Directly they were married they posted straight off to the station. And herein Pennethorne acted very unwisely. He should have toured Tasmania and New Zealand, or visited Japan in the orthodox way. But he was unlike other men, and it was a moral impossibility for him to act like a rational being—his theories got in the way and tripped him up.
For the first year or so everything progressed beautifully, and he wrote glowing accounts of his new life to the few men whose friendship he had thought worth retaining. Then the correspondence ceased abruptly, and his friends marvelled.
Now, of all those who had scoffed at Pennethorne's theories, the most persistent was William Pevis Farrington, afterwards His Honour Mr. Justice Farrington. In the middle of his happiness, Pennethorne had invited the judge, if ever he should be travelling that way, etc.—you know the usual sort of thing—to put in a day or two with him, and see for himself how things stood. About a year later Farrington did happen to be somewhere in the district and called as requested.
Meeting his host near the homestead, they rode up together, and Farrington noticed that Pennethorne decidedly looked his age. When they reached the house the latter, leaving his guest in the dining-room, went in search of his wife, to return about ten minutes later saying she was unwell. They dined alone. All through the meal Pennethorne seemed disturbed and uncomfortable, and when it was over led the way into the garden, where he said abruptly, "Farrington, you think me a madman, don't you?"
The judge mumbled the only thing he could think of at the moment, and endeavoured to push the conversation off to a side track by an inquiry after Mrs. Pennethorne's health. It had precisely the contrary effect to what he intended.
His friend had twelve years' arrears to work off before he could be considered, conversationally, a decent companion. So, setting to work, he poured into the unfortunate judge's ears his granary of theories, facts, and arguments. He marshalled his arguments, backed them up with his theories, and clinched all with his facts, his voice rising from its usual placid level to a higher note of almost childish entreaty. Unconsciously he was endeavouring to convince himself, through the medium of a second person, of the wisdom contained in his marriage experiment.
Farrington listened attentively. His trained mind distinguished between what the other believed and what he was endeavouring to prove against his own convictions. However, he could see that the keynote of the whole harangue was Failure, but as every one admitted that the last experiment had proved entirely successful, in what direction did such failure lie? He was more than a little mixed, and by delicate cross-examination elicited certain facts that puzzled him still more.
One thing was plainly evident: Pennethorne was very much in love with his wife. In the first place he was given to understand that no man could desire a more amiable wife than Mrs. Pennethorne had proved herself to be. This heading included virtues too numerous to mention—but she was not well. Nor could any man desire a more accomplished wife than Mrs. Pennethorne, who was fit to be the helpmate of an Oxford Don—but she was not well. His assertions always had the same refrain—"She was not well!"
Because he could not understand, Farrington became deeply interested.