The Folly of Pen Harrington. A novel

Front matter

THE FOLLY OF PEN HARRINGTON THE FOLLY OF PEN HARRINGTON A NOVEL BY JULIAN STURGIS (Wttftmxnettv ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO. 2 WHITEHALL GARDENS, S.W. Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty Dear Miss Rhoda Broughton, — This volume aims at comedy, but how can it hope to have a brighter page than that which bears your name ? It makes its best appearance as a sign of its author's thanks for much fine entertainment, and for the good gift of your friendship, which he values even more. PEN HARRINGTON

Chapter I

Miss Kitty Trevor was hurrying across the ancient and honourable London square with an agitation which was wholly out of harmony with its solid brooding calm. She had gone on her yearly pilgrimage by "bus and tram to place a little offering of flowers on her mother's grave, and on her return to her modest lodging she had found a note from Penelope Harrington, who summoned her to one of these great mansions toned by time, which had gazed upon each other for generations across the green of the square garden. Kitty always obeyed Pen Harrington ; it was her first duty, the foundation of her simple code. So, though she was hot and tired and would have liked to rest in her modest lodging A after her little journey, she was hurrying in the noontide heat, only fearful lest she should keep waiting her triumphant lady.

And hot it was for any one who hurried, though a day of delight for the lazy. Indeed it seemed the first day of summer, which touched with a dainty charm this seat of old conventionalities ; and the garden, surveyed by these divers houses, which were har monised by time and smoke and fog, showed all its varied shades of green pampered and brought forward by the genial warmth of the surrounding kitchens. Flowers made gay the ancient fronts like the adornment of the bonnets of dowagers, and here and there an awning gave a touch of Venetian gaiety to the ponderous respectability. Generations of Harringtons had come up at certain seasons to the house in this old square, which however had never before sheltered so strange a head as that of the young Penelope. Having arrived at the alarming portal Kitty hesitated for a moment between the bells.

As a child she would have rung the left-hand bell, but now with nervous hand she seized the right, and summoned all her courage to face the butler. The door was hardly open before she said quickly, ' Miss Harrington asked me to call,' and in she stepped with as confident an air as she could command. She wished to convey to the butler and to the man who appeared in support of the butler, that she moved habitually in spaces so imposing. ' Will you say Miss Trevor — Miss Kitty Trevor,' she said with her best air. 'Miss Harrington is out, but she said you would wait, Miss.' The butler's manner was balanced well between the respectful and the paternal. His old-fashioned views were being modified more and more each day ; he was being educated to finer distinctions than that between the two bells.

He did not know to whom he might open the door next. A Socialist in a red tie banging on the front door with a knobbed stick would scarce have frighted him from his propriety. This young girl, in whom his classi fying eye detected an assumed boldness, which he described to himself as pert, presented no diffi culties to him ; he knew what to do with her ; he had learned from former errors. He led her with cheerful alacrity to the room which opened out of the hall on the left, a charming room with two large windows looking on to the square. This was the morning-room, so called, the peculiar shrine or den of the daughter of the house, where she received, or, more often, kept waiting her friends, her many friends of all sorts. The butler having guided Kitty Trevor to this haven retired and shut the door ; but the young woman, who had stopped short in the middle of the carpet, turned at the sound, and darting back opened the door and called sharply, ' Here ! hi ! you ! ' A delicate shade of Cockney might have been detected as she thus raised her fresh young voice ; and the butler returned with a faint smile of understanding and forgiveness. ' I ainl going to wait here,1 said Kitty ; ' I prefer to wait in the hall,1 she added, snatching at her lost dignity. 'Miss Harrington would expect you to be shown in here,1 said the butler. ' Oh, well, then, I suppose ,' began Kitty, and ended her sentence with a shrug more ex pressive than words.

