His fortune would be in a very different case, he
refected. In a sort of horror, he sought to put so detestable a
reflection from his mind; but it returned insistently. It would not be
denied. It forced him to a consideration of his own circumstances.
All that he had he owed to his brother's bounty. That dissolute
father of theirs had died as such men commonly die, leaving behind him
heavily encumbered estates and many debts; the very house of Penarrow
was mortgaged, and the moneys raised on it had been drunk, or gambled,
or spent on one or another of Ralph Tressilian's many lights o' love.
Then Oliver had sold some little property near Helston, inherited from
his mother; he had sunk the money into a venture upon the Spanish Main.
He had fitted out and manned a ship, and had sailed with Hawkins upon
one of those ventures, which Sir John Killigrew was perfectly entitled
to account pirate raids. He had returned with enough plunder in specie
and gems to disencumber the Tressilian patrimony. He had sailed again
and returned still wealthier. And meanwhile, Lionel had remained at
home taking his ease. He loved his ease. His nature was inherently
indolent, and he had the wasteful extravagant tastes that usually go
with indolence. He was not born to toil and struggle, and none had
sought to correct the shortcomings of his character in that respect.
Sometimes he wondered what the future might hold for him should Oliver
come to marry.
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