A LUNCHEON PARTY.
Two days after her visit to Mr. Levinger Joan began her simple preparations for
departure, for it was her intention to leave Bradmouth by the ten o’clock
train on the following morning. First, however, after much thought, she wrote
this note to Henry:
“DEAR SIR HENRY GRAVES,
“Thank you for the kind message you sent asking after me. There was never
much the matter, and I am quite well again now. I was very sorry to hear of the
death of Sir Reginald. I fear that it must have been a great shock to you.
Perhaps you would like to know that I am leaving Bradmouth for good and all, as
I have no friends here and do not get on well; besides, it is time that I
should be working for my own living. I am leaving without telling my aunt, so
that nobody will know my address or be able to trouble me to come back. I do
not fear, however, but that I shall manage to hold my own in the world, as I am
strong and active, and have plenty of money to start with. I think you said
that I might have the books which you left behind here, so I am taking them
with me as a keepsake. If I live, they will remind me of the days when I used
to nurse you, and to read to you out of them, long years after you have
forgotten me. Good-bye, dear Sir Henry. I hope that soon you will be quite well
again and happy all your life. I do not think that we shall meet any more, so
again good-bye.
“Obediently yours,
“JOAN HASTE.”
[Illustration: ]
‘Her few books with
which she could not …part.’
When Joan had finished her letter she read it once, kissed it several times,
then placed it in an envelope which she directed to Sir Henry Graves.
“There,” she thought, as she dropped it into the post-box, “I
must go now, or he will be coming to look after me.”
On her way back to the inn she met Willie Hood standing outside the
grocer’s shop, with his coat off and his thumbs hooked in the armholes of
his waistcoat.
“Will you do something for me, Willie?” she asked.
“Anything to oblige a customer, I am sure, Joan Haste,” answered
that forward youth.
“Very well: then will you come round to-morrow morning with a hand-barrow
at six o’clock time—not later, mind and take a box for me to the
station? If so, I will give you a shilling.”
“I’ll be there,” said Willie, “and don’t you
bother about the shilling. Six o’clock, did you say? Very well,
I’ll book it. Anything else to-day, miss?”
Joan shook her head, smiling, and returned home, where she busied herself with
packing the more valued of her few possessions into the deal box that had been
given her when she first went to school. Her wardrobe was not large, but then
neither was the box, so the task required care and selection. First there were
her few books, with which she could not make up her mind to part—least of
all with those that Henry had given her; then there was the desk which she had
won at school as a prize for handwriting, a somewhat bulky and inconvenient
article, although it contained the faded photograph of her mother and many
other small treasures. Next came the doll that some kind lady had given her
many years before, the companion of her childhood, from which she could not be
separated; and an ink-stand presented to her by the Rectory children, with
“from your loving Tommy” scrawled upon the bottom of it. These,
with the few clothes that she thought good enough to take with her, filled the
box to the brim. Having shut it down, Joan thrust it under the bed, so that it
might escape notice should her aunt chance to enter the room upon one of her
spying expeditions, for it was Mrs. Gillingwater’s unpleasant habit to
search everything belonging to her niece periodically, in the hope of
discovering information of interest. Her preparations finished, Joan wrote
another letter. It ran thus:—
“DEAR AUNT,—
“When you get this I shall be gone away, for I write to say good-bye to
you and uncle. I am tired of Bradmouth, and am going to try my fortune in
London, with the consent of Mr. Levinger. I have not told you about it before,
because I don’t wish my movements to come to the ears of other people
until I am gone and can’t be found, and least of all to those of Mr.
Rock. It is chiefly on his account that I am leaving Bradmouth, for I am afraid
of him and want to see him no more. Also I don’t care to stay in a place
where they make so much talk about me. I dare say that you have meant to deal
kindly with me, and I thank you for it, though sometimes you have not seemed
kind. I hope that the loss of the money, whatever it is, that Mr. Levinger pays
on my account, will not make any great difference to you. I know that my going
away will not put you out otherwise, as I do no work here, and often and often
you have told me what a trouble I am; indeed, you will remember that the other
day you threatened to turn me out of the house. Good-bye: please do not bother
about me, or let any one do so, as I shall get on quite well.
