Joan Haste, H. Rider Haggard [e book reader free .TXT] 📗

as Henry was wondering how he

could intervene without showing the temper that was rapidly getting

the mastery of him, with a polite “Excuse me” Mr. Levinger leant

across him.

 

“Perhaps you will allow me to explain, Mr. Milward,” he said, in a

particularly clear and cutting voice. “I am an invalid and a recluse.

What I am my daughter must be also. I have not the honour of the

acquaintance of Lady Marcham, or of any other of the ladies and

gentlemen to whom you refer. Do I make myself plain?”

 

“Oh, perfectly, I assure you.”

 

“I am glad, Mr. Milward, since, from what I overheard of your remarks

just now, I gathered that you are not very quick of comprehension.”

 

At this point Lady Graves rose with a certain haste and left the room,

followed by Miss Levinger and her daughter. Thereupon Sir Reginald

fell into talk with Mr. Levinger, leaving Henry and Mr. Milward

together.

 

“Can you tell me who our friend there is?” the latter asked of Henry.

“He seems a very touchy as well as a retired person. I should not have

thought that there was anything offensive in my suggesting that his

daughter knew Lady Marcham.”

 

“Perhaps you insisted upon the point a little too much,” said Henry

drily. “I am not very well posted about Mr. Levinger myself, although

my father has known him all his life; but I understand that he is a

rich man, who, from one reason or another, has been more or less of a

hermit for many years.”

 

“By George! I have it now,” said Milward. “He’s the man who was very

popular in our mothers’ days, then married a wealthy cook or some one

of that sort, and was barred by the whole neighbourhood. Of course I

have put my foot into it horribly. I am sorry, for really I did not

mean to hurt his daughter’s feelings.”

 

“I am sure I am glad to hear that you did so inadvertently,” answered

Henry rather gruffly. “Won’t you have a cigarette?”

 

The rest of the evening passed quietly enough; almost too quietly,

indeed, for Emma, dismayed by her former experiences, barricaded

herself in a corner behind an enormous photograph album; and Ellen,

irritated by a scene which jarred upon her and offended her sense of

the social proprieties, grew somewhat tart in speech, especially when

addressing her admirer, who quailed visibly beneath her displeasure.

Mr. Levinger noticed with some amusement, indeed, that, however

largely he might talk, Mr. Milward was not a little afraid of the

young lady to whom he was paying his court.

 

At length the party broke up. Mr. Milward retired to his own place,

Upcott Hall, which was situated in the neighbourhood, remarking as he

went that he hoped to see them all at church on the morrow in the

afternoon; whereon Henry resolved instantly that he would not attend

divine service upon that occasion. Then Sir Reginald and Lady Graves

withdrew to bed, followed by Ellen and Emma Levinger; but, somewhat to

his surprise, Henry having announced his intention of smoking a pipe

in the library, Mr. Levinger said that he also smoked, and with his

permission would accompany him.

 

At first the conversation turned upon Mr. Milward, of whom Henry spoke

in no complimentary terms.

 

“You should not judge him so harshly,” said Levinger: “I have seen

many such men in my day. He is not a bad fellow at bottom; but he is

rich and an only child, and has been spoilt by a pack of women—wants

taking down a peg or two, in short. He will find his level, never

fear. Most of us do in this world. Indeed, unless my observation is at

fault,” Mr. Levinger added significantly, “there is a lady in this

house who will know how to bring him down to it. But perhaps you will

think that is no affair of mine.”

 

Henry was somewhat mystified by this allusion, though he guessed that

it must have reference to Ellen. Of the state of affairs between Mr.

Milward and his sister he was ignorant; indeed, he disliked the young

gentleman so much himself that, except upon the clearest evidence, it

would not have occurred to him that Ellen was attracted in this

direction. Mr. Levinger’s remark, however, gave him an opening of

which he availed himself with the straightforwardness and promptitude

which were natural to him.

 

“It seems, Mr. Levinger,” he said, “from what I have heard since I

returned home, that all our affairs are very much your own, or /vice

versa/. I don’t know,” he added, hesitating a little, “if it is your

wish that I should speak to you of these matters now. Indeed, it seems

a kind of breach of hospitality to do so; although, if I understand

the position, it is we who are receiving your hospitality at this

moment, and not you ours.”

 

Mr. Levinger smiled faintly at this forcible way of putting the

situation.

 

“By all means speak, Captain Graves,” he said, “and let us get it

over. I am exceedingly glad that you have come home, for, between

ourselves, your late brother was not a business man, and I do not like

to distress Sir Reginald with these conversations—for I presume I am

right in supposing that you allude to the mortgages I hold over the

Rosham property.”

