“LET IT REMAIN OPEN.”
Outside the door of Monk’s Lodge, Joan met Emma returning from a walk. As
usual she was dressed in white, and, to Joan’s fancy, looked pure as a
wild anemone in the April sun, and almost as frail. She would have passed her
with a little salutation that was half bow, half courtesy, but Emma held out
her hand.
“How do you do, Miss Haste?” she said, with a slight nervous tremor
of her voice. “I did not know that you were up here,” and she
stopped; but her look seemed to add, “And I wonder why you have
come.”
“I am going to leave Bradmouth, and I came to say good-bye to Mr.
Levinger, who has always been very kind to me,” Joan replied, with
characteristic openness, answering the look and not the words. She felt that,
in the circumstances, it was best that she should be open with Miss Levinger.
Emma looked surprised. “I was not aware that you were going,” she
said; but again Joan felt that what astonished her was not the news of her
approaching departure, but the discovery that she was on intimate terms with
her father. She was right. Emma remembered that he had spoken disparagingly of
this girl, and as though he knew nothing about her. It seemed curious, then,
that he should have been “very kind” to her, and that she should
come to bid him good-bye. Here was another of those mysteries with which her
father’s life seemed to be surrounded, and which so frequently made her
feel uncomfortable and afraid of she knew not what. “Won’t you come
in and have some tea?” Emma asked kindly.
“No, thank you, miss; I have to walk home, and I must not stay any
longer.”
“It is a long way, and you look tired. Let me order the dog-cart for
you.”
“Indeed no, thank you. I haven’t been very well—that is why I
am paler than usual. But I am quite strong again now,” and Joan made a
movement as though to start on her walk.
“If you will allow me, I will come a little way with you,” said
Emma timidly.
“I shall be very pleased, miss.”
The two girls turned, and, for a while, walked side by side in silence, each of
them wondering about the other and the man who was dear to both.
“Are you going to be a nurse?” asked Emma at length.
“Oh no! What made you think that?”
“Because you nursed Captain—I mean Sir Henry—Graves so
wonderfully,” Emma answered, colouring. “Dr. Childs told me he
believed that you saved his life.”
“Then I have done something in the world,” said Joan, with a little
laugh; “but it is the first that I have heard of it.”
“Really! Haven’t they thanked you?”
“Somebody offered to pay me, if you mean that, miss.”
“No, no; I didn’t mean it. I meant that we are all grateful to you,
so very grateful—at least, his family are. Then what do you intend to do
when you go away?” she asked, changing the subject suddenly.
“I don’t know, miss. Earn my living as best I can—as a shop
girl probably.”
“It seems rather terrible starting by oneself out into the unknown, like
this. Does it not frighten you?”
“Perhaps it does,” answered Joan; “but beggars cannot be
choosers. I can’t stop here, where I have nothing to do; and, you see, I
am alone in the world.”
Emma understood the allusion, and said hastily:
“I am very sorry for you—I am indeed, if you won’t be angry
with me for saying so. It is cruel that you should have to suffer like this for
no fault of your own. It would kill me if I found myself in the same
position—yes, I am sure that it would.”
“Luckily, or unluckily, it doesn’t kill me, miss, though sometimes
it is hard enough to bear. You see that the burden is laid upon the broadest
back, and I can carry what would crush you. Still, I thank you for your
sympathy and the kind thought which made you speak it. I have very few memories
of that sort, and I shall never forget this one.”
For another five minutes or so they went on without speaking, since their fount
of conversation seemed to have dried up. At length, beginning to feel the
silence irksome, Emma stopped and held out her hand, saying that she would now
return.
“Would you listen to a word or two from me before you go, miss? And would
you promise not to repeat it no, not to Mr. Levinger even?” said Joan
suddenly.
“Certainly, if you wish it. What is it about?”
“About you and myself and another person. Miss Levinger, I am going away
from here—I believe for good—and I think it likely that we shall
not meet again. It is this that makes me bold to speak to you. When I am gone
you will hear all sorts of tales about me and Sir Henry.”
“Really—really!” said Emma, in some distress.
