Dorrien had been comfortably off before he succeeded his elder brother, with whom he had been on bad terms, and whose death, some five years previous to the opening of this narrative, took place on the high seas during the voyage home from South America—a voyage undertaken by medical advice. The General accepted his new position and its responsibilities perfectly naturally and easily, and at once set to work vigorously and with military precision to rectify the numerous derelictions which had prevailed and thriven under the sway of his easy-going predecessor. It stood to reason that many suffered by the change. Consequently the new Squire was not beloved. But if unpopular with his dependents, by his equals he was received with open arms. He had been a brilliant soldier in his time, and had served with distinction in more than one of our wars in the East; the county therefore felt proud of his fame, being, in fact, not wholly free from some idea of having itself contributed thereto. Then the late Squire had been a bachelor, but here was a family who would keep up Cranston as it should be kept up. There ought to be a law against old bachelors occupying such a place as Cranston, said the county, in its joy at seeing a family once more in possession at the Hall, and a family comprising two eligible sons—one of them a right royal “catch”—and a daughter who would certainly not be dowerless. So although on further acquaintance the General was feared rather than liked, yet the county was very well satisfied. But its feminine side longed for the return of the eldest son to his ancestral home, with a solicitude that should have been insidiously flattering to the unconscious wanderer had he been aware of its existence.
Chapter Two.
Concerning a Man and a Dog.
Before a house in Cambridge Terrace a hansom draws up with that series of jerks peculiar to its kind, and discharges its freight—a man, a dog and a portmanteau, and while the first is making enquiries as to the occupant being within, the second is scampering up and down the footway as hard as he can pelt, for he has been pent up on shipboard and in trains for many a weary day, and now such an opportunity of stretching his legs is in no wise to be neglected.
“Not in?” the traveller is saying in reply to the servant who opens the door. “But he isn’t out of town?”
“Oh no, sir. Mr Venn’s generally home before this. He may be in any minute now.”
“All right. I’ll wait for him. Here, cabman, lay hold of the other end,” and between them they deposit the portmanteau, a battered and weatherworn campaigner, safe inside the hall door, and cabby, having received more than double his fare, retires well satisfied and mumbling gleefully, “Military gent ’ome from Hingia. Two bob and a ’arf crown from Euston. Yee-epp?”
“Just my luck,” muses the traveller with vexation in his face, as he gazes round upon his friend’s sitting-room, a typical bachelor den in all its pipe-and-book-and-stick-bestrewn untidiness. “Just my luck to come back to this cursed town to find the only man I know and could reckon on not at home—possibly out for the evening, and not a soul to speak to in the meanwhile.”
Here a scuffle and a vigorous whine outside the front door cuts short his ruminations. Quickly he opens it.
“Roy, you rascal, come in, sir. Humbugging after cats as usual?” This address, though irate in wording, is affectionate in tone, as the beautiful animal bounds past the instant the door is open, and draws up in the absent Venn’s room, wagging his bushy tail and looking perfectly satisfied with himself. His glossy red-brown coat breaks off at the neck in a white curling ruff which continues down his broad chest, whose normal snowiness is now grimy with railway travel. The soft brown eyes, set in dark circles, and the smooth velvety ears, betray his collie origin, ennobled and broadened as this is by the sturdier proportions engrafted upon it by the admixture of a larger and sterner race—peradventure of the real Newfoundland or Saint Bernard blood. After a few preliminary sniffs round the room the animal settles himself cosily on the rug, his soft, upturned eyes fixed affectionately upon his master. So much for the dog, and what of the man?
A tall and well-proportioned frame, which shows to advantage in its travel-worn suit of light tweed. A finely shaped head, carried high and erect and covered with dark clustering hair. A well-cut profile and regular features in which is an expression of quick readiness, render the face a striking and remarkable one, tanned as it is too by exposure to sun and weather. The eyes are very uncommon, and not at all in keeping with the dark complexion, being in fact violet blue; and there is that in their expression which, together with certain lines on the forehead, would to a physiognomist betray a stormy and unsettled spirit.
There is impatience in the gesture as he stands stroking his drooping moustache while gazing out into the rapidly darkening street. Suddenly Roy, raising his head, emits a threatening growl as a latch-key is turned in the front door. Then in a couple of strides a broad-shouldered, cheery looking fellow bursts into the room—
“Hallo!” is the startled greeting of the new-comer, pulling up short and wondering who the deuce was the intruder whose dog lay growling at him in right threatening fashion from his own hearth.
“All right, Venn. He won’t eat you,” is the stranger’s reply. “But don’t you know me?”
“Hanged if I do! No—yes—I do though. Why, Roland Dorrien, where on earth have you dropped from now?”
“‘The clouds’ you were going to say. No. The Rockies—game thing. Plenty of cloud, literal and metaphorical, besets the way of those whose lives are cast yonder.”
“By Jingo!” cried the other, passing his hand over his fair, closely cropped beard. “Why didn’t you say you were coming back? And did you get this splendid chap out West?”
For Roy, having sniffed the new-comer and pronounced him satisfactory, was now looking up gravely into that worthy’s face and wagging his brush as if desirous of an introduction.
“Yes. Traded him from an Indian who was battering him up a good bit with a rail because he didn’t take kindly to dragging a sledge. And ever since he has stuck to me very much closer than a brother. But then, you see he’s only a dog, not a human, which explains it.”
“Well, you’d better shake down here,” said Venn. “That is, if Mrs Symes has a room. I’ll ring and ask.”
Mrs Symes had a room, and the traveller shook down accordingly.
“I suppose you’ve been having a rare good time of it out West,” began Venn as later in the evening they sat over their cigars. “Shooting grizzlies and Indians, and chevying buffaloes, while a poor stockbroking devil like myself has been tied by the leg to this well-worn spot. Why it doesn’t seem eight years since I saw you off that jolly fine morning in search of fortune. And you’re twice the man you were then. No wonder I didn’t know you at first.”
“It is eight years though, rather over than under. As for having a good time of it, ‘Least said, etc.’ That is until the good old Squire’s bequest took effect, and then things weren’t so bad, because, you see, I could do what I liked, and I did. I forgot—you haven’t heard—how should you have?” seeing the other look slightly mystified. “Well then, the old Squire—my father’s brother, you know—and I used to be very thick, which was good and sufficient reason for my not being allowed to go near him. He died five years ago, as you may or may not know, and I own to feeling a trifle sold at being as I thought cut off with a shilling. Well, a year back, I heard that the good old chap had left me all his personal property to