When she was again left alone, Kitty looked round her with discontent. The solitude alarmed her, and the doors, through which strange and alarming people might enter at any moment. Whichever way she turned, there seemed to be a door behind her. She was more than usually nervous. She knew also that her boots were dusty ; she felt less neat than usual ; she would have liked to go home and make herself tidy. But Pen Harrington had summoned her, and she always obeyed Pen Harrington ; so being a practical little London girl, she stayed where she was and tried to bring her nerves to order. She was on the way to success and was even beginning to look at the trifles on the tables, when she jumped at the sound of a thundering knock. To Kittys startled ear it seemed as if bolts and bars and even doors were thrown down, as if light troops marched and countermarched in the hall ; she was reminded of the behind-the-scenes of melodrama.

There was indeed an important bustle, and after it the door of the room was opened wide and a great lady rustled in. The manner of the butler was so different that Kitty knew in a moment that this must be indeed a great lady. He made a little sign to Kitty that she should follow him into the hall, a little sign (she almost felt as if he had winked at her) which made her decide in a moment to stand her ground. She was not to be moved about by a wink, however official ; she looked at the butler as if she did not see him, and he could spare no more attention for her. He waited respectfully with his eyes fixed on the new-comer, inquiring dumbly if she had any commands. She, on her side, was regarding him with her large dark eyes, grave, contemplative. When she spoke, she spoke with a deep voice, which seemed to need time to come into play. ' When did Miss Harrington go out ? ' she asked, and gazed. ' Immediately after breakfast, your grace.1 Then Kitty, who read a good deal of fiction in her lighter hours, knew that she was in a room with a duchess.

It made her heart beat. At that moment she would have preferred a tiger. ' Did she leave no message for me ? ' ' No, your grace.1 ' But she expected me to luncheon ? 1 ' I canl say, your grace.1 ' But there will be luncheon ? ' Her voice took a deeper tone ; there was anxiety in it, almost a note of tragedy. ' Oh yes, your grace. Miss Harrington said there would be people to luncheon.1 ' People ! 1 echoed the duchess, feeling that, if she had time to think it out, she would find matter of disapproval. The butler waited for a moment, as if in hope of further questions, and then, with one quick glance of reproach for Kitty, he departed. Now Kitty trembled. She was tired and hungry, and her boots were dusty. She wished that she had fled. The duchess, having contem plated the retirement of the butler with the same calm gravity, turned slowly from the door and became aware of the young girl, who had made herself as small as possible behind a little table, which concealed her boots.

The duchess stared speechless ; then she opened her lips for one contralto note. ' Oh ! ' said she. Kitty felt that she must speak or scream. ' I beg your pardon,' she said ; ' I beg your grace's pardon.' 'What for?' 'I mean I have an appointment with Miss Harrington.' After an uneasy interval she added jerkily — 'your grace.' The duchess was regarding her with the same solemn gaze with which she had contemplated the butler. ' Who are you ? ' she asked at last : 'I am sure you are somebody clever.1 She breathed deep as after an effort of appreciation. ' Oh no,1 cried Kitty — ' oh no, your grace. I'm only a dancer ' ; she added the information on a sudden impulse of defiance. 'That's very interesting,' said the duchess: ' I knew you were clever. I adore talent. It is all that really matters, you know.1 ' Oh no, I don't,1 cried Kitty breathlessly. 'And besides, I'm nothing to boast of; it's my first engagement.1 ' And where are you engaged ? ' ' At the Imperial Theatre — your grace.1 ' You must be clever,1 said the duchess, ' or you wouldn't be a friend of Pen.

Pen can't bear anything second-rate.' ' But I belong to her club.' ' Her club ? ' 'Working girls — you know — Pimlico — your grace.' ' And I belong to her clique,' said the duchess. ' You have heard of Pen's clique ! ' Kitty's face lit up with animation. ' Oh, yes ; Pen — Miss Harrington has told us about that. You are all splendid and clever and beautiful and rich and ' She paused at a loss for further words of admiration and the duchess solemnly took up the tale. 'We are all interesting ,' she said with slow emphasis ; ' we adore talent ; we shall adore you.' ' Me ! Oh my ! ' cried the quick-witted little cockney, and she forgot to add ' your grace.' She was beginning to be free of her tremors, and timidly to wonder if the duchess were not rather a joke, albeit a duchess, when a light laugh heard in the hall brought back all her fears. ' Here 's another,1 she said to herself ; ' I must run for it.1 The little rippling gay laugh was heard again.