“Listen to me, miss: there is nothing very dreadful, and I speak for your
own good. While all this sickness was on I learned something I learned that you
are fond of Sir Henry, never mind how——”
“I know how,” murmured Emma. “Oh! did you tell him?”
“I told him nothing; indeed, I had nothing to tell. I saw you faint, and
I guessed the rest. What I want to ask you is this: that you will believe no
stories which may be told against Sir Henry, for he is quite blameless. Now I
have only one thing more to say, and it is, that I have watched him and known
him well; and, if you do not cling to him through good and through evil, you
will be foolish indeed, for there is no better man, and you will never find
such another for a husband. I wish that it may all come about, and that you may
be happy with him through a long life, Miss Levinger.”
Emma heard, and, though vaguely as yet, understood all the nobility and
self-sacrifice of her rival. She also loved this man, and she renounced him for
the sake of his own welfare. Otherwise she would never have spoken thus.
“I do not know what to answer you,” she said. “I do not deny
it is true that I am attached to Sir Henry, though I have no right to be. What
am I to answer you?”
“Nothing, except this: that under any circumstances you will not believe
a word against him.”
“I can promise that, if it pleases you.”
“It does please me; for, wherever I am, I should like to think of you and
of him as married and happy, for I know that he will make you a good husband,
as you will make him a good wife. And now again, good-bye.”
Emma looked at Joan and tried to speak, but could find no words; then suddenly
she put out her arms and attempted to kiss her.
“No,” said Joan, holding her back; “do not kiss me, but
remember what I have said, and think kindly of me if you can.”
Then she walked away swiftly, without looking back, leaving Emma standing
bewildered upon the road.
“I have done it now,” thought Joan to herself “for good or
evil I have done it, though I don’t quite know what made me speak like
that. She will understand now: some women might not take it well, but I think
that she will, because she wants to. Oh! if I had known all that was at stake,
I’d have acted very differently. I’ve been a wicked girl, and
it’s coming home to me. I thought that I could only harm myself, but it
seems I may ruin him, and that I’ll never do; I’d rather make away
with myself. I suppose that we cannot sin against ourselves alone; the innocent
must suffer with the guilty, that’s the truth of it, as I suffer to-day
because my father and mother were guilty more than twenty years ago. Still, it
is hard—very hard—to have to go away and give him up to her; to
have to humble myself before her, and to tell lies to her father, when I know
that if it wasn’t for my being nobody’s child, and not fit to marry
an honest man, and for this wretched money, I could be the best wife to him
that ever he could have. Yes, and make him love me too, though I am almost sure
that he does not really love me now. Well, she has the name and the fortune,
and will do as well, I dare say; and some must dig thistles while others pluck
flowers. Still, it is cruel hard, and, though I am afraid to die, I wish that I
were dead, I do—I do!”
Then the poor girl began to sob as she walked, and, thus sobbing and furtively
wiping away the tears that would run from her eyes, she crept back to the inn
in the twilight, thoroughly weary and broken in spirit.
When Emma reached Monk’s Lodge she found her father leaning over the
front gate, as though he were waiting for her.
“Where have you been, love?” he said, in that tone of tenderness
which he always adopted when speaking to his daughter. “I thought that I
saw you on the road with somebody, and began to wonder why you were so
late.”
“I have been walking with Joan Haste,” she answered absently.
“Why have you been walking with her?” he asked, in a quick and
suspicious voice. “She is very well in her way, but not altogether the
person for you to make a companion of.”
“I don’t know about that, father. I should say that she was quite
my equal, if not my superior, except that I have been a little better
educated.”
“Well, well, perhaps so, Emma; but I should prefer that you did not
become too intimate with her.”
“There is no need to fear that, father, as she is going away from
Bradmouth.”
“Oh! she told you that she was leaving here, did she? And what else did
she tell you?”
“A good deal about herself. Of course I knew something of her story
before; but I did not know that she felt her position so bitterly. Poor girl!
she has been cruelly treated.”
“I really fail to see it, Emma. Considering the unfortunate circumstances
connected with her, it seems to me that she has been very well treated.”
