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

Sir Reginald hummed and hawed before making any

answer—whereupon, fearing opposition to his suit, his would-be

son-in-law corrected himself, adding to the amount he proposed to put

into settlement a very handsome rentcharge on his real property in the

event of his predeceasing Ellen.

 

“Yes, yes,” said Sir Reginald. “I think your amended proposal proper

and even generous. But I am no business man—if I had been, things

would be very different with me now—and my head for figures is so

shockingly bad that perhaps you will not mind jotting down what you

suggest on a piece of paper, so that I can think it over at my leisure

and submit it to my lawyers. And then, will it be too much trouble to

ask you to find Ellen, as I should like to congratulate her?”

 

“Shall I go at once? I can do the writing afterwards,” suggested

Edward, with an instinctive shrinking from the cold record of pen and

ink.

 

“No, no,” answered the old gentleman testily; “these money matters

always worry me”—which was true enough—“and I want to be done with

them.”

 

So Edward wrote first and went afterwards, albeit not without qualms.

 

The sight of his lawyer’s face when he explained to him the terms of

settlement on his intended marriage, that he himself had propounded in

black and white, amply justified his doubts.

 

“Well, I never!” said the man of law; “they must know their way about

at Rosham Hall. However, as you have put it in writing, you cannot get

out of it now. But perhaps, Mr. Milward, next time you wish to make

proposals of settlement on an almost penniless lady, you will consult

me first.”

 

That night there was more outward show of conviviality in the cold

Hall dining-room than there had been for many a day. Everybody drank

champagne, and all the gentlemen made speeches with the exception of

Henry, who contented himself with wishing health and happiness to

Edward and his sister.

 

“You see,” Mr. Levinger whispered to him in the drawing-room, “I did

well to caution you to be patient with the foibles of your future

brother-in-law, and I was not far out in a surmise that at the time

you may have thought impertinent.”

 

Henry shrugged his shoulders and made no answer.

 

After dinner Lady Graves, who always retired early, vanished to her

room, Sir Reginald and Mr. Levinger went to the library, and Henry,

after wandering disconsolately for a while about the great

drawing-room, in a distant corner of which the engaged couple were

carrying on a tête-à-tête, betook himself to the conservatory. Here

he chanced upon Emma.

 

To-night she was dressed in white, wearing pearls upon her slender

neck; and seated alone upon a bench in the moonlight, for the

conservatory was not otherwise illuminated, she looked more like a

spirit than a woman. Indeed, to Henry, who came upon her unobserved,

this appearance was much heightened by a curious and accidental

contrast. Immediately behind Emma was a life-sized marble replica of

one of the most beautiful of the statues known to ancient art. There

above this pale and spiritual maiden, with outstretched arms and

alluring lips stood the image of Aphrodite, triumphing in her perfect

nakedness.

 

Henry looked from one to the other, speculating as to which was the

more lovely of these types of the spirit and the flesh. “Supposing,”

he thought to himself, “that a man were obliged to take his choice

between them, I wonder which he would choose, and which would bring

him the greater happiness. For the matter of that, I wonder which I

should choose myself. To make a perfect woman the two should be

merged.”

 

Then he came forward, smiling at his speculation, and little knowing

that before all was done this very choice would be forced upon him.

 

“I hope that I am not disturbing you, Miss Levinger,” he said; “but to

tell you the truth I fled here for refuge, the drawing-room being

engaged.”

 

Emma started, and seeing who it was, said, “Yes, I thought so too;

that is why I came away. I suppose that you are very much pleased,

Captain Graves?”

 

“What pleases others pleases me,” he answered grimly. “I am not

going to marry Mr. Milward.”

 

“Why don’t you like him?” she asked.

 

“I never said I did not like him. I have no doubt that he is very

well, but he is not quite the sort of man with whom I have been

accustomed to associate—that is all.”

 

“Well, I suppose that I ought not to say it, but I do not admire him

either; not because he was rude to me last night, but because he seems

so coarse. I dislike what is coarse.”

 

“Do you? Life itself is coarse, and I fancy that a certain amount of

that quality is necessary to happiness in the world. After all, the

flesh rules here, and not the spirit,”—and again he looked first at

the marble Aphrodite, then at the girl beneath it. “We are born of the

flesh, we are flesh, and all our affections and instincts partake of

it.”

 

“I do not agree with you at all,” Emma answered, with some warmth. “We

are born of the spirit: that is the reality; the flesh is only an

accident, if a necessary accident. When we allow it to master us, then

our troubles begin.”

 

“Perhaps; but it is rather a pervading accident for many of us. In

short, it makes up our world, and we cannot escape it. While we are of

it the most refined among us must follow its routine—more or less. A

day may come when that routine will be different, and our desires,

aims, and objects will vary with it, but it is not here or now.

