Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

the rest, she is a considerable, if not a

large, heiress; there should be a matter of at least fifteen thousand

pounds to come to her besides the mortgages on this place and real

property as well. In her own way—to my mind at any rate—she is

beautiful, and there never lived a sweeter, purer, or more holy-minded

woman. If your son were married to her, within a year he would worship

the ground she trod on. Why shouldn’t it come about, then?”

 

“I don’t know, except that things which are very suitable and very

much arranged have a way of falling through. Your daughter Emma is all

you say, though perhaps a little too unearthly. She strikes me as

rather ghost-like—that is, compared with the girls of my young days,

though I understand this sort of thing has become the fashion. The

chief obstacle I fear, however, is Henry himself. He is a very

queer-grained man, and as likely as not the knowledge that this

marriage is necessary to our salvation will cause him to refuse to

have anything to do with it.”

 

“For his own sake I hope that it may not be so,” answered Levinger,

with some approach to passion, “for if it is I tell you fairly that I

shall let matters take their course. Emma will either come into

possession of this property as the future Lady Graves or as Miss

Levinger, and it is for your son to choose which he prefers.”

 

“Yes, yes, I understand all that. What I do not understand, Levinger,

is why you should be so desperately anxious for this particular

marriage. There are plenty of better matches for Emma than my son

Henry. We are such old friends, I do not mind telling you I have not

the slightest doubt but that you have some secret reason. It seems to

me—I know you won’t mind my saying it—that you carry the curious

doublesidedness of your nature into every detail of life. You cannot

be anything wholly—there is always a reservation about you: thus,

when you seemed to be thoroughly bad, there was a reservation of good

in you; and now, when you appear to be the most righteous man in the

county, I sometimes think that there is still a considerable leaven of

the other thing.”

 

Mr. Levinger smiled and shrugged his shoulders, but he did not take

offence at these remarks. That he refrained from doing so showed the

peculiar terms on which the two men were—terms born of intimate

knowledge and long association.

 

“Most people have more reasons for desiring a thing than they choose

to publish on the housetops, Graves; but I don’t see why you should

seek for secret motives here when there are so many that are obvious.

You happen to be the only friend I have in the world; it is therefore

natural that I should wish to see my daughter married to your son, and

for this same reason I desire that your family, which has been part

and parcel of the country-side for hundreds of years, should be saved

from ruin. Further, I have taken a greater liking to Henry than to any

man I have met for many a long day, and I know that Emma would love

him and be happy with him, whereas did she marry elsewhere, with her

unusual temperament, she might be very unhappy.

 

“Also, the match would be a good one for her, which weighs with me a

great deal. Your son may never be rich, but he has done well in his

profession, he is the inheritor of an ancient name, and he will be a

baronet. As you know, my career has been a failure, and more than a

failure. Very probably my child will never even know who I really am,

but that she is the granddaughter of a Bradmouth smack owner is patent

to everybody. I am anxious that all this should be forgotten and

covered up by an honourable marriage; I am anxious, after being

slighted and neglected, that she should start afresh in a position in

which she can hold her head as high as any lady in the county, and I

do not think that in my case this is an unnatural or an exorbitant

ambition. Finally, it is my desire, the most earnest desire of my

life, and I mean to live to see it accomplished. Now have I given you

reasons enough?”

 

“Plenty, and very good ones too. But I still think that you have

another and better in the background. Well, for my part I shall only

be too thankful if this can be brought about. It would be a fair

marriage also, for such disadvantages as there are seem to be very

equally divided; and I like your daughter, Levinger—she is a sweet

girl and interesting, even if she is old Will Johnson’s grandchild.

Now I must be off and say something civil to my future son-in-law

before he goes,”—and, rising with something of an effort, Sir

Reginald left the room.

 

“Graves is breaking up, but he is still shrewd,” said Mr. Levinger to

himself, gazing after him with his piercing eyes. “As usual he put his

finger on the weak spot. Now, if he knew my last and best reason for

wishing to see Emma married to his son, I wonder what he would do?

Shrug his shoulders and say nothing, I expect. Beggars cannot be

choosers, and bankrupts are not likely to be very particular. Poor old

friend! I am sorry for him. Well, he shall spend his last days in

peace if I can manage it—that is, unless Henry proves himself an

obstinate fool, as it is possible he may.”

 

Next morning Mr. Levinger and his daughter returned to Monk’s Lodge;

but before they went it was settled that Henry was to visit them some

three weeks later, on the tenth of June, that date being convenient to

all concerned.