“I don’t think so, father, and you only believe it because you are
not a woman and do not understand. Suppose, now, that I, your daughter whom you
are fond of, were in her place to-day, without a friend or home, feeling myself
a lady and yet obliged to mix with rough people and to be the mark of their
sneers, jealousy and evil-speaking, should you say that I was well treated?
Suppose that I was going to-morrow to be thrown, without help or experience, on
to the world to earn my bread there, should you——”
“I absolutely decline to suppose anything of the sort, Emma,” he
answered passionately. “Bother the girl! Why does she put such ideas into
your head?”
“Really, father,” she said, opening her eyes wide, “there is
no need for you to get angry with Joan Haste, especially as she told me that
you had always been so kind to her.”
“I am not angry, Emma, but one way and another that girl gives me more
trouble than enough. She might make a very good marriage, and settle herself in
life out of reach of all these disagreeables, about which she seems to have
been whining to you, but she is so pig-headed that she won’t.”
“But surely, father, you wouldn’t expect her to marry a man she
doesn’t like, would you? Why, I have heard you say that you thought it
better that a woman should never be born than that she should be forced into a
distasteful marriage.”
“Circumstances alter cases, and certainly it would have been better if
_she_ had never been born,” answered Mr. Levinger, who seemed quite
beside himself with irritation. “However, there it is: she won’t
marry, she won’t do anything except bring trouble upon others with her
confounded beauty, and make herself the object of scandal.”
“I think that it is time for me to go and dress,” said Emma coldly.
“I forgot, my dear; I should not have spoken of that before you, but
really I feel quite unhinged to-night. I suppose that you have no idea of what
I am alluding to, but if not you soon will have, for some kind friend is sure
to tell you.”
“I—have an idea, father.”
“Very well. Then I may as well tell you that it is all nonsense.”
“I am not sure that it is all nonsense,” she answered, in the same
restrained voice; “but whether it is nonsense or no, it has nothing to do
with me.”
“Nothing to do with you, Emma! Do you mean that? Listen, my love: these
are delicate matters, but if any one may speak to a woman about them, her
father may. Do you remember that nearly two years ago, when you were more
intimate and open with me than you are now, Emma, you told me that Henry Graves
had—well, taken your fancy?”
“I remember. I told you because I did not think it likely that I should
meet him again, and because you said something to me about marrying, and I
wished to put a stop to the idea.”
“Yes, I quite understand; but I gathered from what took place the other
day, when poor Graves was so ill, that you still entertain an affection for
him.”
“Oh! pray do not speak of that,” she murmured: “I cannot bear
it even from you; it covers me with shame. I was mad, and you should have paid
no attention to it.”
“I am sorry to give you pain or to press you, Emma, but I should be
deeply grateful if you would make matters a little clearer. Never mind about
Henry Graves and his attitude towards you: I want to understand yours towards
him. As you know, or if you do not know I beg you to believe it, your happiness
is the chief object of my life, and to secure that happiness to you I have
planned and striven for years. What I wish to learn now is: do you desire to
have done with Henry Graves? If so, tell me at once. It will be a great blow to
me, for he is the man of all others to whom, for many reasons, I should like to
see you married, and doubtless if matters are left alone he will marry you. But
in this affair your wish is my law, and if you would prefer it I will wind up
the mortgage business, cut the connection to-morrow, and then we can travel for
a year in Egypt, or wherever you like. Sometimes I think that this would be the
best course. But it is for you to choose, not for me. You are a woman full
grown, and must know your own mind. Now, Emma.”
“What do you mean by winding up the mortgage business, father?”
“Oh! the Graves’s owe us some fifty or sixty thousand pounds, and
it is not a paying investment, that is all. But don’t you bother about
that, Emma: confine yourself to the personal aspect of the question,
please.”
“It is very hard to have to decide so quickly. Can I not give you an
answer in a few days, father?”
“No, Emma, you can’t. I will not be kept halting between two
opinions any longer. I want to know what line to take at once.”
“Well, then, on the whole I think that perhaps you had better not
‘wind up the business.’ I very much doubt if anything will come of
this. I am by no means certain that I wish anything to come of it, but we will
let it remain open.”
“In making that answer, Emma, I suppose that you are bearing in mind
that, though I believe it to be all nonsense, the fact is not to be concealed
that there is some talk about Graves and Joan Haste.”
