Captain Pennant’s family was by far the most popular in the
neighborhood, and this in spite of the fact that they were far too
poor to give entertainments on a large scale, or to contribute largely
to charities, or to do any of those things upon which popularity is
generally supposed to depend.
Captain Pennant himself, though not commonly considered to be
overweighted with intellect, was a gentle and chivalrous gentleman,
whose strong and kindly impulses were sometimes a little disconcerting
to his wife. Thus he had, on one occasion, eighteen years before,
brought home from Penzance, and placed in his wife’s lap, a baby girl,
the orphan daughter of a fisherman who had been drowned while forming
one of the crew of a life boat.
Mrs. Pennant, a stout, handsome little woman of the world, with twice
her husband’s common sense, and none of his straightforward simplicity
of character, had at last uttered a mild protest. She was in the habit
of bearing with all his caprices so beautifully, respecting his
prejudices and behaving with such perfect wifely submission, that he
had not the least suspicion that the grey mare was the better horse.
But she was a strict Conservative, and this sudden addition to her
family from the ranks of the proletariat was the last straw which
broke her patience.
“I am afraid, Graham,” she said, “that this dear little baby will be
rather in the way in the servants’ hall.”
“The servants’ hall!” echoed Captain Pennant, indignantly, “Alicia,
I’m astonished at your suggesting such a thing. I mean the darling to
be brought up as our own child.”
“As our child! A fisherman’s daughter!”
“We are all of the same value in the sight of heaven, Alicia,”
answered her husband, whose Conservatism was never allowed to
interfere with his whims.
“And insects are all of the same value in our eyes. Yet we tolerate a
fly where we should think a caterpillar out of place.”
“Well, I don’t want to know anything about flies and caterpillars, but
I have adopted her as my daughter, and she is to be treated
accordingly,” said Captain Pennant, with increased obstinacy because
of his wife’s unexpected restiveness. “I believe that God has sent her
to us as a precious gift and blessing, because among our own dear
children we have not had a girl.”
He had his own way, to all appearances, as he always had. Deborah
Audaer was brought up with his sons, and treated as a young lady. But
equally, of course, Mrs. Pennant had her own way more surely; for,
without any overt act of unkindness, she made the girl feel, and the
boys feel, that between them were no ties of blood.
Then, as they all grew up, the intriguing old lady had her punishment.
For, one and all, the boys fell in love with Deborah, and when she had
reached the age of nineteen they were all suitors for her hand.
Of course, the girl was true to her sex, and gave her heart where it
was least wanted. Hervey, the youngest boy, a slow, broad-shouldered
giant with a ruddy face and ripe-corn colored hair, who had a didactic
manner and a great reputation for wisdom, was only her own age, and
therefore too young for her, she said. He was a great theorist, an
authority upon “style” in rowing and “seat” in riding, although he
could neither pull a boat along nor stick on a horse.
A dash of the kindly prig there was about Hervey, perhaps, and a
little too strong a sense that other people didn’t count for much when
he was about. But he was fond of Deborah, and he thought that he and
she would make quite the grandest couple in the world, if only that
unappreciative beast, Rees, were out of the way.
Godwin, the second son, was twenty-one; a matter-of-fact young man, of
strictly moderate abilities, plenty of common sense, who never did
anything that he did not do well, but in a plodding, methodical
manner, without show or fuss. He had never given any trouble to
anybody, and was in consequence thought very little of by anybody,
particularly by his two brothers, who always exceeded their allowances
while he managed to save out of his, the most meagre of the three, and
who lived idly at home making up their minds “what they should be,”
while he had been for two years going backwards and forwards to a bank
at Monmouth, where he had got himself a situation. He adored Deborah
in a prosaic manner, keeping her in sweets, of which she was
childishly fond, doing her shopping for her with twice as much taste
and tact as she would have shown herself, and eking out the few pounds
she could spare for this purpose with money of his own, so that she
was filled with admiration and astonishment at his “bargains.”
Deborah liked both Hervey and Godwin, but it was on Rees that she
poured out all the devotion of a passionate and generous nature. Rees,
the handsome, the daring, the brilliant, the favorite of the whole
county, adored and indulged by his mother, petted and spoiled by Lord
St. Austell, who put his horses, his dog-cart, his yacht, his guns at
the service of the lad, whom he treated with smiling, good-humored
fondness, as if Rees had been his own son. As a matter of course, the
young fellow’s character suffered from all this spoiling, as Captain
Pennant, far-sighted in this matter only, had early foreboded.
“Rees is one of those unlucky lads who are born to be ruined,” he had
predicted, giving thereby a great shock to his wife, who was as weak
as water where her eldest born was concerned, and who flattered
herself, poor lady, that her prayers would counteract the effects of
reckless indulgence.
