THE HOME-COMING OF HENRY GRAVES.
Henry Graves, a man of thirty-three years of age, was the second and only
surviving son of Sir Reginald Graves, of Rosham Hall, a place situated about
four miles from Bradmouth. When a lad he chose the Navy as a profession, and to
that profession he clung with such unusual earnestness, that during the last
eighteen years or so but little of his time had been passed at home. Some
months previous to his meeting with Joan Haste, however, very much against his
own will, he was forced to abandon his calling. He was cruising in command of a
gunboat off the coast of British Columbia, when one evening a telegram reached
him informing him of the death of his elder brother, Reginald, who met his end
through an accident whilst riding a steeplechase. There had never been much
sympathy or affection between the two brothers, for reasons to be explained
presently; still this sudden and terrible intelligence was a heavy shock to
Henry, nor did the fact that it left him heir to an entailed property, which he
believed to be considerable, greatly mitigate it in his mind.
[Illustration: ]
‘And these two lay silent.’
When there are but two sons, it is almost inevitable that one should be
preferred before the other. Certainly this was the case in the Graves family.
As children Reginald, the elder, had been wayward, handsome, merry and
attractive; whereas Henry was a somewhat plain and silent boy, with a habit of
courting his own society, and almost aggressive ideas of honour and duty.
Naturally, therefore, the love of father, mother and sister went out to the
brilliant Reginald, while Henry was left very much to his own devices. He said
nothing, and he was too proud to be jealous, but nobody except the lad himself
ever knew what he suffered under this daily, if unintentional, neglect. Though
his constitutional reserve prevented him from showing his heart, in truth he
was very affectionate, and almost adored the relations who looked on him as a
dullard, and even spoke of him at times as “poor Henry,” as though
he were deficient in intellect.
Thus it came about that very early in his young life, with characteristic
determination, Henry arrived at the conclusion that he would be happier away
from the home where he was little wanted. Once in the Navy, he applied himself
to his profession with industry and intelligence, and as a result did better in
the service than most young men who cannot bring to their support any
particular interest, or the advantage of considerable private means. In
whatever capacity he served, he won the confidence and the respect both of his
subordinates and of his superiors. He was a hard-working man, so hard work was
thrust upon him; and he never shirked it, though often enough others got the
credit of his efforts. At heart, moreover, he was ambitious. Henry could never
forget the slights that he had experienced as a child, and he was animated by a
great but secret desire to show the relatives who disparaged him in favour of
his more showy brother that he was made of better stuff than they were disposed
to believe.
To this purpose he subordinated his life. His allowance was small, for their
father’s means were not in proportion to his nominal estate, and as time
went on his brother Reginald grew more and more extravagant. But, such as it
was, Henry never exceeded it, though few were aware of the straits to which he
was put at times. In the same way, though by nature he was a man of strong
passions and genial temperament, he rarely allowed either the one or the other
to master him. Geniality meant expense, and he observed that indulgence in
passion of any sort, more especially if it led to mixing with the other sex,
spelt anxiety and sorrow at the best, or at the worst disgrace and ruin.
Therefore he curbed these inclinations till what began in the pride of duty
ended in the pride of habit.
Thus time wore on till he received the telegram announcing his brother’s
shocking death. A fortnight or so afterwards it was followed by a letter from
his father, a portion of which may be transcribed. It began:
“MY DEAR HENRY,—
“My telegram has informed you of the terrible loss which has overtaken
our family. Your brother Reginald is no more; it has pleased Providence to
remove him from the world in the fulness of his manhood, and we must accept the
fact that we cannot alter with such patience as we may.”
Here followed particulars of the accident, and of arrangements for the
interment. The letter went on:
“Your mother and sister are prostrated, and for myself I can only say
that my heart is broken. Life is a ruin to me henceforward, and I think that
when the time comes I shall welcome its close. It does indeed seem cruel that
one so brilliant and so beloved as your brother should be snatched from us
thus, but God’s will be done. Though you have been little together of
late years, I know that we shall have your sympathy in our overwhelming sorrow.
