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

was possible that somebody knew

her address although she declared that she was leaving none; but, for

obvious reasons, he was very loath to take this course. Indeed, at

present he was scarcely in a position to prosecute such researches,

seeing that he was still laid up and likely to remain so for some

weeks. Very soon he came to the conclusion that he must remain passive

and await the development of events. Probably Joan would write to him,

but if nothing was heard of her for the next few weeks or months, then

it would be time to search for her.

 

Meanwhile Henry found plenty of other things to occupy him. For the

first time he went thoroughly into the affairs of the estate, and was

shocked to discover, firstly, the way at once extravagant and

neglectful in which it had been administered, and secondly, the total

amount of its indebtedness. It was in connection with this painful

subject that, about a week after Joan’s departure, Henry sought an

interview with Mr. Levinger. It chanced that another half-year’s

interest on the mortgage was due, also that some money had been paid

in to the credit of the estate on account of the year’s rents. About

the same time there arrived the usual formal letter from Mr. Levinger,

addressed to the executor of Sir Reginald Graves deceased, politely

demanding payment of the interest owing for the current half-year, and

calling attention to the sums overdue, amounting in all to several

thousand pounds.

 

Henry stared at the total and sighed. How was he to meet these

overwhelming liabilities? It seemed impossible that things should be

allowed to go on like this; and yet what was to be done? In the issue

he wrote a note to Mr. Levinger, asking him to call whenever it might

be convenient, as unfortunately he was not able to wait on him.

 

On the morrow Mr. Levinger arrived, about eleven o’clock in the

morning; indeed, he had expected some such summons, and was holding

himself in readiness to obey it. Nor did he come alone, for, Ellen

having learned the contents of Henry’s letter, had supplemented it by

a note to Emma, inviting her to lunch on the same day, giving, as an

excuse, that she wished particularly to consult her upon some matters

connected with dress. This invitation Emma was very unwilling to

accept, for reasons known to herself and the reader, but in the end

her father overruled her, and she consented to accompany him.

 

Henry was carried downstairs for the first time on the day of their

visit, and, seating himself in the invalid chair, was wheeled into the

library. A few minutes later Mr. Levinger arrived, and greeted him

with the refined and gentle courtesy which was one of his

characteristics, congratulating him on the progress that he had made

towards recovery.

 

“Thank you,” said Henry, “I am perfectly well except for this wretched

leg of mine, which, I fear, will keep me cooped up for some weeks to

come, though I hope to get out a little in the chair. I can’t say that

you look very well, however, Mr. Levinger. You seem thinner and

paler than when we last met.”

 

“My health has not been grand for years, Graves, and I am sorry to say

that it gets steadily worse. Heart trouble, you know; and that is not

a pleasant thing for a man to have, especially,” he added

significantly, “if his worldly affairs are in an unsettled condition.

I have been a good deal worried of late, and it has told upon me. The

truth is that my life is most precarious, and the sooner I can

reconcile myself to the fact the better.”

 

“I did not know that things were so serious,” Henry answered, and then

hastened to change the subject. “I received your notice, Mr. Levinger,

and thought that I had better talk the matter over with you. To be

plain, as executor to my father’s estate I find myself able to pay the

sum of five hundred pounds on account of the interest of these

mortgages, and no more.”

 

“Well, that is something,” said Mr. Levinger, with a little smile.

“For the last two years I have been accustomed to receive nothing.”

 

“I know, I know,” said Henry: “really, I am almost ashamed to look you

in the face. As you are aware, the position was not of my making, but

I inherit it, and am therefore, indirectly, to some extent responsible

for it. I really think, Levinger, that the best thing you can do will

be to sell us up, or to take over the property and manage it yourself.

In either case you must, I fear, suffer a loss, but as things are at

present that loss grows daily greater. You see, the worst of it is

that there are several farms coming on hand at Michaelmas, and I can

neither find money to work them nor tenants to take them. Should they

be suffered to go out of cultivation, your security will be still

further depreciated.”

 

“I should be most sorry to take such a course, Graves, for many

reasons, of which friendship to your family is not the least; and I

have no desire to find the management of a large estate thrust upon me

in my condition of health. Of course, should no other solution be

found, some steps must be taken sooner or later, for, after all, I

am only a trustee, and dare not allow my daughter’s property to be

dissipated; but I still hope that a solution may be found—though, I

admit, not so confidently as I did a few months back.”

 

“It is no good playing with facts,” answered Henry doggedly: “for my

part I have no such hope.”