At three-and-twenty Rees was the handsomest young fellow in the
county. Of the middle height only and slightly built, with delicate
features, curly black hair, and black eyes full of fun and fire, his
appearance was irresistibly attractive to man, woman, child, and
animal. His dog loved Rees with a devotion uncommon even in a dog.
Careful mothers were afraid of him, for there was not a pretty girl in
the countryside who would not snub the richest bachelor in the
principality for the sake of the supper dance with Rees Pennant.
Nothing was difficult to him. He rode and drove well by instinct,
could manage a yacht like any old salt, and always made the biggest
bag at a shooting party. He had a voice pleasing without cultivation,
and a laugh as musical as a bird’s song. A nature so gifted, generous
and genial withal, needed an armor of ideal strength of character and
of intellect. Unfortunately, Rees Pennant possessed neither. The very
curves of his handsome mouth betrayed weakness, which, if now
excusable and even lovable, might later in life bear a pitiful
significance. He was a leader and ruler now among his companions,
attended by satellites of his own sex, worshipped by a troop of shy
girls; but he was not of the stuff of which rulers are made, for all
that.
It was on Rees Pennant that Amos Goodhare, in search of a tool and
catspaw, had cast his eyes. The librarian was, perhaps, the only man
in Carstow who disliked Rees; who not only saw through the lad’s
bright, affectionate manner to the growing selfishness and egotism
beneath, but found no charm in his grace and brightness. He was,
besides, intensely jealous of the earl’s fondness for the young
fellow, and of Deborah’s passionate attachment.
For Amos had himself cast on the handsome girl eyes full of covetous
longing, so that Deborah, without knowing why, blushed under his gaze
and felt afraid of him.
Having decided on his plan of action, the librarian lost no time. He
put himself in Rees Pennant’s way one sunny April afternoon, when the
latter was returning home, flushed and light-hearted, after a game of
tennis on one of the Llancader lawns. The meeting took place near the
top of the hilly street of which Carstow may almost be said to
consist. Amos was leaning against the trunk of a tree, his soft, wide
hat thrown back, his stick in his hand, as if overcome by the heat and
consequent lassitude.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pennant,” he said, with that tone of flattering,
dignified respect which he knew well how to assume.
“Afternoon, Goodhare,” said the lad, saluting him with the airy grace
peculiar to him. “Why, you look done up. Don’t you like these warm
spring days? They intoxicate me.”
“Yes, yes,” answered the elder man, putting into his grave tone an
amount of respectful admiration which inclined the young fellow to
stay and chat for a few minutes with the “old bookworm.” “The spring
suits you, and the sunshine, and girls’ fair faces, and all bright
things. But I’m only an old hulk, and men think me fit for nothing but
to stick labels on the backs of books for fools to read and not to
profit by.”
“Come, that’s rather hard on us Carstowites, isn’t it? Some of us read
seriously, you know, and how do you know we don’t profit by what we
read?”
“Well, Mr. Pennant, I don’t want to flatter you, but you must know in
your own mind that you are not like the clods around you. You have a
quick brain and vivid feelings. But even you--pray excuse the liberty
I am taking--show signs of the rusting effect of these narrow-hearted
provincial towns. Fancy a fine young fellow like you remaining content
with such a horizon! You, who might aspire to be anything you
pleased--a king among men--wasting your energies on lawn tennis! Why,
to me, old as I am and callous as I ought to have grown, the idea
seems shocking--positively shocking!”
The young man’s face had clouded slightly during this speech from the
librarian, who worked himself up to a pitch of high excitement for the
last words.
“How do you know that I am content?” asked Rees, quietly.
“Oh, pray forgive my taking such liberty! I got excited, carried
away,” murmured Amos, showing great irritation with his own indiscreet
boldness.
“I’m not offended. I repeat: how do you know I’m contented?” asked
Rees, swinging his tennis racquet.
“How do I know?” echoed Amos, diffidently, but with some surprise.
“Why, because with natures like yours, full of energy, and fire, and
daring, to will is to do. And that you have never done
anything--anything great, I mean--is proof enough to me that you have
never willed to do anything; that, in fact, the air of Carstow is
responsible for the waste of a fine nature. Now you said you would not
be offended, Mr. Pennant, and I hold you to your word.”
He made a feint of moving away, but Rees detained him by a gracefully
imperious gesture. The lad’s complexion was flushed now with something
more than the sun’s heat; his candid face showed a very becoming
boyish shame and modesty.
“You do me a lot more than justice, Goodhare,” said he half laughing.
“You make me ashamed of my own idleness, not for the first time, I do
assure you, though. You see I’ve been spoilt; I know that; but it’s so
jolly that one hasn’t the strength of mind to wish people wouldn’t
encourage one in one’s evil courses.”
“What evil courses? I’ve never heard a word about you in that way,”
said the librarian, whose eyes had glowed with an ugly light at this
suggestion.
“Oh, nothing worse than my besetting sin, idling, which they say is
the parent of all others,” said Rees, looking up with his handsome,
frank young face, on which was no trace of any passion worse than
boyish vanity.