“I am bearing it in mind, father. The talk has nothing to do with me. I
do not wish to know even whether it is false or true, at any rate at present.
True or false, there will be an end of it now, as the girl is going away. I
hope that I have made myself clear. I understand that, for reasons of your own,
you are very anxious that I should marry Sir Henry Graves, should it come in my
way to do so; and I know that his family desire this also, because it would be
a road out of their money difficulties. What Sir Henry wishes himself I do not
know, nor can I say what I wish. But I think that if I stood alone, and had
only myself to consider, I should never see him again. Still I say, let it
remain open, although I decline to bind myself to anything definite. And now I
must really go and dress.”
“I do not know that I am much ‘for’arder,’ after all,
as Samuel Rock says,” thought Mr. Levinger, looking after her. “Oh,
Joan Haste! you have a deal to answer for.” Then he also went to dress.
The two interviews in which Emma had taken part this afternoon—that with
Joan and that with her father—had, as it were, unsealed her eyes and
opened her ears. Now she saw the significance of many a hint of Ellen’s
and her father’s which hitherto had conveyed no meaning to her, and now
she understood what it was that occasioned the forced manner which had struck
her as curious in Henry’s bearing towards herself, even when he had
seemed most at his ease and pleased with her. Doubtless the knowledge that he
was expected to marry a particular girl, in order that by so doing he might
release debts to the amount of fifty thousand pounds, was calculated to cause
the manner of any man towards that girl to become harsh and suspicious, and
even to lead him to regard her with dislike. This was why he had been forced to
leave the Service, for this reason “his family had desired his
presence,” and the opening in life, the only one that remained to him, to
which he had alluded so bitterly, but significantly enough avoided specifying,
was to marry a girl with fortune, to marry her—Emma Levinger.
It was a humiliating revelation, and though perhaps Emma had less pride than
most women, she felt it sorely. She was deeply attached to this man; her heart
had gone out to him when she first saw him, after the unaccountable fashion
that hearts sometimes affect. Still, having learned the truth, she was quite in
earnest when she told her father that, were she alone concerned, she would meet
him no more. But she was not alone in the matter, and it was this knowledge
that made her pause. To begin with, there was Henry himself to be considered,
for it seemed that if he did not marry her he would be ruined or something very
like it; and, regarding him as she did, it became a question whether she ought
not to outrage her pride in order to save him if he would be saved. Also she
knew that her father wished for this marriage above all things—that it
was, indeed, one of the chief objects of his life; though it was true that in
an inexplicable fit of irritation with everything and everybody, he had but now
offered to bring the affair to nothing. Why he should be so set upon it she
could not understand, any more than she could understand why he should have
been so vexed when she illustrated her sense of the hardship of Joan’s
position by supposing herself to be similarly placed. These were some of the
mysteries by which their life was surrounded, mysteries that seemed to thicken
daily. After what she had seen and heard this afternoon she began to believe
that Joan Haste herself was another of them. Joan had told her that her father
had always been kind to her. Taken by itself there was nothing strange about
this, for Emma knew him to be charitable to many people, but it was strange
that he should have practically denied all knowledge of the girl some few weeks
before. Perhaps he knew more about her than he chose to say—even who she
was and where she came from.
Now it appeared that her presentiment was coming true, and that Joan herself
was playing some obscure and undefined part in the romance or intrigue in which
she, Emma, was the principal though innocent actor. In effect, Joan had given
her to understand that she was in love with Henry, and yet she had implored her
to marry Henry. Why, if Joan was in love with him, should she desire another
woman to marry him? It was positively bewildering, also it was painful, and,
like everything else connected with this business, humbling to her pride. She
felt herself being involved in a network of passions, motives and interests of
which she could only guess the causes, and the issues whereof were dark; and
she longed, ah, how she longed to escape from it back into the freedom of clear
purpose and honest love! But would she ever escape? Could she ever hope to be
the cherished wife of the man whom too soon she had learned to love? Alas! she
doubted it. And yet, whatever was the reason, she could not make up her mind to
have done with him, either for his sake or her own.