It always announced to her acquaintance the coming of Lady Linda Fussell as PEN HARRINGTON 10 surely as the surest of footmen, or as the little bell, which it resembled in its gaiety, proclaims the coming of the muffin-man. Many men had proclaimed its tinkling charm ; some women friends had observed in confidence to each other that it got on their nerves. The duchess was not of these ; she had no nerves, only a magnifi cent digestion. Kitty got close to the door, and, when the owner of the laugh had tripped gaily into the room, she slipped out before it could be shut. Even then she had no thought of disobedience to Pen. She would still await her coming, but she would wait in the darkest corner of the hall.

Chapter II

Lady Linda came in like a little summer breeze, and lightly kissed the cheek of the Duchess of Buckland, who received this peck of affection sitting monumental on the sofa. 'And where is Pen ? ' asked Lady Linda, glancing here and there with quick bird-like eyes. ' I donl know,1 said the duchess gloomily. ' But you are bound to know,1 said the other ; ' you take her out.1 ' She takes me out,1 said the duchess thought fully. 'That's good,1 cried Lady Linda; 'you are a wit ; you catch it from Pen. Isn't Pen wonderful ? ' she continued, as she sometimes asked a dozen times in as many hours. ' It seems only the other day that she was a girl like any other, going to Court with red elbows, and grateful to you for taking her anywhere.1 'I did what I could,1 said the duchess with large self-complacency. 'The Harringtons are country neighbours; and Mr. Harrington is as much interested in mangold as Chalmers.1 This excited Lady Linda's easy merriment. 'Is the duke interested in mangold?' she asked. ' Very deeply.

I see nothing to laugh at. An absorbing interest is invaluable in a husband.' 'That depends, doesn't it?' asked the other. ' But mangold sounds safe,' she added ; ' is it the same as mangel-wurzel ? Give it its two names ; everybody likes two names now — with a hyphen. And so the duke and Mr. Harrington are watch ing the mangel-wurzel in the country, while Pen is in town with you.' ' Pen is in London with her mother.1 ' I never can remember that Pen has a mother.1 'Everybody has a mother,1 said the duchess with grave decision. 'But Pen,1 cried Lady Linda lightly, 'is an exception to all rules. I think she sprang all armed like thingamy from the head of whatdye callhim. Anyway, one never sees the mother. Oh yes, I know you say she^ an invalid, but still ' ' She is an invalid,1 said the duchess firmly, ' and that is why I take Pen out.1 ' That Pen takes you out !

That 's your flash of wit ; you mustn't forget that.' ' She is exceedingly fatiguing ; she keeps me in a whirl.1 ' Ah, but it 's so good for you,1 cried Lady Linda. ' Pen is your pick-me-up, your sal-vola tile — and what fun she gives you too ! Think of all the odd amusing people she makes you know I1 ' You mean the "cello man,1 said the duchess, pondering. ' I mean them all,1 said Lady Linda, with a free delightful gesture of including hands. ' I adore talent,1 said the musing duchess ; ' it 's all that really matters, you know. I donl care a pin who people are.1 The little lady laughed at this as if it were the finest joke in the world, and laughing stepped to one of the windows. She thought she heard an arrival, the shrill note of a bicycle bell, the sound of lively voices. ' I do hope and trust that it is Pen,1 said the duchess ; ' I want my luncheon.1 ' No, it 's only Bobby — and of course Mrs. Bobby.1 The duchess considered, and then said, ' It is too tiresome ; they are always together.' ' It 's their pose ; its rarity gives it a sort of cachet? said Lady Linda returning from the window. ' They are always trying to be asked to Plum ley,' observed the duchess, following her slow train of thought. 'Oh, ask them, ask them,' cried Lady Linda, laughing again; 'they are most useful in a country house ; they do little things after dinner, imitate pigs and chickens and all that.' 'But who are they?' asked the duchess with slow emphasis, and her fine dark eyebrows arched in questioning. ' Who are they ?

