All the same he was destined to learn—and that before very long—that the Scotchman’s significant promise might not prove so harmless as he imagined.
While Eustace was making merry over his friend’s letter, the rector was cogitating over a very different style of communication, though from the same source. In it the writer set forth briefly and circumstantially the completeness of his own ruin, adding, that as a beggar and penniless, he had now no alternative but to take as final the answer which the rector had given on the occasion of their last meeting. There was one thing more—an enclosure directed to Olive, and this the writer ventured to hope might be handed to her. He had purposely left the envelope open in case Dr Ingelow should prefer to peruse its contents, but in any event he trusted it might be delivered, as it was the last communication that would pass between them. It was characteristic of the old priest’s honourable and generous nature, that his first act was to fasten down the flap of the envelope then and there.
Now the letter was curt, stiff and constrained in wording, but its recipient could “read between the lines.” He knew the world thoroughly, and his insight into that most complex of machinery, the human heart, was all but exhaustive, and now, as he sat with the open letter before him, he could gauge with wonderful exactitude the state of mind of its unfortunate writer. Its very curtness was the outcome of a studied expression of feeling, as of one who should nerve himself to the numbing consciousness of sudden and overwhelming ruin. This man had lost all which made life valuable to him. It had fallen from him, one might say, in a single day. How would he bear it?
“Poor fellow—poor fellow! He is ruined, indeed?” broke from the old priest’s lips, as he turned over the whole situation in his mind. “What will become of him?”
He thought of the mutual liking that had sprung up between them—of their many pleasant interchanges of ideas and experiences—their reminiscences of the Great Wild West, gone over together many a time during the cheerful evening meal—and how these things had carried him back to the life and spirit of adventure of his own youth. He thought of the unfortunate man now plunged in ruin and despair, and the picture thus conjured up moved and distressed him more than he cared to own. During the few months of their acquaintance he had accurately read Roland Dorrien’s character, and now felt pretty certain that it was not of the sort to gain by such a blow as this last. He remembered remorsefully the dark, reckless face as he had last seen it, full of impatience, resentment and stormy passions, and knew too well that the owner of that face was not the man to accept misfortune as a thing to rise superior to and over-rule to his own ultimate good. No! for him he feared the worst.
Then his eye fell once more upon the enclosure. He took it up thoughtfully. It was not strange that the writer should have sent it to him first instead of forwarding it direct by post, but the act was highly creditable to Dorrien’s sense of honour. He conveyed a covert hint, too, in the letter to himself that they would probably never meet again. It was all terribly sad, and now with characteristic scrupulosity the rector blamed himself severely for unnecessary harshness. Yes, he had been hard and unfeeling in that interview. The poor fellow was now overwhelmed in the bitterness of his ruin, to an extent which he was too proud to show, and desperate. He was a man of little or no religion, consequently a man without hope—and thus thinking, a warm wave of pity swept over the old priest’s heart. Could nothing be done for this lonely, uncared-for wanderer—nothing to raise him from where he had gone down beneath the rising tide of adverse fortune? Yes—it could and it should. He would go himself and seek him out and convey to him that he was not without friends; nor would he confine himself only to words of sympathy and friendship, but would think what offer of material aid he could make. Ah! but—would it be accepted? The man was proud. A man who had deliberately put away such a position as Roland Dorrien had done would be difficult to deal with. And for the first time it struck him that he had made far too light of that affair, and the conviction began to dawn upon him, that come what might, do reconciliation would ever take place now between General Dorrien and his son. And what would become of the latter? Again and again the rector’s sensitive conscience smote him. Had he been a little less decisive in refusing his consent—had he left the other some ground for hope, it might be the saving of him now—might act as an incentive to him to rise above his troubles. Yes—he must see what could be done, and that without loss of time.
Then, taking the now sealed letter, he went upstairs to find Olive.
“Something for you, darling,” he said in his tenderest tone.
“Yes, father. What is it? Oh!”
Her face paled and her hand trembled slightly as she caught sight of the well-known writing, and there was a terrible air of wistfulness in her eyes. Ever since the day her father had told her—with all the consideration and gentleness he could command, as well as with decision—that he could not consent to anything between Roland Dorrien and herself, and had so carefully reasoned out the matter that she could not in her inmost heart accuse him of harshness or injustice—ever since the day her lover had left the place suddenly and without a word of explanation, Olive had been as one metamorphosed. Her brightness and unquenchable flow of spirits had left her; she seldom smiled, never laughed, and spoke but little.