“I’ll confess this much—that if you don’t get that idea out of your wise old head, I shall begin to have a bad opinion of you,” she replies affectionately. “Why, I can run over at any moment and look them up, or get them up here, as in fact I’m always doing. What more can you think I want? Now let’s see what the arbiter of Fate has brought forth,” continues she, going round to her place. “Two bills—that’s your department. Letters—only one, and that from Eusty. His regiment has been ordered to India—wonder how Nellie will like that—and he is coming down here the week after next. He will be here in time for the festival.”
“That’s a goodish bit of news. Will he come to us or to the Rectory first?”
“Don’t know. That’ll have to be decided.”
“By the way, where’s Roy?” he asks suddenly. “He hasn’t been in this morning. Ah, there he is.”
For the servant entering with a tray has also admitted our woolly friend, who makes for his master and thrusts his nose into his hand with an affectionate whine, his brush wagging like a flail.
Roy, too, is restored to his rightful place in society, as his master puts it. One of the first things Roland did when the tide of his misfortunes turned, was to take steps for the recovery of his faithful follower, and Roy’s new owner, who was a good-hearted fellow, had refused the somewhat extravagant sum which was offered him for his purchase, and had handed him back at the same price. Roy’s exuberant glee on his restoration to his old master was something indescribable. But now he has long been an institution in the Cranston household and is a favourite with everyone, except Johnston, the head-gardener, of whom more anon.
The airy mood of the new Squire of Cranston fades as suddenly as it arose. He eyes for a moment the unwelcome missive which he has cast aside, then, as if with an effort, he tears it open. It is only a letter from his mother.
“Oh! What is it, darling?” cries Olive anxiously, half starting up. For with a furious imprecation Roland has dashed down the open sheet upon the table, and sits back in his chair, his face ashy white.
Only a couple of lines does this letter contain, and they are in his mother’s handwriting.
“Since you force me to speak plainly, I will—I can hold no communication with a murderer—a fratricide.”