“To turn to other matters, of which this event makes it necessary that I
should speak: of course your beloved brother’s death puts you in the
place he held—that is, so far as temporal things are concerned. I may as
well tell you at once that the finances of this property are in great
confusion. Latterly Reginald had the largest share in its management, and as
yet I cannot therefore follow all the details. It seems, however, that,
speaking generally, affairs are much worse than I supposed, and already, though
he lies unburied, some very heavy claims have come in against his estate, which
of course must be met for the honour of the family.
“And now, my dear boy, I—or rather your mother, your sister, and
I—must ask you to make a sacrifice, should you look at it in that light:
namely, to give up your profession and take the place at home to which the
death of your brother has promoted you. This request is not made lightly; but,
as you know, my health is now very feeble, and I find myself quite unable to
cope with the difficulties of the time and the grave embarrassments by which I
am hampered. Indeed, it would be idle to disguise from you that unless matters
are speedily taken in hand and some solution is found to our troubles, there is
every prospect that before long Rosham will be foreclosed on a probability of
which I can scarcely bear to think, and one that will be equally painful to
yourself when you remember that the property has been in our family for full
three hundred years, and that we have no resources beyond those of the
land.”
Then the letter went into details that were black enough, and ended by hinting
at some possible mode of escape from the family troubles which would be
revealed to him on his return to England.
The receipt of this epistle plunged Henry Graves into a severe mental struggle.
As has been said, he was fond of his profession, and he had no wish to leave
it. His prospects in the Navy were not especially brilliant, indeed, but his
record at the Admiralty was good, and he was popular in the service both with
his brother officers and the men, though perhaps more so with the latter than
the former. Moreover, he had confidence in himself, and was filled with a
sincere ambition to rise to the top of the tree, or near it. Now, after serving
many years as a lieutenant, when at last he had earned an independent command,
he was asked to abandon his career, and with it the hopes of half a lifetime,
in order that he might undertake the management of a bankrupt estate, a task
for which he did not conceive himself to be suited.
At first he was minded to refuse altogether; but while he was still hesitating
a second letter arrived, from his mother, with whom he was in greater sympathy
than with any other member of the family. This epistle, which did not enter
into details, was written in evident distress, and implored him to return to
England at all hazards if he wished to save them from ruin. In conclusion, like
that received from his father, it hinted mysteriously at an unknown something
by means of which it would be in his power, and his alone, to restore the
broken fortunes of their house.
Duty had always been the first consideration with Henry Graves, and so it
remained in this emergency of his life. He had no longer any doubt as to what
he ought to do, and, sacrificing his private wishes and what he considered to
be his own advantage, he set himself to do it.
An effort to obtain leave on urgent private affairs having failed, he was
reduced to the necessity of sending in his papers and begging the Lords of the
Admiralty for permission to retire from the service on the ground of his
brother’s death.
The night that he posted this application was an unhappy one for him: the
career he had hoped to make for himself and the future honour which he dreamed
of had melted away, and the only prospect left to him was that of one day
becoming a baronet without a sixpence to support his title, and the nominal
owner of a bankrupt estate. Moreover, however reasonable and enlightened he may
be, no sailor is entirely without superstition, and on this matter Henry Graves
was superstitious. Something in his heart seemed to tell him that this new
start would bring him little luck, whatever advantage might result to his
family. Once again he felt the awe of an imaginative boy who for the first time
understands that the world is before him, and that he must fight his way
through its cruel multitudes, or be trampled to death of them.
In due course my Lords of the Admiralty signified to Commander Graves that his
request had been taken into favourable consideration, and that he was granted
leave pending the arrangements necessary to his retirement from Her
Majesty’s Navy. His feelings as for the last time he was rowed away from
the ship in the gig which had been his especial property need not be dwelt
upon. They were bitter enough, and the evident regret of his messmates at
parting from him did not draw their sting: indeed, it would not be too much to
say that in this hour of farewell Henry Graves went as near to tears as he had
done since he attained to manhood.
But he got through it somehow, and even laughed and waved his hat when the crew
of the _Hawk_—that was the name of the gunboat he had
commanded—cheered him as he left her deck for ever.