Your affectionate niece
JOAN.
Mrs. Gillingwater received this letter on the following afternoon, for Joan
posted it at the station just before the train left. When slowly and painfully
she had made herself mistress of its contents, her surprise and indignation
broke forth in a torrent.
“The little deceitful cat!” she exclaimed, addressing her husband,
whose beer-soaked intelligence could scarcely take in the position, even when
the letter had been twice read to him,—“to think of her sneaking
away like an eel into a rat hole! Hopes the money won’t make much
difference to us, does she! Well, it is pretty well everything we have to live
on, that’s all; though there’s one thing, Joan or no Joan, that old
Levinger shall go on paying, or I’ll know the reason why. It seems that
he helped her off. Well, I think that I can see his game there, but hang me if
I can see hers, unless Sir Henry is going to look after her wheresoever
she’s gone, which ain’t likely, for he can’t afford it. I
call to mind that’s just how her mother went off two or three and twenty
years ago. And you know how she came back and what was the end of her. Joan
will go the same way and come to the same end, or something like it. It’s
in the blood, and you mark my words, Gillingwater. Oh! that girl’s a
master fool if ever there was one. She might have been the lawful wife of
either of them, and now she’ll let both slip through her fingers to earn
six shillings a week by sewing, or some such nonsense. Well, she did right not
to let me know what she was after, or I’d have given her what for by way
of good-bye. And now what shall I say to Samuel? I suppose that he will want
his money back. No play, no pay that’ll be his tune. Well, want must be
his master, that’s all. He was a fool not to make a better use of his
chances when he had them. But I shall never get another stiver out of him
unless I can bring her back again. The sly little hypocrite!” And Mrs.
Gillingwater paused exhausted, and shook her fist in her husband’s face,
more from habit than for any other reason.
“Do you mean to say that Joan is gone?” said that worthy, twirling
his hat vacantly on the table. “Then I’m sorry.”
“Sorry, you lout?—why didn’t you stop her, then?”
“I didn’t stop her because I didn’t know that she was going;
and if I had, I shouldn’t have interfered. But I’m real sorry,
because she was a lady, she was, who always spoke soft and civil—not a
red-faced, screeching varmint of a woman such as some I knows on. Well,
she’s gone, and a good job too for her sake; I wish that I could go after
her,”—and, dodging the blow which his enraged wife aimed at his
head, Mr. Gillingwater sauntered off to drown his regrets at Joan’s
departure in some of the worst beer in Bradmouth.
Henry received Joan’s letter in due course of post, and it would be
difficult to analyse the feelings with which he perused it. He could guess well
enough what were the real causes that had led to her departure from Bradmouth.
She desired to escape from Samuel Rock and the voice of scandal; for by now he
knew that there was scandal about her and himself, though he did not know how
loud and persistent it had become. The hidden tenderness of the letter, and
more especially of those sentences in which she told him that she was taking
his books to remind her, in after years, of the days when she had nursed him,
touched him deeply, and he knew well that no lapse of time would enable him to
attain to that forgetfulness which she prophesied for him. It was dreadful to
him to think that this woman, who had grown so dear to him, should be cast thus
alone into the roaring tide of London life, to sink or to swim as it might
chance. In one sense he had few fears for her indeed: he felt sure that she
would not drift into the society of disreputable people, or herself become
disreputable. He gathered also that she had sufficient funds to keep her from
want, should she fail in obtaining work, and he hazarded a guess as to who it
was that supplied those funds. Still, even under the most favourable
conditions, in such a position a girl like Joan must of necessity be exposed to
many difficulties, dangers, annoyances and temptations. From these he desired
to shield her, as she had a right—the best of rights—to be shielded
by him; but now, of her own act, she removed herself beyond his reach and
knowledge. More, he was secretly afraid that, in addition to those which first
occurred to him, Joan had another reason for her flight: he feared lest she
should have gone, or rather vanished, in order that his path might be made
easier to him and his doubts dissolved.
