RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION.
On the day before Sir Reginald’s funeral Mr. Samuel Rock presented
himself at Monk’s Lodge, and was shown into the study. As he entered Mr.
Levinger noticed that his mien was morose, and that dejection beamed from his
pale blue eyes, if indeed dejection can be said to beam.
“I fancy that my friend’s love affairs have gone wrong,” he
thought to himself; “he would scarcely look so sulky about a cow
shed.” Yet it was of this useful building that he began to speak.
“Well, Mr. Rock,” he said cheerfully, “have they dug out the
foundations of that shed yet?”
“Shed, sir?” answered Samuel (he pronounced it _shodd_):
“I haven’t come to speak to you about no sheds. I have come to
speak to you about the advice you gave me as to Joan Haste.”
“Oh! yes, I remember: you wanted to marry her, didn’t you? Well,
did you take it?”
“I took it, sir, to my sorrow, for she wouldn’t have nothing to do
with me. I went so far as to try and kiss her.”
“Yes. And then?”
“And then, sir, she pushed me off, that’s all, and stood there
saying things that I would rather forget. But here’s the story,
sir.” And with a certain amount of glozing and omission, he told the tale
of his repulse.
“Your case does not seem very promising,” said Mr. Levinger
lightly, for he did not wish to show his vexation; “but perhaps the lady
will still change her mind. As you know, it is often darkest before the
dawn.”
“Oh yes, sir,” answered Samuel, with a kind of sullen confidence,
“sooner or later she will change her mind, never fear, and I shall marry
her, I am sure of it; but she won’t change her heart, that’s the
point, for she’s given that to another.”
“Well, perhaps, if you get the rest of her, Mr. Rock, you may leave the
heart to the other, for that organ is not of very much practical use by itself,
is it? Might I ask who the other is?”
Samuel shook his head gloomily, and answered:
“It’s all very well for you to joke about hearts, sir, as
haven’t got one—I mean, as don’t take no interest in them;
but they’re everything to me—at least Joan’s is. And as for
who it is, sir, if half I hear is true, it’s that Captain, I mean Sir
Henry Graves. You warned me against him, you remember, and you spoke strong
because I grew angry. Well, sir, I did right to be angry, for it’s him
she loves, Mr. Levinger, and that’s why she hates me. They’re
talking about them all over Bradmouth.”
“Indeed. Well, Bradmouth always was a great place for scandal, and I
should not pay much attention to their tongues, were I you, Mr. Rock. Girls
will have their fancies, you know, and I do not think it is necessary to hunt
round for explanations because this one happens to flout you. I dare say it
will all come right in time, if you have a little patience. Anyway there will
be no more gossip about Joan Haste and Sir Henry Graves, for he has gone home,
where he will find plenty of other things to occupy him, poor fellow. And now I
have a plan of the shed here: perhaps you can explain it to me.”
Samuel expounded his plan and went away, this time without the offer of any
port wine, for it seemed to his host that he was already quite sufficiently
excited.
When he had gone, Mr. Levinger rose from his chair and began to limp up and
down the room, as was his custom when thinking deeply. To Samuel he had made
light of the talk about Sir Henry Graves and Joan Haste, but he knew well that
this was no light matter. He had been kept informed of the progress of their
intimacy by his paid spy, Mrs. Gillingwater, but at the time he could find no
pretext that would enable him to interfere without exposing himself to the risk
of questions, which he preferred should be left unasked. On the previous day
only, Mrs. Gillingwater had come to see him, and given him her version of the
rumours which were flying about as to the scene that occurred at the death-bed
of Sir Reginald. Discount these rumours as he would, he could not doubt but
that they had a basis in fact. That Henry had declined to bind himself to marry
his daughter Emma was clear; and it seemed probable that this refusal, made in
so solemn an hour, had something to do with the girl Joan. And now, on the top
of it, came Samuel Rock with the story of his angry and ignominious rejection
by this same Joan, a rejection that he unhesitatingly attributed to her
intimacy or intrigue with Henry Graves.