That is what I want to know.' 'I thought you didn't care who people are,' said the little lady, looking down upon her with amusement in her eyes. ' Care ! ' said the duchess ; ' how could I care who that sort of people are ? ' Lady Linda laughed with delight, and laughed the more because the Duchess of Buckland re garded her with unbroken gravity and unfeigned surprise. ' Anyway Pen has taken them up, and if they were Ojibbeway Indians ' She finished her sentence with her dainty hands ; and the duchess responded with a sigh, which may have denoted either hunger or acquiescence. The young couple, who were ushered presently into the room, seemed to have nothing in com mon with red Indians of any tribe but bare humanity. They were slim and elegant and agreeable to the eye ; and nothing could be more correct than their dress and bearing.

They had paused a while to stable their brilliant bicycles in the hall. They went everywhere on wheels; it was at once fashionable and eco nomical. They had paused also to make them selves agreeable to the family butler. Nobody was more considerate to the upper servants of friends than Mr. and Mrs. Bobby; it was at once economical and benevolent. When they did come in, they came in as if in a friendly race, beaming, affectionate, vivid, and their goal was the duchess. Bobby had the longer legs, and was the first to press the hand, emitting, as he pressed, a soft purring sound through his closed lips ; it was like a respectful caress. This peculiar sound, so eloquent of affection, played a large part in Bobby's intercourse with his friends. He now bestowed the end of it on his wife, as he made way for her at the duchess's side, and slipped across the floor to the smiling Lady Linda. ' How delightful ! ' said Mrs. Bobby, seating herself by the duchess.

No responsive joy beamed in the solemn eyes of the great lady. ' I hoped you were luncheon,1 she said. 'I only wish we were,1 said Mrs. Bobby with all her zealous wish to oblige. Meanwhile her lord and master, after purring in his own tender way at Lady Linda, was whispering eagerly, intent on the future. ' Are you going to Plumley for Whitsuntide?1 he asked with anxiety. ' I live in hopes — and you ? ' ' We are dying to be asked,1 murmured Bobby at her ear. ' You are sure you are not engaged ?' ' Oh yes, we are engaged ; but we could easily get out of it.1 Lady Linda laughed. 'Jane,1 she said, turning amiably to the duchess, 'you have no idea how clever and amusing the Bobbys are.1 Bobby beamed and purred upon the duchess ; he addressed her with impetuous frankness. ' We are a success," he said, ' arenl we, Letty ? 1 ' A succesjou,' she said ; ' at least Bobby is.1 ' O Letty ! ' he cried, and shook a finger at her, ' it 's you, it 's really all you — almost all you ! ' He purred at her and she faintly echoed the sweet sound.

After this pause eloquent of mutual affection, ' Duchess,1 said Bobby with eager candour, ' I do wish you could see Letty do little things after dinner. We just get up, Letty and I, just as we are, and we do a little thing, a little nothing, light, Jin, just a touch — like that.1 And he gave a little peck at the air with a delicate finger and thumb. B 'What do you mean?1 asked the duchess; ' do you act plays ? 1 ' Plays, playlets, scenets, trifles, morceaux. We make them ourselves ; that is, we take them a little from the French, but they are really all ours — all Letty's, really.1 He cooed and she responded, and 'O Bobby,1 she said, 'it's really all you.' ' She has a touch,' said Bobby to the duchess ; ' you wouldn't believe it ; a touch, a delicacy, a finesse; you know. So different from professional actresses ; and she sings — little chansons.' He kissed his fingers, graceful, ecstatic. ' O Bobby,' said his wife, ' you know I haven't any voice.' ' No, no, dear, of course not.

