CHAPTER I

A MINOR INCIDENT SHOWING AN HEREDITARY APTITUDE IN THE USE OF THE KNIFE

There was an ominously anxious watch of eyes visible and invisible over

the infancy of Willoughby, fifth in descent from Simon Patterne, of

Patterne Hall, premier of this family, a lawyer, a man of solid

acquirements and stout ambition, who well understood the

foundation-work of a House, and was endowed with the power of saying No

to those first agents of destruction, besieging relatives. He said it

with the resonant emphasis of death to younger sons. For if the oak is

to become a stately tree, we must provide against the crowding of

timber. Also the tree beset with parasites prospers not. A great House

in its beginning lives, we may truly say, by the knife. Soil is easily

got, and so are bricks, and a wife, and children come of wishing for

them, but the vigorous use of the knife is a natural gift and points to

growth. Pauper Patternes were numerous when the fifth head of the race

was the hope of his county. A Patterne was in the Marines.

The country and the chief of this family were simultaneously informed

of the existence of one Lieutenant Crossjay Patterne, of the corps of

the famous hard fighters, through an act of heroism of the unpretending

cool sort which kindles British blood, on the part of the modest young

officer, in the storming of some eastern riverain stronghold, somewhere

about the coast of China. The officer's youth was assumed on the

strength of his rank, perhaps likewise from the tale of his modesty:

"he had only done his duty". Our Willoughby was then at College,

emulous of the generous enthusiasm of his years, and strangely

impressed by the report, and the printing of his name in the

newspapers. He thought over it for several months, when, coming to his

title and heritage, he sent Lieutenant Crossjay Patterne a cheque for a

sum of money amounting to the gallant fellow's pay per annum, at the

same time showing his acquaintance with the first, or chemical,

principles of generosity, in the remark to friends at home, that "blood

is thicker than water". The man is a Marine, but he is a Patterne. How

any Patterne should have drifted into the Marines, is of the order of

questions which are senselessly asked of the great dispensary. In the

complimentary letter accompanying his cheque, the lieutenant was

invited to present himself at the ancestral Hall, when convenient to

him, and he was assured that he had given his relative and friend a

taste for a soldier's life. Young Sir Willoughby was fond of talking of

his "military namesake and distant cousin, young Patterne--the Marine".

It was funny; and not less laughable was the description of his

namesake's deed of valour: with the rescued British sailor inebriate,

and the hauling off to captivity of the three braves of the black

dragon on a yellow ground, and the tying of them together back to back

by their pigtails, and driving of them into our lines upon a newly

devised dying-top style of march that inclined to the oblique, like the

astonished six eyes of the celestial prisoners, for straight they could

not go. The humour of gentlemen at home is always highly excited by

such cool feats. We are a small island, but you see what we do. The

ladies at the Hall, Sir Willoughby's mother, and his aunts Eleanor and

Isabel, were more affected than he by the circumstance of their having

a Patterne in the Marines. But how then! We English have ducal blood

in business: we have, genealogists tell us, royal blood in common

trades. For all our pride we are a queer people; and you may be

ordering butcher's meat of a Tudor, sitting on the cane-bottom chairs

of a Plantagenet. By and by you may . . . but cherish your reverence.

Young Willoughby made a kind of shock-head or football hero of his

gallant distant cousin, and wondered occasionally that the fellow had

been content to dispatch a letter of effusive thanks without availing

himself of the invitation to partake of the hospitalities of Patterne.

He was one afternoon parading between showers on the stately garden

terrace of the Hall, in company with his affianced, the beautiful and

dashing Constantia Durham, followed by knots of ladies and gentlemen

vowed to fresh air before dinner, while it was to be had. Chancing with

his usual happy fortune (we call these things dealt to us out of the

great hidden dispensary, chance) to glance up the avenue of limes, as

he was in the act of turning on his heel at the end of the terrace, and

it should be added, discoursing with passion's privilege of the passion

of love to Miss Durham, Sir Willoughby, who was anything but obtuse,

experienced a presentiment upon espying a thick-set stumpy man crossing

the gravel space from the avenue to the front steps of the Hall,

decidedly not bearing the stamp of the gentleman "on his hat, his coat,

his feet, or anything that was his," Willoughby subsequently observed

to the ladies of his family in the Scriptural style of gentlemen who do

bear the stamp. His brief sketch of the creature was repulsive. The

visitor carried a bag, and his coat-collar was up, his hat was

melancholy; he had the appearance of a bankrupt tradesman absconding;

no gloves, no umbrella.

As to the incident we have to note, it was very slight. The card of

Lieutenant Patterne was handed to Sir Willoughby, who laid it on the

salver, saying to the footman, "Not at home."

He had been disappointed in the age, grossly deceived in the appearance

of the man claiming to be his relative in this unseasonable fashion;

and his acute instinct advised him swiftly of the absurdity of

introducing to his friends a heavy unpresentable senior as the

celebrated gallant Lieutenant of Marines, and the same as a member of

his family! He had talked of the man too much, too enthusiastically, to

be able to do so. A young subaltern, even if passably vulgar in figure,

can be shuffled through by the aid of the heroical story humourously

exaggerated in apology for his aspect. Nothing can be done with a

mature and stumpy Marine of that rank. Considerateness dismisses him on

the spot, without parley. It was performed by a gentleman supremely

advanced at a very early age in the art of cutting.

Young Sir Willoughby spoke a word of the rejected visitor to Miss

Durham, in response to her startled look: "I shall drop him a cheque,"

he said, for she seemed personally wounded, and had a face of crimson.

The young lady did not reply.

Dating from the humble departure of Lieutenant Crossjay Patterne up the

limes-avenue under a gathering rain-cloud, the ring of imps in

attendance on Sir Willoughby maintained their station with strict

observation of his movements at all hours; and were comparisons in

quest, the sympathetic eagerness of the eyes of caged monkeys for the

hand about to feed them, would supply one. They perceived in him a

fresh development and very subtle manifestation of the very old thing

from which he had sprung.