“Things being so,” continued his father, “it is right that you should recognise your position as my eldest son. Now did you ever contemplate the contingency of marriage?”
“I have thought of it—yes.”
“Ah!” and the General’s brow cleared perceptibly. “Now, we are not so badly off about here in the matter of choice; we are fortunate in having for neighbours some good families—very good families, indeed. But I think it would be hard to find among them anyone more thoroughly suitable than Clara Neville. She is exceedingly good-looking, most accomplished and agreeable, and has plenty of sound common-sense; in short, any man might be proud of her as a wife.”
“She is, indeed, all you say,” assented Roland mercilessly, a sort of grim humour impelling him to draw his father thoroughly out.
“Ah! I should always have given you credit for being a man of taste, Roland,” rejoined the General, with more kindness in his tone than he had used for a long time. “Then, too, she is the daughter of one of my oldest—I may say my oldest—friends, and she will inherit Ardleigh. You have seen for yourself what Ardleigh is. It is a splendid property, and adjoins this. Such an opportunity of combining the two may never—will never occur again,” he continued, speaking more to himself than to his son. “And, Roland, only think what a man with such a stake in the county as Cranston and Ardleigh might do. Why, his influence would be unbounded. Any career leading to the highest distinction would be open to him.”
In spite of the knowledge that he himself would be the chief sufferer, Roland, as he sat listening to his father, could not help feeling a kind of pity for the disappointment which awaited the latter, when his ambitious schemes were ruthlessly shattered, as they were destined to be in a moment.
“So now you see why I wish you to accept this invitation,” went on the General. “The alliance will be a most suitable one in every way, and most desirable.”
“But aren’t we getting on rather fast?” said Roland, thinking he saw a straw, and clutching at it instinctively. “What reason have we to suppose that Clara Neville regards me with any more favour than she does any other man?”
“I feel sure of this, Roland: if she doesn’t, it’ll be your own fault entirely,” was the reply.
Well, that straw had gone down with him. There was now no alternative—he must declare himself. It is just possible that, in one of weaker calibre, the temptation to procrastinate might have prevailed. The moment was not a favourable one for making his statement—indeed, it could hardly be more unfavourable; what would be easier than to put it off for a day or two? But he entertained no such idea.