Everything has its season, Miss Levinger, and it is useless to try to

escape from the facts of life, for at last in one shape or another

they overtake us, who, strive as we may, can very rarely defy our

natures.”

 

Emma made no answer, though she did not look convinced, and for a

while they remained silent.

 

“My father tells me that you are coming to see us,” she said at last.

 

“Yes; he kindly asked me. Do you wish me to come?”

 

“Of course I do,” she answered, colouring faintly. “It will be a great

change to see a stranger staying at Monk’s Lodge. But I am afraid that

you will find it very dull; we are quite alone, at this time of year

there is nothing on earth to do, unless you like birdnesting. There

are plenty of wild fowl about, and I have rather a good collection of

eggs.”

 

“Oh, I have no doubt that I shall amuse myself,” he answered. “Don’t

you think that we had better be going back? They must have had enough

of each other by this time.”

 

Making no answer, Emma rose and walked across the conservatory, Henry

following her. At the door, acting on a sudden impulse, she stopped

suddenly and said, “You do really mean to come to Monk’s Lodge, do you

not, Captain Graves?” And she looked up into his face.

 

“If you wish it,” he answered in a low voice.

 

“I have said that I do wish it,” she replied, and turning led the way

into the drawing-room.

 

Meanwhile another conversation had taken place in the library, where

Sir Reginald and Mr. Levinger were seated.

 

“I think that you are to be very much congratulated on this

engagement, Graves,” said his companion. “Of course the young man is

not perfect: he has faults, and obvious ones; but your daughter knows

what she is about, and understands him, and altogether in the present

state of affairs it is a great thing for you.”

 

“Not for me—not for me,” answered Sir Reginald sadly; “I seem to have

neither interests nor energies left, and so far as I am concerned

literally I care for nothing. I have lived my life, Levinger, and I am

fading away. That last blow of poor Reginald’s death has killed me,

although I do not die at once. The only earthly desire which remains

to me is to provide, if possible, for the welfare of my family. In

furtherance of that end this afternoon I condescended even to get the

best possible terms of settlement out of young Milward. Twenty years

ago I should have been ashamed to do such a thing, but age and poverty

have hardened me. Besides, I know my man. He blows hot to-day, a month

hence he may blow cold; and as it is quite on the cards that he and

Ellen will not pull together very well in married life, and I have

nothing to leave her, I am anxious that she should be properly

provided for. By the way, have you spoken to Henry about these

mortgages?”

 

“Yes, I explained the position to him on Saturday night. It seemed to

upset him a good deal.”

 

“I don’t wonder at it, I am sure. You have behaved very kindly in this

matter, Levinger. Had it been in anybody else’s hands I suppose that

we should all have been in the workhouse by now. But, frankly, I don’t

see the end of it. The money is not yours—it is your daughter’s

fortune, or the greater part of it—and you can’t go on being generous

with other people’s fortunes. As it is, she stands to lose heavily on

the investment, and the property is sinking in value very day. It is

very well to talk of our old friendship and of your gratitude to me.

Perhaps you should be grateful, and no doubt I have pulled you out of

some nasty scrapes in bygone days, when you were the Honourable–-”

 

“Don’t mention the name, Graves!” said Levinger, striking his stick

fiercely on the floor: “that man is dead; never mention his name again

to me or to anybody else.”

 

“As you like,” answered Sir Reginald, smiling. “I was only going to

repeat that you cannot continue to be grateful on your daughter’s

money, and if you take your remedy Rosham must go to the hammer after

all these generations. I shall be dead first, but it breaks my heart

to think of it.” And the old man covered his face with his thin hand

and groaned aloud.

 

“Don’t distress yourself, Graves,” said Levinger gently; “I have

hinted to you before that there is a possible way of escape.”

 

“You mean if Henry were to take a fancy to your daughter, and she were

to reciprocate it?”

 

“Yes, that is what I mean; and why shouldn’t they? So far as Emma is

concerned the matter is already done. I am convinced of it. She was

much struck with your son when she was here nearly two years ago, and

has often spoken of him since. Emma has no secrets from me, and her

mind is clear as a glass. It is easy to read what is passing there. I

do not say that she has thought of marrying Henry, but she is attached

to him, and admires him and his character—which shows her sense, for

he is a fine fellow, a far finer fellow than any of you give him

credit for. And on his side, why shouldn’t he take to her? It is true

that her mother’s origin was humble, though she was a much more

refined woman than people guessed, and that I, her father, am a man

under a cloud, and deservedly. But what of that? The mother is dead,

and alas! my life is not a good one, so that very soon her forbears

will be forgotten. For