Goodhare’s face fell, though its change of expression was not
noticeable enough for his ingenuous companion to remark it.
“You see, dear old Lord St. Austell is ever so much too good to me,”
continued Rees with an affectionate inflection; “and while there are
always his horses for me to ride and his coverts for me to shoot over,
the temptation for me to do nothing else is too great.”
“And why should you do anything else, at least in your leisure?” asked
Goodhare, with apparent surprise. “Doesn’t every gentleman who goes in
for a public career in any profession amuse himself so--among other
ways, of course?”
Rees laughed rather bitterly.
“Gentlemen who go in for a public career have private means, Mr.
Goodhare,” said he. “Everybody knows I have nothing----”
“But you are the eldest son?”
“And heir to my father’s liabilities; nothing else, I assure you.”
“But when you become Lady Marion’s husband--”
The lad started in astonishment. The idea had never occurred to him.
“Lady Marion’s husband!” he repeated, bewildered.
“Why, Mr. Pennant, you are very modest. Or don’t you wish it to be
talked about so soon? If so, I really beg your pardon. But you must
know that it has already become common talk--”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it, though,” said Rees, dryly. “Lord St.
Austell would never let me enter Llancader Castle again if I were to
hint at such a thing.”
“And Lady Marion herself?” suggested the librarian, with malice.
Rees laughed rather self-consciously.
“Poor girls! They must have some creature to talk to, especially now,
for this fright about scarlet fever has caused his lordship to give
orders for them to remain shut up here all through the London season.”
“And do you believe that, being as fond of you as his lordship is,
that his daughter would not be able to talk him round?”
“I am sure she would not. I know the earl.”
“So do I; and I say he would.”
Rees shrugged his shoulders. He was rather impressed by the tone of
quiet conviction of the elder man. After a short pause he said,
hesitatingly:
“He might, perhaps, if I had money. But as it is----”
“Ah, that want of money--that fatal, miserable want of money. That’s
the pinch; yes, that’s always the pinch,” burst out Amos, with
surprising energy. “How many a promising, brilliant young man--and yet
not so brilliant as--well, as some I know, either--how many have been
wrecked on that shoal! What might I not have done myself in the world,
with the moderate abilities I have and with perseverance, if it had
not been for that curse, want of money. Yes, there’s the rub.”
There was a pause. The younger man was lost in thought, the elder was
watching him. Rees woke out of his reverie with a start, and a laugh
which was, perhaps, a shade less light-hearted than usual.
“And after all,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and throwing his
racquet high in the air, to catch it again as easily as if he had been
born a conjuror, “I don’t know, when one comes to think of it, whether
I would care about Lady Marion as a wife. She’s a good girl, but not
the most graceful creature in the world. Why, I know a girl, one who
doesn’t dislike me very furiously either, who has more beauty in the
bend of her little finger than all the Ladies Cenarth have in their
whole bodies.”
Amos cast at him out of the corners of his eyes a brief glance
instinct with venom.
“I don’t suppose there are many girls about, high or low, who do
dislike you very furiously, Mr. Pennant,” he said, in a tone of sly
malice not altogether as pleasing as the words; “but I do earnestly
hope, if I may presume to say so, that you will not destroy chances
which I, an old experienced man, perceive to be great, for the sake of
a pretty face in a rank of life beneath you.”
“You may be quite sure that the girl I should choose for a wife would
be beneath nobody, Goodhare,” said Rees, with haughtiness in which
there was no offence. “But anyhow,” he added, with another laugh,
“there’s time enough to think about that. I don’t mean to bestow upon
any lady my name and my tennis racquet--all I possess--for the next
ten years.”
“Of course not. You mean to enjoy yourself.”
Rees did not quite understand the significance of the elder man’s
tone, but it rather grated on him.
“Yes, I mean to enjoy myself in my own way,” he said, as he sprang up
from the gate on which he had been sitting, and prepared to continue
his walk. “Well, good night, Goodhare; I must be getting home.”
“Good night, Mr. Pennant. I wish you’d come round to the library some
evening and see an edition of Carlyle which I’ve just had rebound
after my own taste. I’m rather proud of it. It won’t be very
entertaining for you, but it will bring a ray of sunshine into my grey
life, and show me that you are not offended by my frankness.”
He had touched on the right chord again. The young fellow held out his
hand and grasped that of the librarian warmly.
“Of course I’ll come,” he said good humoredly. “Only you mustn’t
butter me up so; it’ll turn my head.”
He ran down the hill like the boy he still was, and turned his
handsome young face for a farewell nod to Goodhare as he reached the
bottom.
Amos returned the salutation, but Rees was too far off to hear his
suppressed chuckle of hideous exultation.
“He takes the bait already,” he said to himself, grinding out the
words between his teeth. “What a pitiful fool he is, and how
splendidly he’ll suit my purpose.”