What was he to do? To ascertain her whereabouts seemed practically impossible.
Doubtless she had gone to London, but even so how was he to find her, unless,
indeed, he employed detectives to search her out, which he had not the
slightest authority to do? He might, it was true, make inquiries in Bradmouth,
where it was possible that somebody knew her address although she declared that
she was leaving none; but, for obvious reasons, he was very loath to take this
course. Indeed, at present he was scarcely in a position to prosecute such
researches, seeing that he was still laid up and likely to remain so for some
weeks. Very soon he came to the conclusion that he must remain passive and
await the development of events. Probably Joan would write to him, but if
nothing was heard of her for the next few weeks or months, then it would be
time to search for her.
Meanwhile Henry found plenty of other things to occupy him. For the first time
he went thoroughly into the affairs of the estate, and was shocked to discover,
firstly, the way at once extravagant and neglectful in which it had been
administered, and secondly, the total amount of its indebtedness. It was in
connection with this painful subject that, about a week after Joan’s
departure, Henry sought an interview with Mr. Levinger. It chanced that another
half-year’s interest on the mortgages was due, also that some money had
been paid in to the credit of the estate on account of the year’s rents.
About the same time there arrived the usual formal letter from Mr. Levinger,
addressed to the executor of Sir Reginald Graves deceased, politely demanding
payment of the interest owing for the current half-year, and calling attention
to the sums overdue, amounting in all to several thousand pounds.
Henry stared at the total and sighed. How was he to meet these overwhelming
liabilities? It seemed impossible that things should be allowed to go on like
this; and yet what was to be done? In the issue he wrote a note to Mr.
Levinger, asking him to call whenever it might be convenient, as unfortunately
he was not able to wait on him.
On the morrow Mr. Levinger arrived, about eleven o’clock in the morning;
indeed, he had expected some such summons, and was holding himself in readiness
to obey it. Nor did he come alone, for, Ellen having learned the contents of
Henry’s letter, had supplemented it by a note to Emma, inviting her to
lunch on the same day, giving, as an excuse, that she wished particularly to
consult her upon some matters connected with dress. This invitation Emma was
very unwilling to accept, for reasons known to herself and the reader, but in
the end her father overruled her, and she consented to accompany him.
Henry was carried downstairs for the first time on the day of their visit, and,
seating himself in the invalid chair, was wheeled into the library. A few
minutes later Mr. Levinger arrived, and greeted him with the refined and gentle
courtesy which was one of his characteristics, congratulating him on the
progress that he had made towards recovery.
“Thank you,” said Henry, “I am perfectly well except for this
wretched leg of mine, which, I fear, will keep me cooped up for some weeks to
come, though I hope to get out a little in the chair. I can’t say that
you look very well, however, Mr. Levinger. You seem thinner and paler than when
we last met.”
“My health has not been grand for years, Graves, and I am sorry to say
that it gets steadily worse. Heart trouble, you know; and that is not a
pleasant thing for a man to have, especially,” he added significantly,
“if his worldly affairs are in an unsettled condition. I have been a good
deal worried of late, and it has told upon me. The truth is that my life is
most precarious, and the sooner I can reconcile myself to the fact the
better.”
“I did not know that things were so serious,” Henry answered, and
then hastened to change the subject. “I received your notice, Mr.
Levinger, and thought that I had better talk the matter over with you. To be
plain, as executor to my father’s estate I find myself able to pay the
sum of five hundred pounds on account of the interest of these mortgages, and
no more.”
“Well, that is something,” said Mr. Levinger, with a little smile.
“For the last two years I have been accustomed to receive nothing.”
