“How about by-by?” said the other, recovering himself from a stretch and a mighty yawn. “It’s waxing late. Better lay hold of that candle, I’ve got one in my room. Come along, and we’ll draw the cheque.”
Hubert took the hint to say no more about it, but he went to bed with a lighter heart than he had done for many a night. He had that cheque safe in his possession. Wiser thoughts might have prevailed in the morning—his brother might have thought better of it—might have discovered that he couldn’t spare the cash—what not? He need not have feared. Whatever his faults, Roland Dorrien was incapable of going back on his word, and had the amount in question reached the limit of his worldly possessions, he would still have parted with it.
Chapter Eighteen.
Father and Son.
“Do you mind coming this way, Roland?” said the General soon after breakfast the next morning. “Neville writes to say,” he went on, closing the library door behind them, “that they are going to give a ball on a large scale on Friday—it’s Clara’s birthday—and is very anxious for you to go to Ardleigh to-morrow, and stay over it. This is Wednesday, so I suppose you may count upon nearly a week of it up there, to which, I daresay, you won’t object,” he added, with some significance.
“Well, I don’t much care about it. I might manage the ball, but the fact is it will be rather inconvenient to go and stay there just now. Besides, I seem to have only just left.”
The General frowned slightly.
“I hope you’ll think better of it, Roland. You cannot really have anything to keep you from going, and Neville will take it ill if you refuse. You and Clara got on very well together when you were staying there before, didn’t you?”