 

Mr. Levinger rose and, laying his hand upon Henry’s shoulder spoke

earnestly.

 

“Graves,” he said, “think again before you say that. I beg of you not

to force me to measures that would be most distasteful to me, as I

shall be forced if you persist in this declaration—not from any

motives of pique or revenge, mind you, but because I am bound to

protect the financial interests of another person. Will you forgive me

if I speak more clearly, as one friend to another?”

 

“I’d rather you didn’t; but as you like,” answered Henry.

 

“I do like, my dear fellow; because I wish, if possible, to save you

from yourself, and also because my own interests are involved. Graves,

what is there against her? Why don’t you marry her, and have done with

all this miserable business? If you could find a sweeter or a better

girl, I might understand it. But you cannot. Moreover, though her

pride may be a little hurt just now, at heart she is devoted to you.”

 

“Every word that you say is true, Mr. Levinger, except perhaps your

last statement, which I am modest enough to doubt. But surely you

understand, supposing your daughter to be willing, that it is most

humiliating, even for a bankrupt, to take a wife upon such terms.”

 

“I understand your pride, Graves, and I like you for it. Remember, it

is not you who are bankrupt, but your father’s estate, of which you

are executor, and that there are occasions in life when pride should

give way. After all, pride is a strictly personal possession; when you

die your pride will die with you, but if you have allowed it to ruin

your family, that can never be repaired. Are you therefore justified

in indulging in this peculiar form of selfishness? And, my dear

fellow, are you giving me your true, or rather your only reason?”

 

“What makes you ask that question, Mr. Levinger?”

 

“I have heard some gossip, that is all, Graves, as to a scene that is

supposed to have occurred at your father’s death-bed, in which the

name of a certain young woman was mentioned.”

 

“Who told you of this? my sister?”

 

“Certainly not. If walls have ears to hear, do you suppose that nurses

and servants generally are without them? The point is, I have heard

it, and, as you make no contradiction, I presume that it contains a

proportion of truth.”

 

“If this is so, Mr. Levinger, one might think that it would induce you

to request me to abandon the idea of making any advances to your

daughter; but it seems to have had an opposite effect.”

 

“Did the story that has reached me prove you to be a confirmed evil

liver, or an unprincipled libertine, this might be the case; but it

proves nothing of the sort. We are liable to fall into folly, all of

us, but some of us can fall out again.”

 

“You are charitable,” said Henry; “but it seems to me, as there are

two people concerned in this sort of folly, that they owe a duty to

each other.”

 

“Perhaps, in some cases; but it is one which has not been recognised

by the other person in this instance, seeing that she has gone off and

left no address.”

 

“Perhaps she felt obliged to go, or perhaps she was sent, Mr.

Levinger.”

 

“If you mean that I sent her, Graves, you are very much mistaken. I

have had some queer fiduciary relations with this girl for years, and

the other day she came and told me that she was going to London to

earn her living. I raised objections, but she overruled them. She is

of age, and I have no control over her actions; indeed, on reflection,

I thought it best that she should go, for I will not conceal from you

that there is a certain amount of loose talk about yourself in

Bradmouth. When a young woman gets mixed up in this sort of thing, my

experience is, that she had better either marry or try a change of

air. In this case she declined to marry, although she had an excellent

opportunity of so doing, therefore I fell in with the change of air

proposal, and I learn that within a day or two she went away nobody

knows whither. I have no doubt, however, that sooner or later I shall

hear of her whereabouts, for she is entitled to an allowance of sixty

pounds a year, which she will certainly not forget to draw. Till

then—unless, indeed, you know her address already—you will scarcely

find her; and if you are not going to marry her, which I gather she

has never desired, I’ll do you the justice to suppose that you cannot

wish to follow her, and disturb her in her employment, whatever it may

be, since such a course would probably lead to her losing it.”

 

“You are right there: I never wish to see her again, unless it is in

order to ask her to become my wife.”

 

“Then do not see her, Graves. For her sake, for your own, for your

mother’s, and for mine, or rather for my daughter’s, I beg you not to

see her, or to allow these quixotic notions of yours to drag you down

to ruin. Let the thing alone, and all will be well; follow it up, and

you are a lost man. Do you think that you would find happiness in such

a marriage?—I am putting aside all questions of duty, position and

means—I tell you, ‘no.’ I am not speaking without my book,” he added

fiercely, “and I warn you that when you have grown accustomed to her

beauty, and she had ceased to wonder at your generosity, your life

would become a hell. What sympathy can there be between individuals so

different in standing, in taste, and in education? How could you bear

the jealousies,