The upshot of these reflections was the message received by Joan summoning her
to Monk’s Lodge.
Having escaped from Willie Hood, Joan paused for a minute to recover her
equanimity, then she rang the back-door bell and asked for Mr. Levinger.
Apparently she was expected, for the servant showed her straight to the study,
where she found Mr. Levinger, who rose, shook hands with her courteously, and
invited her to be seated.
“You sent for me, sir,” she began nervously.
“Yes: thank you for coming. I wanted to speak to you about a little
matter.” And he went to the window and stood with his face to the light,
so that she could only see the back of his head.
“Yes, sir.”
“I trust that you will not be pained, my dear girl, if I begin by
alluding to the circumstances of your birth; for, believe me, I do not wish to
pain you.”
“I so often hear them alluded to, in one way or another, sir,”
answered Joan, with some warmth, “that it really cannot matter who speaks
to me about them. I know what I am, though I don’t know any particulars;
and such people should have no feelings.”
Mr. Levinger’s shoulders moved uneasily, and he answered, still
addressing the window-pane, “I fear I can give you no particulars now,
Joan; but pray do not distress yourself, for you least of all people are
responsible for your—unfortunate—position.”
“The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children,”
answered Joan aptly enough. “Not that I have a right to judge
anybody,” and she sighed.
“As I have said,” went on Mr. Levinger, taking no notice of her
interruption, “I am not in a position to give you any details about those
circumstances, or even the name of your father, since to do so would be to
violate a sacred confidence and a solemn promise.”
“What confidence and what promise, sir?”
Mr. Levinger hesitated a little, then answered, “Your dead father’s
confidence, and my promise to him.”
“So, sir, the father who brought me into the world to be the mock of
every one made you promise that you would never tell me his name, even after he
was dead? I am sorry to hear it, sir, for it makes me think worse of him than
ever I did before. Father or no father, he must have been a coward—yes,
such a coward that I can hardly believe it.”
“The case was a very peculiar one, Joan; but if you require any such
assurance, that I am telling you nothing but the truth is evident from the fact
that it would be very easy to tell you a lie. It would not have been difficult
to invent a false name for your father.”
“No, sir; but it would have been awkward, seeing that sooner or later I
should have found out that it was false.”
“Without entering into argument on the question of the morality of his
decision, which is a matter for which he alone was responsible,” said Mr.
Levinger, in an irritated voice, “as I have told you, your father decided
that it would be best that you should never know his name, or anything about
him, except that he was of gentle birth. I believe that it was not cowardice,
as you suggest, which made him take this course, but a regard for the rights
and feelings of others whom he left behind him.”
“And have I no rights and feelings, sir, and did he not leave me behind
him?” Joan answered bitterly. “Is it wonderful that I, who have no
mother, should wish to know who my father was? and could he not have foreseen
that I should wish it? Was it not enough that he should desert me to be brought
up in a public-house by a man who drinks, and a rough woman who hates me and
would like to see me as bad as herself, with no one even to teach me my prayers
when I was little, or to keep me from going to the bad when I grew older? Why
should he also refuse to let me know his name, or the kin from which I come?
Perhaps I am no judge of such matters, sir; but it seems to me that if ever a
man behaved wickedly to a poor girl, my father has done so to me, and, dead or
living, I believe that he will have to answer for it one day, since there is
justice for us all somewhere.”
Suddenly Mr. Levinger wheeled round, and Joan saw that his face was white, as
though with fear or anger, and that his quick eyes gleamed.
“You wicked girl!” he said in a low voice, “are you not
ashamed to call down curses upon your own father, your dead father? Do you not
know that your words may be heard—yes, even outside this earth, and
perhaps bring endless sorrow on him? If he has wronged you, you should still
honour him, for he gave you life.”