“I know, I know,” said Henry: “really I am almost ashamed to
look you in the face. As you are aware, the position was not of my making, but
I inherit it, and am therefore, indirectly, to some extent responsible for it.
I really think, Levinger, that the best thing you can do will be to sell us up,
or to take over the property and manage it yourself. In either case you must, I
fear, suffer a loss, but as things are at present that loss grows daily
greater. You see, the worst of it is that there are several farms coming on
hand at Michaelmas, and I can neither find money to work them nor tenants to
take them. Should they be suffered to go out of cultivation, your security will
be still further depreciated.”
“I should be most sorry to take any such course, Graves, for many
reasons, of which friendship to your family is not the least; and I have no
desire to find the management of a large estate thrust upon me in my condition
of health. Of course, should no other solution be found, some steps must be
taken sooner or later, for, after all, I am only a trustee, and dare not allow
my daughter’s property to be dissipated; but I still hope that a solution
may be found—though, I admit, not so confidently as I did a few months
back.”
“It is no good playing with facts,” answered Henry doggedly:
“for my part I have no such hope.”
Mr. Levinger rose, and laying his hand upon Henry’s shoulder spoke
earnestly.
“Graves,” he said, “think again before you say that. I beg of
you not to force me to measures that would be most distasteful to me, as I
shall be forced if you persist in this declaration—not from any motives
of pique or revenge, mind you, but because I am bound to protect the financial
interests of another person. Will you forgive me if I speak more clearly, as
one friend to another?”
“I’d rather you didn’t; but as you like,” answered
Henry.
“I do like, my dear fellow; because I wish, if possible, to save you from
yourself, and also because my own interests are involved. Graves, what is there
against her? Why don’t you marry her, and have done with all this
miserable business? If you could find a sweeter or a better girl, I might
understand it. But you cannot. Moreover, though her pride may be a little hurt
just now, at heart she is devoted to you.”
“Every word that you say is true, Mr. Levinger, except perhaps your last
statement, which I am modest enough to doubt. But surely you understand,
supposing your daughter to be willing, that it is most humiliating, even for a
bankrupt, to take a wife upon such terms.”
“I understand your pride, Graves, and I like you for it. Remember, it is
not you who are bankrupt, but your father’s estate, of which you are
executor, and that there are occasions in life when pride should give way.
After all, pride is a strictly personal possession; when you die your pride
will die with you, but if you have allowed it to ruin your family, that can
never be repaired. Are you therefore justified in indulging in this peculiar
form of selfishness? And, my dear fellow, are you giving me your true, or
rather your only reason?”
“What makes you ask that question, Mr. Levinger?”
“I have heard some gossip, that is all, Graves, as to a scene that is
supposed to have occurred at your father’s death-bed, in which the name
of a certain young woman was mentioned.”
“Who told you of this? my sister?”
“Certainly not. If walls have ears to hear, do you suppose that nurses
and servants generally are without them? The point is, I have heard it, and, as
you make no contradiction, I presume that it contains a proportion of
truth.”
“If this is so, Mr. Levinger, one might think that it would induce you to
request me to abandon the idea of making any advances to your daughter; but it
seems to have had an opposite effect.”
“Did the story that has reached me prove you to be a confirmed evil
liver, or an unprincipled libertine, this might be the case; but it proves
nothing of the sort. We are liable to fall into folly, all of us, but some of
us can fall out again.”
“You are charitable,” said Henry; “but it seems to me, as
there are two people concerned in this sort of folly, that they owe a duty to
each other.”
“Perhaps, in some cases; but it is one which has not been recognised by
the other person in this instance, seeing that she has gone off and left no
address.”
“Perhaps she felt obliged to go, or perhaps she was sent, Mr.
Levinger.”
