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

your father picked me out of the mire and started me

afresh in life. When I came to these parts an unknown wanderer, he

found me work; he even gave me the agency of this property, which I

held till I had no longer any need of it. I have told you all this

partly because you are your father’s son, and partly because I have

watched you and followed your career from boyhood, and know you to be

a man of the strictest honour, who will never use my words against me.

 

“I repeat that I have not told you everything, for even since those

days I have been no saint—a man who has let his passions run riot for

years does not grow good in an hour, Captain Graves. But I trust that

you will not think worse of me than I deserve, for it still pains me

to lose the good opinion of an upright man. One thing at least I have

done—though I borrowed from my daughter to do it, and pinched myself

till I am thought to be miserly—at length I have paid back all those

thousands that I owed, either to my creditors or to their descendants;

yes, not a month ago I settled the last and heaviest claim. And now,

Captain Graves, you will understand why I have advanced moneys beyond

their value upon mortgage of the Rosham estates. Your father, who has

long forgotten or rather ignored the past, believes it to have been

done in the ordinary way of business; I have told you the true

reason.”

 

“Thank you,” said Henry. “Of course I shall respect your confidence.

It is not for me to judge other men, so I hope that you will excuse my

making any remarks about it. You have behaved with extreme generosity

to my father, but even now I cannot say that I think your conduct was

well advised: indeed, I do not see how it makes the matter any better

for us. This money belongs to you, or to your daughter,”—here Henry

thought that Mr. Levinger winced a little—“and in one way or another

it must be paid or secured. I quite understand that you do not wish to

force us into bankruptcy, but it seems that there is a large amount of

interest overdue, putting aside the question of the capital, and not a

penny to meet it with. What is to be done?”

 

Mr. Levinger sat down and thought awhile before he answered.

 

“You have put your finger on the weak spot,” he said presently: “this

money is Emma’s, every farthing of it, for whatever I have saved out

of my life interest has gone towards the payment of my own debts, and

after all I have no right to be generous with my daughter’s fortune.

Not long ago I had occasion to appoint a guardian and trustee for her

under my will, a respectable solicitor whose name does not matter, and

it was owing to the remonstrances that he made when he accepted the

office that I was obliged to move in this matter of the mortgages, or

at least of the payment of the interest on them. Had it been my own

money I would never have consented to trouble your father, since

fortunately we have enough to live upon in our quiet way without this

interest; but it is not.”

 

“Quite so,” said Henry. “And therefore again I ask, what is to be

done?”

 

“Done?” answered Mr. Levinger: “at present, nothing. Let things go

awhile, Captain Graves; half a year’s interest more or less can make

no great difference. If necessary, my daughter must lose it, and after

all neither she nor any future husband of hers will be able to blame

me for the loss. When those mortgages were made there was plenty of

cover: who could foresee that land would fall so much in value? Let

matters take their course; this is a strange world, and all sorts of

unexpected things happen in it. For aught we know to the contrary,

within six months Emma may be dead, or,” he added, “in some position

in which it would not be necessary that payment should be made to her

on account of these mortgages.”

 

For a moment he hesitated, as though wondering whether it would be

wise to say something that was on the tip of his tongue; then,

deciding that it would not, Mr. Levinger rose, lit a candle, and,

having shaken Henry warmly by the hand, he limped off to bed.

 

When he had gone Henry filled himself another pipe and sat down to

think. Mr. Levinger puzzled him; there was something attractive about

him, something magnetic even, and yet he could not entirely trust him.

Even in his confidences there had been reservations: the man appeared

to be unable to make up his mind to tell all the truth. So it was also

with his generosity towards Sir Reginald: he had been generous indeed,

but it seemed that it was with his daughter’s money. Thus too with his

somewhat tardy honesty: he had paid his debts even though “he had

borrowed from his daughter to do so.” To Henry’s straightforward

sense, upon his own showing Mr. Levinger was a curious mixture, and a

man about whom as yet he could form no positive judgment.

 

From the father his thoughts travelled to the daughter. It was strange

that she should have produced so slight an impression upon him when he

had met her nearly two years before. Either she was much altered, or

his appreciative powers had developed. Certainly she impressed him

now. There was something very striking about this frail, flaxen-haired

girl, whose appearance reminded him of a Christmas rose. It seemed odd

that such a person could have been born of a mother of common blood,

as he understood the late Mrs. Levinger to have been, for Emma

Levinger looked “aristocratic” if ever woman did. Moreover, it was

clear that she lacked neither intellect nor dignity; her conversation,

and the way in which she had met the impertinences of the insufferable

Milward, proved it.

 

This was the lady whom Ellen had declared to be “half in love with

him.” The idea was absurd, and the financial complications which

surrounded her repelled him, causing him to dismiss it impatiently.

Yet, as Henry followed Mr. Levinger’s example and went to bed, a voice

in his heart told him that a worse fate might befall a man.