That “no one is all bad” is a favourite cant—but only a cant. In common with not a few others Hubert Dorrien was “all bad”—emphatically so. There was not a single redeeming point in his character, not even the boldness which frequently attends utter want of scruple. The latter quality he possessed in affluent measure, but ever subordinate to the stronger passion of fear. His brother had helped him, very much to his own hindrance, in his dire need, and not only was he dead to all sense of gratitude, but felt only too glad that circumstances afforded him a colourable excuse for neglecting to refund the loan now that he wae in a position to do so.
And towards that brother he now felt all the bitter hatred, begotten of fear and a sense of obligation, of which his base and craven nature was capable, and, as fate would have it, the circumstance detailed in a former chapter placed an efficient weapon in his hand. Rumour began to circulate in Wandsborough, and with multifold winks and head-shakings, and “I told you so,” and “What else could you expect?” the many-tongued assassin commented on the continued absence of Lizzie Devine. All Wandsborough became aware, or fancied itself so, that the girl was play acting, or worse, in London, but that whatever she was doing she was not alone, for had not young Squire Hubert—he had got rapid promotion, you see—met her, in company with his brother, at some theatre or other? That was enough. Everybody knew she was never any better than she should be. A fine girl—yes. A splendidly-handsome girl—yes—but—a bad ’un, come of a bad stock. And those young Dorriens. A wild set, and no mistake! Thus the gossips.
This rumour was quick to reach Gipsy Steve’s ears, with the result that the ex-poacher got furiously drunk, and went about vowing vengeance in forcible and blood-curdling terms, thereby narrowly escaping summary dismissal at the hands of Colonel Neville. It was not long, either, in becoming known to Turner, and that reverend person, coupling it with the upshot of his earlier observations, could not refrain from making capital—pious capital of course—out of the knowledge. But circumspectly as he had originated the rumour and disseminated it withal, common consent attributed it to Hubert, and men wondered how his brother could have been such a fool as to trust a fellow who couldn’t keep counsel in a delicate affair of this kind, but went blabbing it all over the place. Finally, it became known to the General, as Hubert had all along intended it should. From that moment he felt secure. The heavens might fall, but never again would Roland set foot in his father’s presence.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
The Ban.
“Yes, sir. Our town’s bigger nor Wandsbro’—more go-ahead like. It didn’t use to be so, you see, but when them works at Wandsbro’ were shut up, why, then it fell back and we went ahead, sir.”
So spake the loquacious waiter in the coffee-room of the “Silver Fleece Inn,” at Battisford, as he skipped, napkin in hand, round the only guest, who was dining early, for it was Sunday. A finely-proportioned man of, apparently, about sixty, and wearing a bushy iron-grey beard and dark-tinted spectacles, it would be difficult to guess at his rank in life. He might be a peer of the realm, or he might be a detective, and he was dressed with perfect simplicity, though well.
“Indeed?” he replied carelessly. “I just remember being at Wandsborough many years ago, when I was almost a boy. By the way, what’s that remarkably fine place I passed driving over here? It stood back in a park, where there were any amount of deer.”