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

his poor

brother’s wickedness, for no other word was strong enough to describe

his conduct—and now it seemed that the remedy suggested for this

stage of things was that he should marry the daughter of their

principal creditor. That was why he had been forced to leave the Navy

and dragged home from the other side of the world. Henry laughed as he

thought of it, for the situation had a comical side. Both in stories

and in real life it is common enough for the heroine of the piece to

be driven into these dilemmas, in order to save the honour or credit

of her family; but it is unusual to hear of such a choice being thrust

upon a man, perhaps because, when they chance to meet with them, men

keep these adventures to themselves.

 

Henry tried to recall the appearance of the young lady; and after a

while a vision of her came back to him. He remembered a pale-faced,

silent girl, with an elegant figure, large grey eyes, dark lashes, and

absolutely flaxen hair, who sat in the corner of the room and watched

everybody and everything almost without speaking, but who, through her

silence, or perhaps on account of it, had given him a curious

impression of intensity.

 

This was the woman whom his family expected him to marry, and, as his

sister seemed to suggest, who, directly or indirectly, had intimated a

willingness to marry him! Ellen said, indeed, that she was “half in

love” with him, which was absurd. How could Miss Levinger be to any

degree whatsoever in love with a person whom she knew so slightly? If

there were truth in the tale at all, it seemed more probable that she

was consumed by a strange desire to become Lady Graves at some future

time; or perhaps her father was a victim to the desire and she a tool

in his hands. Although personally he had met him little, Henry

remembered some odds and ends of information about Mr. Levinger now,

and as he lay unable to sleep he set himself to piece them together.

 

In substance this is what they amounted to: many years ago Mr.

Levinger had appeared in the neighbourhood; he was then a man of about

thirty, very handsome and courteous in his manners, and, it was

rumoured, of good birth. It was said that he had been in the Army and

seen much service; but whether this were true or no, obviously he did

not lack experience of the world. He settled himself at Bradmouth,

lodging in the house of one Johnson, a smack owner; and, being the

best of company and an excellent sportsman, gradually, by the help of

Sir Reginald Graves, who seemed to take an interest in him and

employed him to manage the Rosham estates, he built up a business as a

land agent, out of which he supported himself—for, to all

appearances, he had no other means of subsistence.

 

One great gift Mr. Levinger possessed—that of attracting the notice

and even the affection of women; and, in one way and another, this

proved to be the foundation of his fortunes. At length, to the secret

sorrow of sundry ladies of his acquaintance, he put a stop to his

social advancement by contracting a glaring mésalliance, taking to

wife a good-looking but homely girl, Emma Johnson, the only child of

his landlord the smack owner. Thereupon local society, in which he had

been popular so long as he remained single, shut its doors upon him,

nor did the ladies with whom he had been in such favour so much as

call upon Mrs. Levinger.

 

When old Johnson the smack owner died, a few months after the

marriage, and it became known that he had left a sum variously

reported at from fifty to a hundred thousand pounds behind him, every

farthing of which his daughter and her husband inherited, society

began to understand, however, that there had been method in Mr.

Levinger’s madness.

 

Owing, in all probability, to the carelessness of the lawyer, the

terms of Johnson’s will were somewhat peculiar. All the said Johnson’s

property, real and personal, was strictly settled under this will upon

his daughter Emma for life, then upon her husband, George Levinger,

for life, with remainder “to the issue of the body of the said George

Levinger lawfully begotten.”

 

The effect of such a will would be that, should Mrs. Levinger die

childless, her husband’s children by a second marriage would inherit

her father’s property, though, should she survive her husband,

apparently she would enjoy a right of appointment of the fund, even

though she had no children by him. As a matter of fact, however, these

issues had not arisen, since Mrs. Levinger predeceased her husband,

leaving one child, who was named Emma after her.

 

As for Mr. Levinger himself, his energy seemed to have evaporated with

his, pecuniarily speaking, successful marriage. At any rate, so soon

as his father-in-law died, abandoning the land agency business, he

retired to a comfortable red brick house situated on the sea shore in

a very lonely position some four miles south of Bradmouth, and known

as Monk’s Lodge, which had come to him as part of his wife’s

inheritance. Here he lived in complete retirement; for now that the

county people had dropped him he seemed to have no friends. Nor did he

try to make any, but was content to occupy himself in the management

of a large farm, and in the more studious pursuits of reading and

archæology.

 

The morrow was a Saturday. At breakfast Ellen remarked casually that

Mr. and Miss Levinger were to arrive at the Hall about six o’clock,

and were expected to stay over the Sunday.

 

“Indeed,” replied Henry, in a tone which did not suggest anxiety to

enlarge upon the subject.

