Crumbling Pageant by Elisabeth Inglis-Jones

Author:Elisabeth Inglis-Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 78-1-909983-36-6
Publisher: Honno Press
Published: 2015-09-14T00:00:00+00:00

PART III

CHAPTER I

i

WHEN in the spring of 1872, old Dr. Jones’s will was proved at £20,000, it created a considerable amount of surprised interest.

In the lounge of the hotel in Aberystwyth where he was staying, Mr. Cornelius Davies, the squire of Pennant, read it out one evening from the Cambrian News to his wife, who sat opposite him in the bay-window sleepily contemplating the wide wing of houses stretching away towards the rocky masses of Constitution Hill and the dust-grey curve of the Promenade with its islands of evergreen shrubs and knots of people passing and re-passing.

“Phew! it’s a big sum for a fellow like that to leave – at five per cent, a cool thousand a year. The daughter will be worth some young chap’s while. Pretty girl, too, deuced pretty girl.”

A fat, tawny-whiskered old man, the only other occupant of the lounge, who snored in a chair a little way off, suddenly ceased snoring and slowly raising his puffy eyelids turned suffused blue eyes in the direction of Corney.

“And where have you seen her, pray?” asked Mrs. Corney tartly.

“Oh, nowhere in particular – I mean she was at the Tynrhos garden party last summer. You must remember.”

“I do not, but I know all about her from Mrs. Hanmer, who does not think at all well of her. Since the doctor died she has been living all alone with only an old servant, although Mrs. Hanmer was kind enough to tell her how unsuitable it is.”

“I bet you what you like she won’t be living alone much longer – not with a fortune of twenty thousand pounds!” He folded his paper, stretched himself and got up. “While you go upstairs to the children, my dear, I think I shall take my evening stroll.”

They went through the door together. A few minutes later the whiskered gentleman got up also and waddled into the bar. Against the counter, behind a high brandy and soda, lolled Mr. Corney Davies. At the jocose “Your evening stroll, eh! I like that, ha – ha, that’s prime!” he started nervously, but reassured by a wink, he settled down again, furtively peering at the stranger from under his lids. Although he looked an awful old rip, there was something genial in his appearance as he brought out a greasy cigar case and handed it with a lordly air.

“Help yourself, sir!”

“Er – thanks awfully. Er – what’s your drink?”

“Oh – Ah…same as yours.”

The order given they talked in the throaty, confidential manner of men over spirits. They discussed the weather, the town’s amenities.

“Damned deadly hole,” grumbled the stranger, and began to speak with surprising familiarity of towns ranging from San Francisco to “Gay Paree.” Corney, whose life had been dedicated to his own small house down in a hole and the breeding of middle-whites, listened respectfully. Something about the fellow’s waggish face and confidential manner gave him a knowing, cosmopolitan kind of feeling – he couldn’t quite define what it was, except that it was deuced pleasant.

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