“If you mean that I sent her, Graves, you are very much mistaken. I have
had some queer fiduciary relations with this girl for years, and the other day
she came and told me that she was going to London to earn her living. I raised
objections, but she overruled them. She is of age, and I have no control over
her actions; indeed, on reflection, I thought it best that she should go, for I
will not conceal from you that there is a certain amount of loose talk about
her and yourself in Bradmouth. When a young woman gets mixed up in this sort of
thing, my experience is, that she had better either marry or try a change of
air. In this case she declined to marry, although she had an excellent
opportunity of so doing, therefore I fell in with the change of air proposal,
and I learn that within a day or two she went away nobody knows whither. I have
no doubt, however, that sooner or later I shall hear of her whereabouts, for
she is entitled to an allowance of sixty pounds a year, which she will
certainly not forget to draw. Till then—unless, indeed, you know her
address already—you will scarcely find her; and if you are not going to
marry her, which I gather she has never desired, I’ll do you the justice
to suppose that you cannot wish to follow her, and disturb her in her
employment, whatever it may be, since such a course would probably lead to her
losing it.”
“You are right there: I never wish to see her again, unless it is in
order to ask her to become my wife.”
“Then do not see her, Graves. For her sake, for your own, for your
mother’s, and for mine, or rather for my daughter’s, I beg you not
to see her, or to allow these quixotic notions of yours to drag you down to
ruin. Let the thing alone, and all will be well; follow it up, and you are a
lost man. Do you think that you would find happiness in such a
marriage?—I am putting aside all questions of duty, position and
means—I tell you, I am not speaking without my book,” he added
fiercely, “and I warn you that when you had grown accustomed to her
beauty, and she had ceased to wonder at your generosity, your life would become
a hell. What sympathy can there be between individuals so different in
standing, in taste, and in education? How would you bear the jealousies, the
passions, and the aggressive ignorance of such a woman? How could you continue
to love her when you remembered in what fashion your affection had begun; when
for her sake you found yourself a social outcast, and when, every time that you
beheld her face, you were constrained to recollect that it was the
wrecker’s light which lured you, and through you all whom you hold dear,
to utter and irretrievable disaster? I tell you that I have seen such cases,
and I have seen their miserable ends; and I implore you, Henry Graves, to pause
before you give another and a signal example of them.”
“You speak very feelingly,” said Henry, “and no doubt there
is a great deal of truth in what you say. I had two messmates who made
_mésalliances,_ and certainly it didn’t answer with them, for
they have both gone to the dogs—indeed, one poor fellow committed
suicide. However, it is very difficult to argue on such matters, and still more
difficult to take warning from the fate of others, since the circumstances are
never similar. But I promise you this, Levinger, that I will do nothing in a
hurry—for two or three months, indeed—and that I will take no step
in the matter without informing you fully of my intentions, for I think that
this is due to you. Meanwhile, if you are good enough to allow me to remain
upon friendly terms with your daughter and yourself, I shall be glad, though I
am sure I do not know how she will receive me. Within a few months I shall
finally have decided upon my course of action, and if I then come to the
conclusion that I am not bound in honour elsewhere, perhaps I may ask you to
allow me to try my fortune with Miss Levinger, unworthy of her as I am and
always shall be.”
“I can find no fault with that arrangement, Graves. You have set out your
mind like an honest man, and I respect you for it. It will make me the more
anxious to learn, when the three months are up, that you have decided to forget
all this folly and to begin afresh. Now I have something to ask you: it is
that, so soon as you can get about again, you will pay us the visit which was
so unfortunately postponed. Please understand I do not mean that I wish you to
make advances to my daughter, but I should like you to grow to know each other
better in an ordinary and friendly fashion. Will you come?”
Henry reflected, and answered, “Thank you, yes, I will.”
At this moment the door was opened, and the butler, Thomson, announced that
lunch was ready, adding, “Shall I wheel you in, Sir Henry? Her ladyship
bids me say she hopes that you will come.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” he answered. “Here, give me a hand into
the chair.”
In another minute they were advancing in solemn procession across the hall, Mr.