How should she have a voice?' he asked of the others. There was a suggestion of grossness about a voice. ' Letty murmurs,' he added ; ' she warbles like a little mouse, or a little bird, a tomtit.' He pecked at the air with his slender finger and thumb. 'And Bobby dances. You should see Bobby dance.' And Mrs. Bobby clasped her hands at the recollection. ' Does he do skirt dances ? ' asked the duchess with faint interest. Bobby and Letty broke into delighted laughter, but stopped abruptly on observing the unbroken gravity of the duchess. She had spoken without humorous intention. ' And we are so obliging,' said Bobby ; ' that 's what we really are. We never make a fuss. Any day, at any time, you just say, "Letty!"' —'or "Bobby,"' threw in Mrs. Bobby.— 'And then I look at Letty.' 'And I look at Bobby.' ' And somebody just says " Sh, sh !

" ' And off we go ; oh, we are obliging. ' And we do them for charities, too. Oh, we are charitable. I do wish, duchess, that you could see us in some of our little things.1 ' Would you mind ' began the duchess slowly, and paused in thought. ' Anything for you ! We should like to do anything for you' ' Would you mind,1 continued the duchess, ' finding the butler, and asking him when luncheon will be ready ? 1 Bobby had hoped for better things ; he looked on his little wife with comical expressive eyes ; but she nodded sharply ; she was the more practical. ' Yes, of course, duchess ; certainly,1 said Bobby. He purred once more and hastened to the door. Lady Linda laughed her gayest laugh. The duchess was descending to the depths of a tragic gloom. ' Were you asked to luncheon ? 1 she inquired grimly of little Mrs. Bobby, who was still seated at her side. ' Oh yes ; at least I think so ; oh yes.1 ' Think so ? ' ' Pen is so kind ; she so often says — 'Is anybody else coming?1 asked the duchess of Lady Linda. ' Otho,1 said Lady Linda. ' Mr. Pharamont ! ' cried Letty, with clasped gloves ; ' delightful ! ' ' He 's not delightful any more ; he no longer looks at any woman but Pen.' ' Is he really in love at last ? ' ' Do you think that you and your Bobby have a monopoly of the tender passion ? ' asked Lady Linda, by way of answer. ' But Otho — Mr. Pharamont — is so clever and so cynical.

He knows all about women.' Lady Linda laughed her little silvery peal. ' He knows all the French proverbs about women,' she said. ' Isn't it the same thing ? ' asked Mrs. Bobby, with a sweet simplicity. ' Pen at least puzzles him ; Pen is unique, a wonder, a mystery, a — what is it? Jane, what is the great cat thing with a riddle, in Egypt ? ' The duchess pondered. ' The Khedive, isn't it called?' she said. ' No, you delightful Jane — the Sphinx ! Pen is a Sphinx. Otho is puzzled, enchanted, en amoured — and fairly hooked.' ' And she ? ' asked Letty, with round inquiring eyes ; ' will she take him ? ' ' She will and she won't.1 ' Isn't he the richest commoner in England ? ' There was awe in her voice. ' So they say,1 said Lady Linda lightly ; ' and he^ a great deal besides.' ' Ah ! But he must be quite old,1 said Letty, ' when one comes to think of it.1 ' Otho will never be old.

He sold himself in the early seventies.1 ' Oh ! How enchanting ! ' ' He is up to everything ; he is in everything ; he is absolutely perfect form.1 ' What can even Pen want more ? ' Lady Linda began to laugh again. ' Love ! 1 she said, with a dramatic air, when she had done with her laughter. ' Is she waiting for that ? ' asked Mrs. Bobby, with her air of intense interest. ' I know what 1 1m waiting for,1 said the duchess : ' luncheon.1 ' That'll come sooner,' said Lady Linda, laughing. The duchess seemed to think the merri ment ill-timed. More might have been said about Mr. Pharamont, who was an almost inexhaustible topic, had he not been an nounced at that moment. ' And you hear his wings,' said Lady Linda, as if completing a quotation. Otho Pharamont bowed with the faint smile, which seemed always to take the lines of con tempt, though his manner, and especially to women, was more polite than that of most Englishmen. ' Where 's Pen ? ' asked the duchess gloomily, as he shook her passive hand.

