Roland stared. He was considerably taken aback by this question, and, in truth, not a little annoyed. And an unwonted formality about the other’s tone tended somewhat to disconcert him.
“Well, no—I can’t say I have. Naturally, I imagined that you yourself were the first person to be spoken to on the subject. To be candid with you, Dr Ingelow, I have knocked about the world long enough to dispense with the paternal sanction to any undertaking of mine. Moreover, you may possibly be aware that my family and myself are never on very good terms—unfortunately, I admit—but still it is so.”
The rector did not at once reply. He was leaning back in his chair, one hand thoughtfully stroking his beard, while the other toyed listlessly with one of the buttons of his cassock, and his brows were slightly contracted.
“It is unfortunate, Dorrien, because the fact of things being so, rather tends to complicate the situation,” he replied at length, as the slightest possible movement of impatience, which Roland could not for the life of him suppress, did not escape his quick perceptions. “For it happens that I have certain old-fashioned ideas of my own on these matters. Wait—just hear what I’ve got to say”—laying his hand on the other’s arm with a kindly, reassuring touch—“and bear with what you think an old man’s unreasonable whims. Now go straight to Cranston and lay the whole matter before your father. Then come back here and tell me the result.”
“Am I to understand, then, Dr Ingelow, that you will only grant your consent subject to the contingency of my father granting his?” said Roland, in a tone whose bitterness it was impossible to conceal.
The rector felt puzzled by the directness of this query, but he did not show it.
“I haven’t asked you to do a very hard or unreasonable thing, Dorrien,” he said, with a quiet smile. “Now do oblige me in this. Can you not see that I am justified in requiring it? Then we can talk over matters further.”
Roland felt thoroughly outflanked. He could not tell his father-in-law elect that his own amiable parent would more readily give his sanction to an alliance of his house with the Prince of Darkness than with that of himself—yet he knew perfectly well it was so. Here, indeed, was a most formidable obstruction in the way; one, moreover, on which he had never reckoned. He could only agree mechanically to the rector’s proposal, but his heart sank within him as he took his leave. No, he had not bargained for this.
All seemed to augur badly for the successful outcome of his errand, for the General was out, and was not expected back till nearly dinner-time, he learned on reaching Cranston. But the General returned in such a state of ill-humour that it was obviously useless to broach the subject that night. On the morrow—well, it was just possible that some miracle might interpose on his behalf, but hardly probable. Never did it seem to him that he could remember a more thoroughly depressing evening than this one. His father scarcely spoke, and when he did address him it was in a tone of studied coldness; his mother would now and then make a captious remark, while Hubert sulkily plied his knife and fork, and made no attempt at conversation whatever. Heartily glad was he then to find himself at last in the smoking-room.
“Hallo! Roland—there you are,” cried Hubert, banging the door behind him, and flinging himself into an armchair. “Now one can breathe freely, at any rate. The veteran looks sweet to-night, doesn’t he?”