Levinger walking first, leaning on his stick, and Henry following after in the
invalid chair propelled by Thomson. So agitated was he at the thought of
meeting Emma, and by a secret fear, born of a guilty conscience that she would
know that he and her father had been employing the last hour in discussing her,
that he forgot to guide the chair properly, and despite Thomson’s
warning, “To the right, Sir Henry,” he contrived to strike the jamb
of the door so sharply that he must have over-turned had not Emma, who was
standing close by, sprung forward and seized the wheel.
In one way this accident was fortunate, for it lessened the awkwardness of
their meeting. Henry apologised and she laughed; and presently they were seated
side by side at table, discussing the eccentricities of invalid chairs with
somewhat unnecessary persistence and fervour.
After this the lunch went off well enough. It was not an altogether cheerful
meal, indeed; but then nothing at Rosham was ever quite cheerful, and probably
nothing had been for generations. The atmosphere of the place, like its
architecture, was oppressive, even lugubrious, and the circumstances in which
the present company were assembled did not tend towards unrestrained gaiety.
Ellen talked energetically of matters connected with dress, in which Emma did
not seem to take any vivid interest; Lady Graves threw in an occasional remark
about the drought and the prevalence of blight upon the roses; while Henry for
the most part preserved a discreet, or rather an embarrassed, silence; and Mr.
Levinger discoursed sweetly upon the remote and impersonal subject of British
coins, of a whole potful of which it appeared that he had recently become the
proud possessor.
“Sir Henry has promised to come and see them, my dear,” he said to
Emma pointedly, after he had at length succeeded in stirring his audience into
a flabby and intermittent interest in the crown that Caractacus wore, or was
supposed to wear, upon a certain piece of money.
“Indeed,” she answered quickly, bending her head as though to
examine the pattern of her plate.
“Your father has been so kind as to ask me for the second time, Miss
Levinger,” Henry remarked uneasily, “and I propose to avail myself
of his invitation so soon as I am well enough not to be a nuisance that is, if
it is convenient.”
“Of course it will always be convenient to see you, Sir Henry
Graves,” Emma replied coldly, “or indeed anybody whom my father
likes to ask.”
“That’s one for Henry,” reflected Ellen. “Serves him
right too.” Then she added aloud: “A few days at Monk’s Lodge
will be a very nice change for you, dear, and I hope that you may arrive safely
this time. Would you like to take a walk round the garden, Emma, while your
father smokes a cigarette?”
Emma rose gladly, for she felt the moral atmosphere of the dining-room to be in
a somewhat volcanic state, and was terribly afraid lest a few more sparks of
Ellen’s sarcastic wit should produce an explosion. For half an hour or so
they sauntered through the old-fashioned shrubberies and pleasure grounds, the
charms of which their overrun and neglected condition seemed to enhance, at
least at this season of the year. Then it was that Ellen confided to her
companion that she expected to be married about the middle of November, and
that she hoped that Emma would come to town with her some time in October to
assist her in completing her trousseau. Emma hesitated for a moment, for she
could not disguise from herself the fact that her friendship for Ellen, at no
time a very deep one, had cooled; indeed, she was not sure whether she quite
trusted her. In the end, however, she assented, subject to her father’s
consent, for she had very rarely been in London, and she felt that a change of
scene and ideas would do her good. Then they turned back to the house, to find
that the dog-cart was standing at the door.
“One word, my dear,” said Ellen, halting: “I am so glad that
Henry is going to stop at Monk’s Lodge. He is a most curious creature,
and I hope that you will be patient with him, and forgive him all his
oddities.”
“Really, Ellen,” answered Emma, with suppressed irritation,
“I have nothing to forgive Sir Henry, and of course I shall be glad to
see him whenever he chooses to come.”
“I am by no means sure,” reflected Ellen, as she watched the
Levingers drive away, “but that this young lady has got more spirit than
I gave her credit for. Henry had better look out, or he will lose his chance,
for I fancy that she will become as difficult to deal with in the future as he
has been in the past.”