TWO CONVERSATIONS.
On arriving at the Hall, Ellen went at once to her mother’s room, while
Edward retired to the library, where he was informed that Sir Reginald was to
be found. Lady Graves received the news of her daughter’s engagement
kindly, but without emotion, for since her son’s death nothing seemed to
move her. Sir Reginald was more expansive. When Edward told him that he was
engaged to Ellen, he took his hand and shook it warmly, not, indeed, that he
had any especial affection for that young man, whose tone and manners did not
chime in with his old-fashioned ideas of gentlemanly demeanour, but because he
knew his wealth to be large, and rejoiced at the prospect of an alliance that
would strengthen the tottering fortunes of his family.
Edward had always been a little afraid of Sir Reginald, whose stately and
distant courtesy oppressed him, and this fear or respect stood the older man in
good stead on the present occasion. It enabled him even to explain that Ellen
would inherit little with as much dignity as though he were announcing that she
had ten thousand a year in her own right, and, striking while the iron was hot,
to extract a statement as to settlements.
Edward mentioned a sum that was liberal enough, but by a happy inspiration 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 rent-charge 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.
“I! 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 bird-nesting. 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 every 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 the rest, she is a considerable, if not a large, heiress; there
should be a matter of at least fifteen thousand pounds to come to her besides
the mortgages on this place and real property as well. In her own way—to
my mind at any rate—she is beautiful, and there never lived a sweeter,
purer or more holy-minded woman. If your son were married to her, within a year
he would worship the ground she trod on. Why shouldn’t it come about,
then?”
“I don’t know, except that things which are very suitable and very
much arranged have a way of falling through. Your daughter Emma is all you say,
though perhaps a little too unearthly. She strikes me as rather
ghost-like—that is, compared with the girls of my young days, though I
understand this sort of thing has become the fashion. The chief obstacle that I
fear, however, is Henry himself. He is a very queer-grained man, and as likely
as not the knowledge that this marriage is necessary to our salvation will
cause him to refuse to have anything to do with it.”
“For his own sake I hope that it may not be so,” answered Levinger,
with some approach to passion, “for if it is I tell you fairly that I
shall let matters take their course. Emma will either come into possession of
this property as the future Lady Graves or as Miss Levinger, and it is for your
son to choose which he prefers.”
“Yes, yes, I understand all that. What I do not understand, Levinger, is
why you should be so desperately anxious for this particular marriage. There
are plenty of better matches for Emma than my son Henry. We are such old
friends, I do not mind telling you I have not the slightest doubt but that you
have some secret reason. It seems to me—I know you won’t mind my
saying it—that you carry the curious double-sidedness of your nature into
every detail of life. You cannot be anything wholly,—there is always a
reservation about you: thus, when you seemed to be thoroughly bad, there was a
reservation of good in you; and now, when you appear to be the most righteous
man in the county, I sometimes think that there is still a considerable leaven
of the other thing.”
Mr. Levinger smiled and shrugged his shoulders, but he did not take offence at
these remarks. That he refrained from doing so showed the peculiar terms on
which the two men were—terms born of intimate knowledge and long
association.
“Most people have more reasons for desiring a thing than they choose to
publish on the housetops, Graves; but I don’t see why you should seek for
secret motives here when there are so many that are obvious. You happen to be
the only friend I have in the world; it is therefore natural that I should wish
to see my daughter married to your son, and for this same reason I desire that
your family, which has been part and parcel of the country-side for hundreds of
years, should be saved from ruin. Further, I have taken a greater liking to
Henry than to any man I have met for many a long day, and I know that Emma
would love him and be happy with him, whereas did she marry elsewhere, with her
unusual temperament, she might be very unhappy.
“Also, the match would be a good one for her, which weighs with me a
great deal. Your son may never be rich, but he has done well in his profession,
he is the inheritor of an ancient name, and he will be a baronet. As you know,
my career has been a failure, and more than a failure. Very probably my child
will never even know who I really am, but that she is the granddaughter of a
Bradmouth smack owner is patent to everybody. I am anxious that all this should
be forgotten and covered up by an honourable marriage; I am anxious, after
being slighted and neglected, that she should start afresh in a position in
which she can hold her head as high as any lady in the county, and I do not
think that in my case this is an unnatural or an exorbitant ambition. Finally,
it is my desire, the most earnest desire of my life, and I mean to live to see
it accomplished. Now have I given you reasons enough?”
“Plenty, and very good ones too. But I still think that you have another
and better in the background. Well, for my part I shall only be too thankful if
this can be brought about. It would be a fair marriage also, for such
disadvantages as there are seem to be very equally divided; and I like your
daughter, Levinger,—she is a sweet girl and interesting, even if she is
old Will Johnson’s grandchild. Now I must be off and say something civil
to my future son-in-law before he goes”—and, rising with something
of an effort, Sir Reginald left the room.