 

Henry nodded, and Mr. Levinger went on: “I will tell you how matters

stand in as few words as possible.” And he proceeded to set out the

financial details of the encumbrances on the estate, with which we are

already sufficiently acquainted for the purposes of this history.

 

“The state of affairs is even worse than I thought,” said Henry, when

he had finished. “It is clear that we are absolutely bankrupt; and the

only thing I wonder at, Mr. Levinger,” he added, with some irritation,

“is that you, a business man, should have allowed things to go so

far.”

 

“Surely that was my risk, Captain Graves,” he answered. “It is I who

am liable to lose money, not your family.”

 

“Forgive me, Mr. Levinger, there is another side to the question. It

seems to me that we are not only paupers, we are also defaulters, or

something like it; for if we were sold up to the last stick to-morrow

we should not be able to repay you these sums, to say nothing of other

debts that may be owing. To tell you the truth, I cannot quite forgive

you for putting my father in this position, even if he was weak enough

to allow you to do so.”

 

“There is something in what you say considered from the point of view

of a punctiliously honest man, though it is an argument that I have

never had advanced to me before,” replied Mr. Levinger drily.

“However, let me disabuse your mind: the last loan of ten thousand,

which, I take it, leaving interest out of the count, would about cover

my loss were the security to be realised to-day, was not made at the

instance of your father, who I believe did not even know of it at the

time. If you want the facts, it was made because of the earnest prayer

of your brother Reginald, who declared that this sum was necessary to

save the family from immediate bankruptcy. It is a painful thing to

have to say, but I have since discovered that it was your brother

himself who needed the money, very little of which found its way into

Sir Reginald’s pocket.”

 

At this point Henry rose and, turning his back, pretended to refill

his pipe. He dared not trust himself to speak, lest he might say words

that should not be uttered of the dead; nor did he wish to show the

shame which was written on his face. Mr. Levinger saw the movement and

understood it. Dropping the subject of Reginald’s delinquencies, he

went on:

 

“You blame me, Captain Graves, for having acted as no business man

should act, and for putting temptation in the path of the weak. Well,

in a sense I am still a business man, but I am not an usurer, and it

is possible that I may have had motives other than those of my own

profit. Let us put a hypothetical case: let us suppose that once upon

a time, many years ago, a young fellow of good birth, good looks and

fair fortune, but lacking the advantages of careful education and not

overburdened with principle, found himself a member of one of the

fastest and most expensive regiments of Guards. Let us suppose that he

lived—well, as such young men have done before and since—a life of

extravagance and debauchery that very soon dissipated the means which

he possessed. In due course this young man would not improbably have

betaken himself to every kind of gambling in order to supply his

pocket with money. Sometimes he would have won, but it is possible

that in the end he might have found himself posted as a defaulter

because he was unable to pay his racing debts, and owing as many

thousands at cards as he possessed five-pound notes in the world.

 

“Such a young man might not unjustly have hard things said of him; his

fellow-officers might call him a scamp and rake up queer stories as to

his behaviour in financial transactions, while among outsiders he

might be branded openly as no better than a thief. Of course the

regimental career of this imaginary person would come to a swift and

shameful end, and he would find himself bankrupt and dishonoured, a

pariah unfit for the society of gentlemen, with no other opening left

to him than that which a pistol bullet through the head can offer. It

is probable that such a man, being desperate and devoid of religion,

might determine to take this course. He might also be in the act of so

doing, when he, who thought himself friendless, found a friend, and

that friend one by whom of all others he had dealt ill.

 

“And now let us suppose for the last time that this friend threw into

the fire before his eyes that bankrupt’s I.O.U.‘s, that he persuaded

him to abandon his mad design of suicide, that he assisted him to

escape his other creditors, and, finally, when the culprit, living

under a false name, was almost forgotten by those who had known him,

that he did his best to help him to a fresh start in life. In such a

case, Captain Graves, would not this unhappy man owe a debt of

gratitude to that friend?”

 

Mr. Levinger had begun the putting of this “strange case” quietly

enough, speaking in his usual low and restrained voice; but as he went

on he grew curiously excited—so much so, indeed, that,

notwithstanding his lameness, he rose from his chair, and, resting on

his ebony stick, limped backwards and forwards across the room—while

the increasing clearness and emphasis of his voice revealed the

emotion under which he was labouring. As he asked the question with

which his story culminated, he halted in his march directly opposite

to the chair upon which Henry was sitting, and, leaning on his stick,

looked him in the face with his piercing brown eyes.

 

“Of course he would,” answered Henry quietly.

 

“Of course he would,” repeated Mr. Levinger. “Captain Graves, that

story was my story, and that friend was your father. I do not say that

it is all the story, for there are things which I cannot speak of, but

it is some of it—more, indeed, than is known to any living man except

Sir Reginald. Forgiving me my sins against him, believing that he saw

good in me,