“Well now, Dorrien,” he went on, after pausing to allow the other to continue the remark if he wished, “you must see yourself in what an extremely difficult position I am placed. How can I allow my child to marry into a family which positively refuses to receive her? I cannot do so, I fear, with any consideration for our own self-respect. Then, apart from that, you are man of the world enough to know that nothing remains private for long, and that this family quarrel of yours will soon be in everybody’s mouth. Now, I ask you, how can I and mine accept the position of arch-mischief-makers, feud fomenters, schemers—call it what you will—in which common consent will place us when it becomes known how you have renounced your brilliant worldly prospects for Olive’s sake? Put yourself into my place for a moment—that may bring it home to you. No, Dorrien, surely you must see that this is a position we cannot consent to occupy, and, honoured as we are by your proposal, I fear we must pain you by declining it—for the present, at any rate.”
Roland did not answer at once. In the rector’s decided tones he felt that his fate was sealed. There was no getting over this opposition, and now, day by day, an insurmountable barrier would rise between him and his love. The room seemed to go round with him—the heavily-bound, solemn-looking volumes, the carved chairs, the still, white Christ upon the black cross in the niche, all passed in succession before his eyes.
“And yet I had thought, Dr Ingelow,” he said at last, and his voice was thick and unsteady, “that you, if any man, would be above mere worldly considerations, when the life’s happiness of two people was in the balance.”
“My dear boy, don’t—pray don’t talk in that awfully desponding tone,” said the rector, moved to the heart by the utter dejection set forth upon the other’s countenance. “Now, listen,” and going over to him he placed his hands upon his shoulders, in heart-felt, sympathetic touch. “Wait a little while, then do your best to make up this lamentable difference—who knows but what you may succeed far more readily than you think? Then you shall have my hearty consent.”
“That will be never,” came the reply, quiet, but decided. “The thing is impossible. So I suppose you will tell me that it’s a case of resigning oneself to the will of Providence,” he continued in a tone of indescribable bitterness, and with an approach to a sneer.
The other made no reply, and for some moments there was silence. There was not a spark of anger or resentment in the priest’s heart at the implied scoff, and the compassion in his countenance deepened as he gazed upon the man before him, plunged in the depths of disappointment. He was no mean judge of character, and he had seen much in Roland Dorrien to like and admire—yet he felt sure that the course he himself had adopted in the present instance was the right—in fact, the only safe one.
And Roland himself? As he sat there he was going through a mighty struggle. He had tried fair means and failed, now he would be justified in employing foul, said the tempter. If he could induce Olive surreptitiously to link her lot with his, why then, when the step was irremediable, her father would soon forgive her. The rector was the very last man to bear rancour, especially towards his favourite child. He would soon come round, and then how happy they would all be! The end in this case would amply justify the means, and then—was not all fair in love and war? No, it was not. Roland Dorrien had a code of honour of his own. Had Dr Ingelow been such a man as his own father, for instance, he would have felt abundantly justified in throwing all scruple to the winds, but now he could not do it. He had sat at this man’s table and been treated by him in every respect as a trusted friend. His doors had ever been open to him to come and go as he listed, he had been admitted unreservedly and welcomed in this family circle at a time when in his own home he was a stranger. Months had passed in this pleasant, trustful intimacy, and now he felt that he would rather die than betray the confidence of this kindly, open-hearted friend, for whom, in spite of what had happened, he felt no whit less of warm regard. It would be a mean and shabby trick, the very thought of which he would strive to put far from him.
“Forgive me,” he said at length. “I am an unmannerly brute to talk like that. A cad, in fact.”
“Roland, my dear boy,” answered the rector in his most affectionate tone, casting all ceremony to the winds. “Believe me, I have already forgotten it, whatever it was. Now try and face your trouble bravely—you are not alone in it, remember. And, Roland, you will not—not attempt to see Olive alone until—at any rate until I have spoken to her. You are too honourable for that, I know.”
“I will not. But, Dr Ingelow, I cannot promise to give her up altogether. It is only fair to tell you that.”