 

On the following day Henry went to London for a week to arrange about

a little pension to which he was entitled, and other matters. This

visit did not improve his spirits, for in the course of his final

attendances at the Admiralty he discovered for the first time how well

he was thought of there, and that he had been looked on as a man

destined to rise in the Service.

 

“Pity that you made up your mind to go, Captain Graves—great pity!”

said one of the head officials to him. “I always thought that I should

see you an admiral one day, if I lived long enough. We had several

good marks against your name here, I can tell you. However, it is too

late to talk of all this now, and I dare say that you will be better

off as a baronet with a big estate than banging about the world in an

ironclad, with the chance of being shot or drowned. You are too good a

man to be lost, if you will allow me to say so, and now that you are

off the active list you must go into Parliament and try to help us

there.”

 

“By Heavens, sir,” answered Henry with warmth, “I’d rather be captain

of an ironclad in the Channel Fleet than a baronet with twenty

thousand a year, though now I have no chance of either. But we can’t

always please ourselves in this world. Good-bye.” And, turning

abruptly, he left the room.

 

“I wonder why that fellow went,” mused the official as the door

closed. “For a young man he was as good a sailor as there is in the

Service, and he really might have got on. Private affairs, I suppose.

Well, it can’t be helped, and there are plenty ready to step into his

shoes.”

 

Henry returned to Rosham very much depressed, nor did he find the

atmosphere of that establishment conducive to lightness of the heart.

Putting aside his personal regrets at leaving the Navy, there was much

to sadden him. First and foremost came financial trouble, which by now

had reached an acute stage, for it was difficult to find ready money

wherewith to carry on the ordinary expenses of the house. Then his

mother’s woeful face oppressed him as she went about mourning for the

dead, mourning also for their fallen fortunes, and his father’s

failing health gave great reason for anxiety.

 

Furthermore, though here he knew that he had no just cause of

complaint, the constant presence of Edward Milward irritated him to a

degree that he could not conceal. In vain did he try to like this

young man, or even to make it appear that he liked him; his efforts

were a failure, and he felt that Ellen, with whom otherwise he

remained on good, though not on cordial terms, resented this fact, as

he on his part resented the continual false pretences, or rather the

subterfuges and suppressions of the truth, in which she indulged in

order to keep from her fiancé a knowledge of the real state of the

Rosham affairs. These arts exasperated Henry’s pride to an extent

almost unbearable, and Ellen knew that it was so, but not on this

account would she desist from them. For she knew also the vulgar

nature of her lover, and feared, perhaps not without reason, lest he

should learn how great were their distresses, and how complete was the

ruin which overshadowed them, and break off an engagement that was to

connect him with a bankrupt and discredited family.

 

In the midst of these and other worries the time passed heavily

enough, till at length that day arrived on which Henry was engaged to

visit Monk’s Lodge. Already he had received a note from Emma Levinger,

writing on behalf of her father, to remind him of his promise. It was

a prettily expressed note, written in a delicate and beautiful hand;

and he answered it saying that he proposed to send his portmanteau by

train and to ride over to Monk’s Lodge, arriving there in time for

dinner.

 

Henry had not thought much of Emma during the last week or two; or, if

he had thought of her, it was in an impersonal way, as part of a

sordid problem with which he found himself called upon to cope. At no

time was he much given to allow his mind to run upon the fascinations

of any woman; and, charming and original as this lady might be, he was

not in a mood just now to contemplate her from the standpoint of

romance. None the less, however, was he glad of the opportunity which

this visit gave him to escape for a while from Rosham, even if he

could not leave his anxieties behind him.

 

He had no further conversation with Ellen upon the subject of Emma.

The terms upon which they stood implied a mutual truce from

interference in each other’s affairs. His father, however, did say a

word to him when he went to bid him good-bye. He found the old man in

bed, for now he did not rise till lunch-time.

 

“Good-bye, my boy,” he said. “So you are going to Monk’s Lodge? Well,

it will be a pleasant change for you. Old Levinger is a queer fish,

and in some ways not altogether to be trusted, as I have known for

many a year, but he has lots of good in him; and to my mind his

daughter is charming. Ah, Henry! I wish, without doing violence to

your own feelings, that you could manage to take a fancy to this girl.

There, I will say no more; you know what I mean.”

 

“I know, father,” answered Henry, “and I will do my best to fall in

with your views. But, all the same, however