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.