He slightly shrugged his shoulders. ' I wish I knew,1 he said. 'As she asked us all here, we may pre sume that she is somewhere at the other end of London, teaching East-end brats to carve, per haps, or riding the bicycle on Barnes Common with the new tenor from Arkansaw.1 He spoke with a certain neatness, which contrasted with the slip-shod utterances of the world in which he moved. The same neatness, with no trace of foppery, was evident in his dress and carriage. He had been learning to live for more than forty years; but as he had kept his figure and been careful of his health, he was taken as much younger by all who did not reckon up the years. He belonged, too, to the neutral -tinted class of men, who, if they have never shown the bloom of youth, look no older for the loss. His sallow, but not unwholesome, skin showed merely to the long-sighted a few fine wrinkles about the eyes.

His hair, which was of another shade of yellow, showed scarcely a trace of grey, and was only a little thinner on the crown of the head. His eyes too were somewhat pale. He had always been held to have an air of marked distinction, and to have been admired by all women of a fine taste, and envied by many men more famous for good looks. He was of an old, if somewhat peculiar, family, and he had inherited a large fortune, which he had more than doubled by occasional changes of investment. Besides occasional occupation with bonds and shares he liked to embark on original enterprises. He had built a theatre, which paid him a high rent ; he was largely interested in a superfine hotel ; he was at this time engaged in shaping a new monthly review. All these things he touched, as it were, with the tips of his slender fingers, but always with an accession of fortune.

He made money without heat or eagerness ; he never went into the City ; he took no trouble to gain money as he took no trouble with his social duties. And yet his opinion as to the right thing to do was at any moment the best in London. He spoke of Pen as coolly as if she were a rise in stocks. And now at length the butler noiselessly opened the doors which connected the morning room with the dining-room ; and Bobby entering through them, glided to the duchess with a con gratulatory smile upon his lips. He had not dared to return till luncheon was ready. Mrs. Harring ton always lunched in her room ; this was a normal part of her invalid life. To wait for Pen might be to wait till the luncheon hour of the next day. If she allowed herself a wide freedom in such matters, she had the grace never to wish to be waited for.

So the duchess took command without any question. She arose with a deep breath, and moved like Norma into the temple of delicate savours. The others followed her, and the noiseless doors were closed.

Chapter III

The young Penelope had been a favourite of fortune from the hour of her birth. Doubtless a star danced in heaven, and under that, like Beatrice, was she born. She opened her eyes in a delightful home, an old grey house on a fair hillside, with green pastures sloping down to a clear English trout-stream. For many genera tions the Harringtons had owned this ancient place and seen the grey stone of the house slowly yellowed by tiny growth of lichen. They had been respected and prosperous, living within their means, and had gathered, as gradually as their house had mellowed, enough money to enable them to view the fall of rents without excessive fear. They had been a comfortable people, always producing in each generation the expected eldest son, and a younger brother or two for the army or navy.

If there were more than two, the Church PEN HARRINGTON 27 profited. But Pen^ parents, admirable in most ways, had broken this well-established custom. Their girl was an only child. Not long after her birth, Mrs. Harrington had declined, not without placid enjoyment, into the life of an invalid ; and Mr. Harrington, content with the fact that his good brother the captain had three stalwart sons, had given his care and time to the improve ment of the property, which he never doubted would be administered by trusty Harringtons for a long time to come. To him, good easy man, low prices, unlet farms, and such things, were matter for shaking of the head and conversation after dinner ; but below all that was a solid bed of optimism. His lips might say that the country was going to the dogs, but his heart was nourished by a belief, renewed with every rising sun, that things came right in the end.

This gift of the fairies, this happy faith was inherited in a full portion by his girl child, the little Penelope. The little Penelope was a charming child. Happiness seemed her very life and to leap to her bright eyes when she turned them on her fellow-creatures. She had absolute confidence that she would meet kindness from all creatures. Very early in her childhood she came into a little kingdom of her own, where she learned to play the leader as naturally as to breathe the vivid air. Her good father hugged her when they met and for the rest let her run free. Her mother was a passive being, for whom her love was full of protecting care, before she had reached her thirteenth birthday. She patted the soft pillows of her mother's sofa as a mother pats the pillows of a delicate child. She was very good to her governess, and her curiosity made her for the most part an eager pupil.