Eighteen days later he stood in the library of Rosham Hall. Although the season
was mid-May the weather held bitterly cold, and such green as had appeared upon
the trees did not suffice to persuade the traveller that winter was done with.
An indescribable air of gloom hung about the great white house, which, shaped
like an early Victorian mausoleum, and treed up to the windows with funereal
cedars, was never a cheerful dwelling even in the height of summer. The shadow
of death lay upon the place and on the hearts of its inmates, and struck a
chill through Henry as he crossed the threshold. His father, a tall and
dignified old gentleman with snowy hair, met him in the hall with a show of
cordiality that soon flickered away.
“How are you, my dear boy?” he said. “I am very glad to see
you home and looking so well. It is most kind of you to have fallen in with our
wishes as to your leaving the Navy. I scarcely expected that you would myself.
Indeed, I was never more surprised than when I received your letter saying that
you had sent in your papers. It is a comfort to have you back again, though I
doubt whether you will be able to do any good.”
“Then perhaps I might as well have stopped where I was, father,”
answered Henry.
“No, no, you did well to come. For many reasons which you will understand
soon you did well to come. You are looking for your mother and Ellen. They have
gone to the church with a wreath for your poor brother’s grave. The train
is generally late you were not expected so soon. That was a terrible blow to
me, Henry: I am quite broken down, and shall never get over it. Ah! here they
are.”
As Sir Reginald spoke Lady Graves and her daughter entered the hall and greeted
Henry warmly enough. His mother was a person of about sixty, still handsome in
appearance, but like himself somewhat silent and reserved in manner. Trouble
had got hold of her, and she showed it on her face. For the rest, she was an
upright and a religious woman, whose one passion in life, as distinguished from
her predilections, had been for her dead son Reginald. He was taken away, her
spirit was broken, and there remained to her nothing except an unvarying desire
to stave off the ruin that threatened her husband’s house and herself.
The daughter, Ellen, now a woman of twenty-five, was of a different type. In
appearance she was fair and well-developed, striking and ladylike rather than
good-looking; in manner she was quick and vivacious, well-read, moreover, in a
certain shallow fashion, and capital company. Ellen was not a person of deep
affections, though she also had worshipped Reginald; but on the other hand she
was swift to see her own advantage and to shape the course of events toward
that end. At this moment her mind was set secretly upon making a rich marriage
with the only eligible bachelor in the neighbourhood, Milward by name, a vain
man of good extraction but of little strength of character, and one whom she
knew that she could rule.
It has been said that his welcome was warm enough to all outward appearance,
and yet it left a sense of disappointment in Henry’s mind. Instinctively
he felt, with the exception, perhaps, of his mother, that they all hoped to use
him that he had been summoned because he might be of service, not because the
consolation of his presence was desired in a great family misfortune; and once
more he wished himself back on the quarter-deck of the _Hawk,_ dependent
upon his own exertions to make his way in the world.
After a somewhat depressing dinner in the great dining-room, of which the cold
stone columns and distempered walls, decorated with rather dingy specimens of
the old masters, did not tend to expansion of the heart, a family council was
held in the study. It lasted far into the night, but its results may be summed
up briefly. In good times the Rosham Hall property was worth about a hundred
thousand pounds; now, in the depths of the terrible depression which is ruining
rural England, it was doubtful if it would find a purchaser at half that
amount, notwithstanding its capacities as a sporting estate. When Sir Reginald
Graves came into possession the place was burdened with a mortgage of
twenty-five thousand pounds, more or less. On the coming of age of his elder
son, Reginald, Henry’s brother, the entail had been cut and further
moneys raised upon resettlement, so that in the upshot the incumbrances upon
the property including over-due interests which were added to the capital at
different dates, stood at a total of fifty-one thousand, or something more than
the present selling value of the estate.
Henry inquired where all the money had gone; and, after some beating about the
bush, he discovered that of late years, for the most part, it had been absorbed
by his dead brother’s racing debts. After this revelation he held his
tongue upon the matter.
In addition to these burdens there were unsatisfied claims against
Reginald’s estate amounting to over a thousand pounds; and, to top up
with, three of the principal tenants had given notice to leave at the
approaching Michaelmas, and no applicants for their farms were forthcoming.
