And he turned abruptly, without again offering to shake hands, and started on his way to the station.
It was true that Mrs. Pennant brooded over the defection of her eldest son. Without having discussed the matter with any one, she knew that there was something discreditable in his mode of life, something which none of the artfully worded suggestions in her own letters could induce him to confess. Belonging, as she did, to that numerous class of women who would allow their sons any latitude and spend their time in efforts, not to reform their darlings, but to shield them, she lived in perpetual terror lest Rees should “get into trouble;” and when, three days after Godwin’s confession to Deborah, Lord St. Austell was announced one morning while Mrs. Pennant was taking her breakfast in her bed-room, the old lady sprang up from her chair with an intuitive conviction that this visit concerned her son.
Deborah thought so too. Wishing therefore to spare the old lady as much as she could of any coming shock, she cried out, as Mrs. Pennant hurried towards the door.
“What, mamma, you are surely not going to let Lord St. Austell see you in your dressing-gown!”
The old lady stopped. The habits of her life conquered even her impatience for news of her son. Stepping back to the looking-glass and catching sight of her haggard old face and unsmoothed hair, she said:
“You go down, Deborah, and tell his lordship I shall be ready to receive him in ten minutes.”
But Deborah thought she could reckon on a good half-hour. She was white and agitated herself when she entered the morning-room, where the earl was standing by the fire. His expression told her that her fears were well-founded.
“I don’t know how to break the news to you,” he said at once, in a low voice, as they shook hands. “But have you heard anything? You look as if you had.”
“Nothing. I have only guessed by your face, and in fact from your coming, so early, so unexpectedly. Mamma guessed too.”
“The old lady? She isn’t up yet, is she?” asked he anxiously.