and quietude,” he added, laying a hand affectionately on his father’s arm, as he slipped past him, and made for his favourite easy chair.
The rector wheeled back his chair, and glanced with fond, trusting pride at his bright, strong, handsome son.
“Read that, Eustace,” he said, with a slight sigh. “And now, my boy, tell me all about it.”
The young man’s face reddened as he took in the contents of the note, and he let fall one or two expressions highly uncomplimentary to the Squire of Cranston. Then he obeyed his father’s request to the very letter.
The rector listened with clouded brow. There seemed to be a kind of fatality lying between his house and that of the Dorriens. First Olive, and now Eustace—both, by the way, his favourite children. He foresaw endless trouble in the circumstance. But trouble must be faced and overcome, not shirked—was his creed. If the boy was really in earnest, why, an early attachment of this kind might not be a bad thing for him; the more refining influences at work over a young man’s life the better. He knew nothing of Nellie Dorrien, personally, but he had greatly liked her appearance, and as for the opposition of her family, why, Eustace was a man and must fight his own battles. It was different in Olive’s case.
“You are sure you are in earnest about this, Eustace?” he said, when the young fellow had finished his recital. “But you are very young yet, my boy, just at the age for receiving impressions, and also for changing them. What if, later, you were to find out you had been hasty, and had come to think differently?”
Needless to say, the answer was conclusive and decided—vehement even. The rector smiled good-naturedly, as he encouraged his son to talk on this congenial topic to his heart’s content, while he listened. It had always been his plan to cultivate his children’s confidence to the very utmost, and these evening talks over the social weed between father and son, when the latter was at home, were of almost nightly occurrence. It would have been a very strange thing, indeed, that would have impaired the existing confidence between them. Certainly General Dorrien’s ill-conditioned missive was powerless to do so.
“I’m afraid you must send him an apology, before you go, Eustace,” said the rector. “You see, strictly speaking, you were trespassing in his grounds.”
“Well, yes. I suppose I must. I’ll apologise to the old curmudgeon for being in his park, but for nothing else,” answered Eustace stoutly. “And that sneaking rascal, Johnston, he’s at the bottom of the mischief. I could see it in his eye. Good-night, dad. Don’t let this affair worry you at all, whatever you do.”