Also the interest on the mortgages was over a year in arrear.
When everything had been explained, Henry spoke with irritation: “The
long and the short of it is that we are bankrupt, and badly bankrupt. Why on
earth did you force me to leave the Navy? At any rate I could have helped
myself to some sort of a living there. Now I must starve with the rest.”
Lady Graves sighed and wiped her eyes. The sigh was for their broken fortunes,
the tear for the son who had ruined them.
Sir Reginald, who was hardened to money troubles, did not seem to be so deeply
affected.
“Oh, it is not so bad as that, my boy,” he said, almost cheerfully.
“Your poor brother always managed to find a way out of these difficulties
when they cropped up, and I have no doubt that you will be able to do the same.
For me the matter no longer has much personal interest, since my day is over;
but you must do the best for yourself, and for your mother and sister. And now
I think that I will go to bed, for business tires me at night.”
When his father and mother had gone Henry lit his pipe.
“Who holds these mortgages?” he asked of his sister Ellen, who sat
opposite to him, watching him curiously across the fire.
“Mr. Levinger,” she answered. “He and his daughter.”
“What, my father’s mysterious friend, the good-looking man who used
to be agent for the property when I was a boy?”
“I remember: he had his daughter with him—a pale-faced, quiet
girl.”
“Yes; but do not disparage his daughter, Henry.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is a mistake to find fault with one’s future wife. That
way salvation lies, my dear brother. She is an heiress, and more than half in
love with you, Henry. No, it is not a mistake—I know it for a fact. Now,
perhaps, you understand why it was necessary that you should come home. Either
you must follow the family tradition and marry an heiress, Miss Levinger or
some other, or this place will be foreclosed on and we may all adjourn to the
workhouse.”
“So that is why I was sent for,” said Henry, throwing down his
pipe: “to be sold to this lady? Well, Ellen, all I have to say is that it
is an infernal shame!”
And, turning, he went to bed without even bidding her good night.
His sister watched him go without irritation or surprise. Rising from her
chair, she stood by the fire warming her feet, and glancing from time to time
at the dim rows of family portraits that adorned the library walls. There were
many of them, dating back to the early part of the seventeenth century or even
before it; for the Graveses, or the De Greves as they used to be called, were
an ancient race, and though the house had been rebuilt within the last hundred
and twenty years, they had occupied this same spot of ground for many
generations. During all these years the family could not be said either to have
sunk or risen, although one of its members was made a baronet at the beginning
of the century in payment for political services. It had produced no great men,
and no villains; it had never been remarkable for wealth or penury, or indeed
for anything that distinguishes one man, or a race of men, from its fellows.
[Illustration: ]
‘I’d marry a Russian Jew rather
than see the old place go to the dogs.’
It may be asked how it came about that these Graveses contrived to survive the
natural waste and dwindling of possessions that they never did anything to
augment. A glance at the family pedigree supplies an answer. From generation to
generation it had been held to be the duty of the eldest son for the time being
to marry an heiress; and this rule was acted on with sufficient regularity to
keep the fortunes of the race at a dead level, notwithstanding the
extravagances of occasional spendthrifts and the claims of younger children.
“They all did so,” said Ellen to herself, as she looked upon the
portraits of her dead-and-gone forefathers by the light of the flickering
flame; “and why shouldn’t he? I am not sentimental, but I believe
that I’d marry a Russian Jew rather than see the old place go to the
dogs, and that sort of thing is worse for a woman than a man. It will be
difficult to manage, but he will marry her in the end, even if he hates the
very sight of her. A man has no right to let his private inclinations weigh
with him in such a matter, for he passes but his family remains. Thank Heaven,
Henry always had a strong sense of duty, and when he comes to look at the
position coolly he will see it in a proper light; though what made that
flaxen-haired little mummy fall in love with him is a mystery to me, for he
never spoke a word to her. Blessings on her! It is the only piece of good luck
that has come to our family for a generation. And now I must go to
bed,—those old pictures are beginning to stare at me.”