THE LEVINGERS VISIT ROSHAM.
Seldom did Henry Graves spend a more miserable night than on this occasion of
his return to Rosham. He had expected to find his father’s affairs in
evil case, but the reality was worse than anything that he had imagined. The
family was absolutely ruined—thanks to 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 state 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 appearance, 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 dog-cart 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 arm-chair 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 of his conduct, that it is somewhat paralysing to a modest
man unexpectedly to find himself confronted by the young woman whom his family
desire him to marry.
“How do you do?” he ejaculated at last: “I think that we have
met before.” And he held out his hand.
“Yes, we have met before,” she answered shyly and in a low voice,
touching his sun-browned palm with her delicate fingers, “when you were
at home last Christmas year.”
“It seems much longer ago than that,” said Henry, “so long
that I wonder you remember me.”
“I do not see so many people that I am likely to forget one of
them,” she answered, with a curious little smile. “I dare say that
the time seemed long to you, abroad in new countries; but to me, who have not
stirred from Monk’s Lodge, it is like yesterday.”
“Well, of course that does make a difference;” then, hastening to
change the subject, he added, “I am afraid I was very rude; I thought
that you were my sister. I can’t imagine how you can read in this light,
and it always vexes me to see people trying their eyes. If you had ever kept a
night watch at sea you would understand why.”
“I am accustomed to reading in all sorts of lights,” Emma answered.
“Do you read much, then?”
“I have nothing else to do. You see I have no brothers or sisters, no one
at all except my father, who keeps very much to himself; and we have few
neighbours round Monk’s Lodge—at least, few that I care to be
with,” she added, blushing again.
Henry remembered hearing that the Levingers were considered to be outside the
pale of what is called society, and did not pursue this branch of the subject.
“What do you read?” he asked.
“Oh, anything and everything. We have a good library, and sometimes I
take up one class of reading, sometimes another; though perhaps I get through
more history than anything else, especially in the winter, when it is too
wretched to go out much. You see,” she added in explanation, “I
like to know about human nature and other things, and books teach me in a
second-hand kind of way,” and she stopped suddenly, for just then Ellen
entered the room, looking very handsome in a low-cut black dress that showed
off the whiteness of her neck and arms.
[Illustration: ]
‘So we meet at last.’
“What, are you down already, Miss Levinger!” she said, “and
with all your things to unpack too. You _do_ dress quickly,” and she
looked critically at her visitor’s costume. “Let me see: do you and
Henry know each other, or must I introduce you?”
“No, we have met before,” said Emma.
“Oh yes! I remember now. Surely you were here when my brother was on
leave last time.” At this point Henry smiled grimly and turned away to
hide his face. “There is not going to be any dinner-party, you know. Of
course we couldn’t have one even if we wished at present, and there is no
one to ask if we could. Everybody is in London at this time of the year. Mr.
Milward is positively the only creature left in these parts, and I believe
mother has asked him. Ah! here he is.”
As she spoke the butler opened the door and announced —“Mr.
Milward.”
Mr. Milward was a tall and good-looking young man, with bold prominent eyes and
a receding forehead, as elaborately dressed as the plain evening attire of
Englishmen will allow. His manner was confident, his self-appreciation great,
and his tone towards those whom he considered his inferiors in rank or fortune
patronising to the verge of insolence. In short, he was a coarse-fibred person,
puffed up with the pride of his possessions, and by the flattery of women who
desired to secure him in marriage, either themselves or for some friend or
relation.
“What an insufferable man!” was Henry’s inward comment, as
his eyes fell upon him entering the room; nor did he change his opinion on
further acquaintance.
“How do you do, Mr. Milward?” said Ellen, infusing the slightest
possible inflection of warmth into her commonplace words of greeting. “I
am so glad that you were able to come.”
“How do you do, Miss Graves? I had to telegraph to Lady Fisher, with whom
I was going to dine to-night in Grosvenor Square, to say that I was ill and
could not travel to town. I only hope she won’t find me out, that is
all.”
“Indeed!” answered Ellen, with a touch of irony: “Lady
Fisher’s loss is our gain, though I think that you would have found
Grosvenor Square more amusing than Rosham. Let me introduce you to my brother,
Captain Graves, and to Miss Levinger.”
Mr. Milward favoured Henry with a nod, and turning to Emma said, “Oh! how
do you do, Miss Levinger? So we meet at last. I was dreadfully disappointed to
miss you when I was staying at Cringleton Park in December. How is your mother,
Lady Levinger? Has she got rid of her neuralgia?”
“I think that there is some mistake,” said Emma, visibly shrinking
before this bold, assertive man: “I have never been at Cringleton Park in
my life, and my mother, _Mrs._ Levinger, has been dead many years.”
“Oh, indeed: I apologise. I thought you were Miss Levinger of Cringleton,
the great heiress who was away in Italy when I stayed there. You see, I
remember hearing Lady Levinger say that there were no other Levingers.”
“I am afraid that I am a living contradiction to Lady Levinger’s
assertion,” answered Emma, flushing and turning aside.
Ellen, who had been biting her lip with vexation, was about to intervene,
fearing lest Mr. Milward should make further inquiries, when the door opened
and Mr. Levinger entered, followed by her father and mother. Henry took the
opportunity of shaking hands with Mr. Levinger to study his appearance somewhat
closely—an attention that he noticed was reciprocated.
Mr. Levinger was now a man of about sixty, but he looked much older. Either
because of an accident, or through a rheumatic affection, he was so lame upon
his right leg that it was necessary for him to use a stick even in walking from
one room to another; and, although his hair was scarcely more than streaked
with white, frailty of health had withered him and bowed his frame. Looking at
him, Henry could well believe what he had heard that five-and-twenty years ago
he was one of the handsomest men in the county. To this hour the dark and
sunken brown eyes were full of fire and eloquence—a slumbering fire that
seemed to wax and wane within them; the brow was ample, and the outline of the
features flawless. He seemed a man upon whom age had settled suddenly and
prematurely—a man who had burnt himself out in his youth, and was now but
an ash of his former self, though an ash with fire in the heart of it.
Mr. Levinger greeted him in a few courteous, well-chosen words, that offered a
striking contrast to the social dialect of Mr. Milward,—the contrast
between the old style and the new,—then, with a bow, he passed on to
offer his arm to Lady Graves, for at that moment dinner was announced. As Henry
followed him with Miss Levinger, he found himself wondering, with a curiosity
that was unusual to him, who and what this man had been in his youth, before he
drifted a waif to Bradmouth, there to repair his broken fortunes by a
_mésalliance_ with the smack owner’s daughter.
“Was your father ever in the Army?” he asked of Emma, as they filed
slowly down the long corridor. “Forgive my impertinence, but he looks
like a military man.”
He felt her start at his question.
“I don’t know: I think so,” she answered, “because I
have heard him speak of the Crimea as though he had been present at the
battles; but he never talks of his young days.”
Then they entered the dining-room, and in the confusion of taking their seats
the conversation dropped.