“Honour him, sir? Honour the man who deserted me and left me in the mud
without a name? It isn’t such fathers as this that the Prayer-book tells
us to honour. He is dead, you say, and beyond me; and how can my words touch
the dead? But even if they can, could they do him more harm, wherever he is,
than he has done to me here? Oh! you do not understand. I could forgive him
everything, but I can’t forgive that he should make me go through my life
without even knowing his name, or who he was. Had he only left me a kind word,
or a letter, I dare say that I could even have loved him, though I never saw
him. As it is, I think I hate him, and I hope that one day he will know
it.”
As she said these words, Mr. Levinger slowly turned his back upon her and began
to look out of the window again, as though he felt himself unable to face the
righteous indignation that shone in her splendid eyes.
“Joan Haste,” he said, speaking quietly but with effort, “if
you are going to talk in this way I think that we had better bring our
interview to an end, as the conversation is painful to me. Once and for all I
tell you, that if you are trying to get further information out of me you will
fail.”
“I have said my say, sir, and I shall ask you no more questions, except
one; but none the less I believe that the truth will come out some time, for
others must have known what you know, and perhaps after all my father had a
conscience. I’m told that people often see things differently when they
come to die, and he may have done so. The question that I want to ask, sir, if
you will be so kind as to answer it, is: You knew my father, so I suppose that
you knew my mother also, though she’s been dead these twenty years. How
did she come by her death, sir? I have heard say that she was drowned, but
nobody seems able to tell me any more about it.”
“I believe that your mother was found dead beneath the cliff opposite the
meres. How she came there is not known, but it is supposed that she missed her
footing in the dark and fell over. The story of her drowning arose from her
being found at high tide in the shallow water; but the medical evidence at the
inquest showed that death had resulted from a fall, and not from
suffocation.”
“My poor mother!” said Joan, with a sigh. “She was unlucky
all her life, it seems, so I dare say that she was well rid of it, and her
death must have been good news to some. There’s only one thing I’m
sorry for—that I wasn’t in her arms when she went over the edge of
that cliff. And now, sir, about the business.”
“Yes, about the business,” replied Mr. Levinger, with a hard little
laugh; “after so much sentiment it is quite refreshing to come to
business, although unfortunately this has its sentimental side also. You must
understand, Joan, that the parent whom you are so hard on, and whose agent I
chanced to be in bygone years, left me more or less in a fiduciary position as
regards yourself—that is to say, he entrusted me with a certain sum of
money to be devoted to your education, and generally to your advancement in
life, making the proviso that you were not to be brought up as a lady, since,
rightly or wrongly, he did not think that this would conduce to your happiness.
Well, I have strained the letter of my instructions, and you have had a kind of
half-and-half education. Now I think that I should have done better to have
held closer to them; for so far as I can judge, the result has been to make you
dissatisfied with your position and surroundings. However, that is neither here
nor there. You are now of age; the funds at my disposal are practically
exhausted; and I desire to wind up my trust by settling you happily in life, if
I can do so. You will wonder what I am driving at. I will tell you. I
understand that a very worthy farmer, a tenant of mine, who is also a large
freeholder—I mean Mr. Samuel Rock—wishes to make you his wife. Is
this so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Don’t think me rude; but I should be glad to know if
you are inclined to fall in with his views.”
“On the whole, sir,” answered Joan composedly, “I think that
I would rather follow my mother’s example and walk over the cliff at high
tide.”
“That statement seems pretty comprehensive,” said Mr. Levinger,
after a pause; “and, to be frank, I don’t see any way round it. I
am to understand, then, that Mr. Rock is so distasteful to you that you decline
to have anything to do with him?”
“Absolutely, sir: I detest Mr. Rock, and I can scarcely conceive any
circumstances under which I would consent to marry him.”