“Graves is breaking up, but he is still shrewd,” said Mr. Levinger
to himself, gazing after him with his piercing eyes. “As usual he put his
finger on the weak spot. Now, if he knew my last and best reason for wishing to
see Emma married to his son, I wonder what he would do? Shrug his shoulders and
say nothing, I expect. Beggars cannot be choosers, and bankrupts are not likely
to be very particular. Poor old friend! I am sorry for him. Well, he shall
spend his last days in peace if I can manage it—that is, unless Henry
proves himself an obstinate fool, as it is possible he may.”
Next morning Mr. Levinger and his daughter returned to Monk’s Lodge; but
before they went it was settled that Henry was to visit them some three weeks
later, on the tenth of June, that date being convenient to all concerned.
On the following day Henry went to London for a week to arrange about a little
pension to which he was entitled, and other matters. This visit did not improve
his spirits, for in the course of his final attendances at the Admiralty he
discovered for the first time how well he was thought of there, and that he had
been looked on as a man destined to rise in the Service.
“Pity that you made up your mind to go, Captain Graves—great
pity!” said one of the head officials to him. “I always thought
that I should see you an admiral one day, if I lived long enough. We had
several good marks against your name here, I can tell you. However, it is too
late to talk of all this now, and I dare say that you will be better off as a
baronet with a big estate than banging about the world in an ironclad, with the
chance of being shot or drowned. You are too good a man to be lost, if you will
allow me to say so, and now that you are off the active list you must go into
Parliament and try to help us there.”
“By Heavens, sir,” answered Henry with warmth, “I’d
rather be a captain of an ironclad in the Channel Fleet than a baronet with
twenty thousand a year, though now I have no chance of either. But we
can’t always please ourselves in this world. Good-bye.” And,
turning abruptly, he left the room.
“I wonder why that fellow went,” mused the official as the door
closed. “For a young man he was as good a sailor as there is in the
Service, and he really might have got on. Private affairs, I suppose. Well, it
can’t be helped, and there are plenty ready to step into his shoes.”
Henry returned to Rosham very much depressed, nor did he find the atmosphere of
that establishment conducive to lightness of heart. Putting aside his personal
regrets at leaving the Navy, there was much to sadden him. First and foremost
came financial trouble, which by now had reached an acute stage, for it was
difficult to find ready money wherewith to carry on the ordinary expenses of
the house. Then his mother’s woeful face oppressed him as she went about
mourning for the dead, mourning also for their fallen fortunes, and his
father’s failing health gave great reason for anxiety.
Furthermore, though here he knew that he had no just cause of complaint, the
constant presence of Edward Milward irritated him to a degree that he could not
conceal. In vain did he try to like this young man, or even to make it appear
that he liked him; his efforts were a failure, and he felt that Ellen, with
whom otherwise he remained on good, though not on cordial terms, resented this
fact, as he on his part resented the continual false pretences, or rather the
subterfuges and suppressions of the truth, in which she indulged in order to
keep from her _fiancé_ a knowledge of the real state of the Rosham
affairs. These arts exasperated Henry’s pride to an extent almost
unbearable, and Ellen knew that it was so, but not on this account would she
desist from them. For she knew also the vulgar nature of her lover, and feared,
perhaps not without reason, lest he should learn how great were their
distresses, and how complete was the ruin which overshadowed them, and break
off an engagement that was to connect him with a bankrupt and discredited
family.
In the midst of these and other worries the time passed heavily enough, till at
length that day arrived on which Henry was engaged to visit Monk’s Lodge.
Already he had received a note from Emma Levinger, writing on behalf of her
father, to remind him of his promise. It was a prettily expressed note, written
in a delicate and beautiful hand; and he answered it saying that he proposed to
send his portmanteau by train and to ride over to Monk’s Lodge, arriving
there in time for dinner.
Henry had not thought much of Emma during the last week or two; or, if he had
thought of her, it was in an impersonal way, as part of a sordid problem with
which he found himself called upon to cope. At no time was he much given to
allow his mind to run upon the fascinations of any woman; and, charming and
original as this lady might be, he was not in a mood just now to contemplate
her from the standpoint of romance. None the less, however, was he glad of the
opportunity which this visit gave him to escape for a while from Rosham, even
if he could not leave his anxieties behind him.
He had no further conversation with Ellen upon the subject of Emma. The terms
upon which they stood implied a mutual truce from interference in each
other’s affairs. His father, however, did say a word to him when he went
to bid him good-bye. He found the old man in bed, for now he did not rise till
lunchtime.
“Good-bye, my boy,” he said. “So you are going to
Monk’s Lodge? Well, it will be a pleasant change for you. Old Levinger is
a queer fish, and in some ways not altogether to be trusted, as I have known
for many a year, but he has lots of good in him; and to my mind his daughter is
charming. Ah, Henry! I wish, without doing violence to your own feelings, that
you could manage to take a fancy to this girl. There, I will say no more; you
know what I mean.”
“I know, father,” answered Henry, “and I will do my best to
fall in with your views. But, all the same, however charming she may be, it is
a little hard on me that I should be brought down to this necessity.”
Then he rode away, and in due course reached the ruins of Ramborough Abbey.