II
Young Ensign Pennington was reclining on the lounge in the smoking-room of Burroughs’s Hotel, Funchal, in anything but a happy frame of mind. His travelling-case was at his feet, and his trunks were on board the steamer which was to leave for England that night. The other occupant of the room, his friend and classmate Morgan, had assumed an absurdly awkward position on the table, which he always chose in preference to a chair, and was doing most of the talking.
Perhaps nothing could better show the difference between the temperaments of Pennington and Morgan than their present attitudes. Under an apparent languor, and a seeming indifference to his own affairs and those of others, Pennington concealed qualities which made him, young as he was, one of the most efficient officers in the service. Morgan, on the other hand, had a continual craving for excitement, which betrayed itself in every action. Now he was shifting restlessly from one elbow to the other, while Pennington had not changed his position since lighting his cigar. Their characters dovetailed into each other with such nicety that few closer friendships have been formed than that which existed between them. Morgan’s impetuosity was offset by Pennington’s inertia, his frankness by Pennington’s reserve, while they possessed in common certain qualities, invariably found in a true seaman, which served to cement the bond. But it was Pennington who wielded the influence, and his was the only influence which had ever been known to affect Morgan. Their names had become associated at the naval academy, where Morgan had been stroke of the crew, of which Pennington had been captain, and since then they had been separated but little. It had been their singular good fortune—for the discrepancy between their standings had been great—to take the two years’ cruise together as midshipmen, and as ensigns they had both been ordered to the Denver. Now, it would seem, the time had come for a long separation, and each felt as only young fellows who have spent the best part of their lives under such circumstances can feel, and found it hard to realise that it might be many years before they would meet. But gradually Morgan approached a subject which was uppermost in his mind as well as in Pennington’s. It had always been said of Morgan that his friends’ troubles worried him more than his own, and perhaps the chances this particular trouble offered for something hazardous especially appealed to him. At last he broke in, with characteristic abruptness:—
“Of course it is none of my business, Jack, but when I see you go off in this way without seeing Miss Inglefield, without even so much as writing her a line, in spite of the fact that five months ago you wanted to marry her, I can’t help saying something, for it isn’t much like you. I tell you what, Jack, you may travel some, but it will be a devilish long time before you come across another girl like her.”
Morgan paused, uncertain what the effect of this speech would be; for, beyond the fact that he had asked Mr. Inglefield for his daughter, and had been refused, Pennington had told him nothing of the affair. Now he only smiled a little wearily.
“It is no use, Dutchman,” he said, in the tone of affectionate forbearance that he often used with his friend; “that is all past now.”
“Thanks to your confounded, misplaced principle!” Morgan went on a trifle warmly. “Renouncing her for a little thing like her father’s refusal! You might have known what he would have said before you asked him; I could have told you that. If I cared as much for the girl as you do, Jack, and she cared as much for me as I know she does for you, I would take her home with me in spite of all the English in Madeira.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Dutchman,” said Pennington, lighting another cigar; but Morgan noticed that his hand shook a little as he held it, and this encouraged him.