“Well, Joan, I am sorry, because I think that the marriage would have
been to your advantage; but this is a free country. Still, it is a pity—a
great pity—especially, to be candid, as I have heard your name pretty
roughly handled of late;—in a way, indeed, that is likely to bring
disgrace upon it.”
“You are forgetting, sir, that I have no name to disgrace. What I do, or
leave undone, can matter to nobody. I have only myself to think of.”
“Really this is a most unfortunate tone for any young woman to adopt;
still, I did hope that, if you considered nobody else, you would at least
consider your own reputation. Perhaps you know to what I allude?”
“Yes, sir; I know.”
“Might I ask you if there is any truth in it?”
Then for the first time Joan lied. So far as she was aware, she had never
before told a deliberate falsehood; but now she had entered on a path in which
falsehood of necessity becomes a weapon of self-defence, to be used at all
times and places. She did not pause to think; she knew that she must protect
herself and her lover from this keen-eyed, plausible man, who was searching out
their secret for some purpose of his own.
“No, sir,” she said boldly, looking him in the face, “there
is no truth. I nursed Sir Henry Graves, and I tried to do my duty by him, and
of course people talked about us. For years past I never could speak to a man
but what they talked about me in Bradmouth.”
Mr. Levinger shrugged his shoulders.
“I have asked my question, and I have got my answer. Of course I believe
you; but even if the story were ever so true, I should not have expected any
other reply. Well, I am glad to hear that it is not true, for it would have
been much to the detriment of both yourself and Sir Henry
Graves—especially of Sir Henry Graves.”
“Why especially of Sir Henry, sir? I have always understood that it is
the girl who suffers if there is any talk, because she is the weaker. Not that
talk matters to one like me who has nothing to lose.”
“Because it might interfere with his matrimonial prospects, that is all.
As you may have heard, the affairs of this family are in such a condition that,
if Sir Henry does not marry advantageously, he will be utterly ruined. He may
as well commit suicide as attempt to take a wife without money, however fond he
might be of her, or however charming she was,” Mr. Levinger said
meaningly, watching Joan’s face.
She understood him perfectly, and did not hesitate as to her answer, though it
must have cost her much to speak it.
“I have heard, sir. I have a great regard and respect for Sir Henry
Graves, and I hope that he will settle himself well in life. I happen to know,
also, that there is a young lady who has fortune and is fond of him. I trust
that he will marry her, as she will make him a good wife.”
Mr. Levinger nodded.
“I trust so too, Joan, for everybody’s sake. Thank you for your
good wishes. I was afraid, to speak frankly, that there was some truth in these
tales; that you might selfishly, though naturally enough, adopt a course
towards Sir Henry Graves which would be prejudicial to his true interests; and
that he would possibly be so foolish as to suffer himself to be led
away—as, indeed, any man might be without much blame—by the
affection of such a woman as you are, Joan.”
“I have given you my answer about it, sir. If you think for a minute you
will understand that, had there been any truth in these tales, the more reason
would there be that I should speak as I have done, seeing that no true woman
could wish to injure the man whom she dearly loves, no, not even if it broke
her heart to part with him.”
And Joan turned her head, in a somewhat ineffectual attempt to hide the tears
that welled into her eyes.
Mr. Levinger looked at her with admiration. He did not believe a word of her
statement with reference to herself and Henry. Indeed, he knew it to be false,
and that her denials amounted merely to a formal plea of “not
guilty.”
“Of course, of course,” he said; “but all the same you are a
brave girl, Joan, and I am sure that it will be made up to you in some way or
other. And now—what do you intend to do with yourself?”
“It was of this that I wished to speak to you, sir. I want to go away
from Bradmouth. I am not fit to be a governess: I don’t know enough, and
there are very few people who would care to take me. But I could do as a
shop-girl in London. I have a decent figure, and I dare say that they will
employ me to hang cloaks on for the ladies to look at, only you see I have no
money to start with.”
