“Not yet, thank goodness!” retorted Elinor, with something of her usual spirit. “He and father got talking together about the marriage, the other day, when he was down at Richmond, and fixed it, I believe, for the spring, but they will have to unfix it again now, if I am not mistaken.”
“No such thing,” replied Margaret, “and now you have consented—have you not?—to leave the settlement of this other affair in my hands.”
“If you wish it, Margaret! But, remember, no compromise! If Ralph has really promised this girl what she says, let him keep his promises, for I will have none of him. And now I must go home or they will wonder what has become of me!”
Margaret was not sorry to see her depart, for she was most anxious to summon Anthony Pennell, her husband’s cousin, to her aid, and ask his advice as to what was best to be done in the circumstances.
She had great faith in Anthony Pennell, not only in his genius, which was an accepted thing, but in his good sense, which is not usually found associated with the higher quality. He was a man of about thirty, with a grand intellect—a sound understanding—a liberal mind, and a sympathetic disposition. He had been originally intended for the Bar, but having “taken silk,” and made a most promising debut, he had suddenly blossomed into an author, and his first novel had taken London by storm.
He had accomplished the rare feat of being lifted up at once on the waves of public opinion and carried over the heads of all his fellows.
Since his first success, he had continued writing—had given up the law in consequence—and was now making a large and steady income.
But Anthony Pennell’s great charm lay in his unassuming manner and modest judgment of his own work. His triumphs were much more astonishing to him than to his friends. In person, he was less handsome than his cousin Ralph Pullen, but much more manly looking, having been a distinguished athlete in his College days, and still finding his best recreation on the cricket field and the golf ground. He was very fair, with a white skin, embrowned here and there by sun and outdoor exercise—short, curly hair—a fine figure, standing six foot high, and the bluest of blue eyes. He was smoking in his own chambers late that afternoon, when he received a telegram from Margaret Pullen, “Can you come over this evening?” and as soon as he had changed his lounging coat, he obeyed her summons.
CHAPTER XII.
Anthony Pennell was a very fresh, pleasant, and good-looking presentment of a young English gentleman, as he entered the room where Margaret was sitting with Doctor Phillips that evening. It had been arranged between them beforehand, that as little as need be should be confided to him of Harriet Brandt’s former history. All that was necessary for him to know, was the danger that threatened to blast the future happiness of Ralph Pullen and Elinor Leyton.