 

But Ellen, who had also taken a night for reflection, would not let

him escape thus. “I hope that you mean to be civil to these people,

Henry?” she said interrogatively.

 

“I trust that I am civil to everybody, Ellen.”

 

“Yes, no doubt,” she replied, in her quiet, persistent voice; “but you

see there are ways and ways of being civil. I am not sure that you

have quite realised the position.”

 

“Oh, yes, I have—thoroughly. I am expected to marry this lady, that

is, if she is foolish enough to take me in payment of what my father

owes to hers. But I tell you, Ellen, that I do not see my way to it at

present.”

 

“Please don’t get angry, dear,” said Ellen, more gently; “I dare say

that such a notion is unpleasant enough, and in a way—well, degrading

to a proud man. Of course no one can force you to marry her if you

don’t wish to, and the whole business will probably fall through. All

I beg is that you will cultivate the Levingers a little, and give the

matter fair consideration. For my part I think that it would be much

more degrading to allow our father to become bankrupt at his age than

for you to marry a good and clever girl like Emma Levinger. However,

of course I am only a woman, and have no ‘sense of honour,’ or at

least one that is not strong enough to send my family to the workhouse

when by a little self-sacrifice I could keep them out of it.”

 

And with this sarcasm Ellen left the room before Henry could find

words to reply to her.

 

That morning Henry walked with his mother to the church in order to

inspect his brother’s grave—a melancholy and dispiriting duty—the

more so, indeed, because his sense of justice would not allow him to

acquit the dead man of conduct that, to his strict integrity, seemed

culpable to the verge of dishonour. On their homeward way Lady Graves

also began to talk about the Levingers.

 

“I suppose you have heard, Henry, that Mr. Levinger and his daughter

are coming here this afternoon?”

 

“Yes, mother; Ellen told me.”

 

“Indeed. You will remember Miss Levinger, no doubt. She is a nice girl

in every sense; your dear brother used to admire her very much.”

 

“Yes, I remember her a little; but Reginald’s tastes and mine were not

always similar.”

 

“Well, Henry, I hope that you will like her. It is a delicate matter

to speak about, even for a mother to a son, but you know now how

terribly indebted we are to the Levingers, and of course if a way

could be found out of our difficulties it would be a great relief to

me and to your dear father. Believe me, my boy, I do not care so much

about myself; but I wish, if possible, to save him from further

sorrow. I think that very little would kill him now.”

 

“See here, mother,” said Henry bluntly: “Ellen tells me that you wish

me to marry Miss Levinger for family reasons. Well, in this matter, as

in every other, I will try to oblige you if I can; but I cannot

understand what grounds you have for supposing that the young lady

wishes to marry me. So far as I can judge, she might take her fortune

to a much better market.”

 

“I don’t quite know about it, Henry,” answered Lady Graves, with some

hesitation. “I gathered, however, that, when he came here after you

had gone to join your ship about eighteen months ago, Mr. Levinger

told your father, with whom you know he has been intimate since they

were both young, that you were a fine fellow, and had taken his fancy

as well as his daughter’s. Also I believe he said that if only he

could see her married to such a man as you are he should die happy, or

words to that effect.”

 

“Rather a slight foundation to build all these plans on, isn’t it,

mother? In eighteen months her father may have changed his mind, and

Miss Levinger may have seen a dozen men whom she likes better. Here

comes Ellen to meet us, so let us drop the subject.”

 

About six o’clock that afternoon Henry, returning from a walk on the

estate, saw a strange dogcart being run into the coach-house, from

which he inferred that Mr. and Miss Levinger had arrived. Wishing to

avoid the appearance of curiosity, he went straight to his room, and

did not return downstairs till within a few minutes of the

dinner-hour. The large and rather ill-lighted drawing-room seemed to

be empty when he entered, and Henry was about to seat himself with an

expression of relief, for his temper was none of the best this

evening, when a rustling in a distant corner attracted his attention.

Glancing in the direction of the noise, he perceived a female figure

seated in a big armchair reading.

 

“Why don’t you come to the light, Ellen?” he said. “You will ruin your

eyes.”

 

Again the figure rustled, and the book was shut up; then it rose and

advanced towards him timidly—a delicate figure dressed with admirable

taste in pale blue, having flaxen hair, a white face, large and

beseeching grey eyes, and tiny hands with tapering fingers. At the

edge of the circle of lamp-light the lady halted, overcome apparently

by shyness, and stood still, while her pale face grew gradually from

white to pink and from pink to red. Henry also stood still, being

seized with a sudden and most unaccountable nervousness. He guessed

that this must be Miss Levinger—in fact, he remembered her face—but

not one single word could he utter; indeed, he seemed unable to do

anything except regret that he had not waited upstairs till the

dinner-bell rang. There is this to be said in excuse