Mr. Levinger hesitated. Her plan had great advantages from his point of view,
and yet—
“I suppose that you really mean to seek honest employment, Joan? Forgive
me, but—you know you have been talking a little wildly once or twice this
afternoon as to your being without responsibilities to anybody.”
“You need not be afraid, sir,” she said, with a sad smile; “I
want to earn my bread away from here, that is all. If there has been talk about
me in Bradmouth, there shall be none in London, or anywhere else I may
go.”
“I am glad to hear it, Joan. Without some such assurance, an assurance in
which I put the most implicit faith, I could never have helped you in your
plan. As it is, you shall not lack for money. I will give you five-and-twenty
pounds to put in your pocket, and make you an allowance of five pounds a month
for so long as you require it. If you wish to go to London, I know a
respectable woman who takes in girls to lodge, mostly ladies in reduced
circumstances who are earning their living in one way or another. Here is the
address: Mrs. Thomas, 13, Kent Street, Paddington. By the way, you will do well
to get a certificate of character from the clergyman at Bradmouth; my name
would carry no weight, you see. But of course, if you fall into any
difficulties, you will communicate with me at once; and as I have said I
propose to allow you sixty pounds a year, which will be a sufficient sum to
keep you in comfort whether or no you succeed in obtaining employment. Now for
the money,” and he drew his cheque-book from a drawer, but replaced it,
saying, “No, perhaps gold would be more convenient.”
Then he went to a small safe, and, unlocking it, extracted twenty-four pounds
in sovereigns, which, with the exception of some bank-notes, was all that it
contained.
“Twenty-four,” he said, counting them. “I dare say that I can
make up the other sovereign;” and he searched his pockets, producing a
ten-shilling bit and some loose silver.
“Why don’t you give me one of the notes, sir, instead of so much
money?” asked Joan innocently.
“No, no. I always like to make payments in gold, which is the legal
tender, you know; though I am afraid I must give you some silver in this case.
There you are, all but threepence. I shall have to owe you the threepence.
What, you haven’t got a purse? Then tie up the money in the corner of
your pocket-handkerchief, and put it in the bosom of your dress, where it
can’t fall out. I have found that the safest way for a woman to carry
valuables.”
Joan obeyed, saying, “I don’t know if I have to thank you for this
money, sir.”
“Not at all, not at all. It is a portion of your trust fund.”
“I thought you said that the amount was almost exhausted, sir; and if so,
how can you give me this and promise to pay me sixty pounds a year?”
“No, no, you are mistaken; I did not say that—I said it was getting
rather low. But really I don’t quite know how the account stands. I must
look into it. And now, is there anything more?”
“Yes, one thing, sir. I do not want anybody in Bradmouth, or anybody
anywhere, and more especially my aunt, to know whither I have gone, or what my
address is. I have done with the old life, and I wish to begin a new one.”
“Certainly; I understand. Your secret will be safe with me, Joan. And now
good-bye.”
“Good-bye, sir; and many thanks for all that you have done for me in the
past, and for your kindness to-day. You must not think too much of any bitter
words I may have said: at times I remember how lonely I am in the world, and I
think and speak like that, not because I mean it, but because my heart is
sore.”
“It is perfectly natural, and I do not blame you,” answered Mr.
Levinger, as he showed her out of the room. “Only remember what I say:
for aught you know, even the dead may have ears to hear and hearts to feel, and
when you judge them, they, whose mouths are closed, cannot return to explain
what you believe to be their wickedness. Where are you going? To the kitchen?
No, no—the front door, if you please. Good-bye again: good luck to
you!”
“Thank Heaven that she has gone!” Mr. Levinger thought to himself,
as he sat down in his chair. “It has been a trying interview, very
trying, for both of us. She is a plucky woman, and a good one according to her
lights. She lied about Henry Graves, but then it was not to be expected that
she would do anything else; and whatever terms they are on, she is riding
straight now, which shows that she must be very fond of him, poor girl.”