AN INTERLUDE.
A MONTH or five weeks went by at Rosham almost without incident. For the moment
money troubles were in abeyance, seeing that the payment of the interest due on
the mortgages was not pressed, and the sale of Lady Graves’s jewels had
provided sufficient funds to meet the most immediate claims, to pay household
expenses, and even to provide for Ellen’s trousseau upon a moderate
scale. By degrees Henry regained the use of his injured limb, though it was now
evident that he would carry the traces of his accident to the grave in the
shape of a pronounced limp. In all other respects he was bodily as well as ever
he had been, though he remained much troubled in mind. Of Joan he had heard
nothing; and it appeared that nobody knew where she had gone, or what she was
doing, except possibly Mr. Levinger, whom he scarcely cared to ask for tidings.
That her aunt did not know was evident from the fact that one morning she
arrived at the Hall, and, adopting a tone in which obsequiousness and violence
were curiously mixed, taxed him roundly with having spirited her niece away. In
vain did Henry assure her that he knew no more of Joan’s whereabouts than
she did herself; since she either did not or would not believe him, and at
length departed, breathing threats that if the girl was not forthcoming shortly
she would “make it hot for him, baronet or no baronet.” For his
part Henry was somewhat at a loss to understand Mrs. Gillingwater’s
conduct, since he knew well that she had no sort of affection for her niece,
and it was obvious from her words that she was rather proud than otherwise of
the gossip connecting Joan’s name with his own.
“I know all about your goings on,” she had said, “though I
haven’t come here to preach to you, for that’s your affair and
hers; but I do say that if you call yourself a gentleman you should do what is
handsome by the girl, seeing that you’ve stood in the way of her making a
good marriage; and, to put it plump, Sir Henry, I think that you are in duty
bound to do something for me too, bearing in mind all the ‘truck’
that I’ve had about the two of you, and that one has been taken away from
me as was dearer than a daughter.”
The real explanation of this estimable person’s behaviour was twofold. In
the first place, Joan being gone, she had lost the monthly sum that was paid
for her board, and in the second she had been bribed by Samuel Rock to win the
secret of her hiding-place from Henry. In due course Mrs. Gillingwater reported
the failure of her mission to Samuel, who, needless to say, did not believe a
word of Henry’s denial. Indeed, he accused Mrs. Gillingwater first of
being a fool, and next of taking money from the enemy as well as from himself,
with the result that a very pretty quarrel ensued between the pair of them.
After a few days’ reflection Samuel determined to take the matter into
his own hands. Already he had attempted to extract information about Joan from
Mr. Levinger, who, however, professed ignorance, and would give him none.
Having ascertained that the man was hateful to Joan, Mr. Levinger had the good
feeling to wish to protect her from his advances; for he saw well that if once
Rock learned her address he would follow her like a shadow, and if necessary
hunt her from place to place, importuning her to marry him. The girl was out of
the way, which was much, though of course it would be better were she safely
married. But, greatly as he might desire such a thing, he would be no party to
her persecution. Joan, he felt, was doing her best to further his plans; in
return he would do everything in his power—at least, everything that
circumstances permitted— to promote her comfort and welfare. She should
not lack for money, nor should she be tormented by Samuel Rock.
Having drawn the Monk’s Lodge covers blank, Mr. Rock turned his attention
to those of Rosham. As a first step he sent Mrs. Gillingwater to whine and
threaten, with results that we have already learned. Then he determined to go
himself. He did not, however, drive up to the Hall and ask boldly to see Sir
Henry, as Mrs. Gillingwater had done, for such an act would not have been in
keeping with his character. Samuel’s nature was a furtive one. Did he
desire to see a person, he would lurk about for hours in order to meet him on
some path which he knew that he must follow, rather than accost him in a public
place. Even in business transactions, of which he had many, this custom clung
to him. He was rarely seen on market days, and so well were his habits known,
that customers desiring to buy his fat stock or his sheep or his hay would wait
about the land till he “happened” on them in the course of his
daily round.
Thus he made three separate visits to Rosham before he succeeded in meeting
Henry. On the first occasion he discovered that it was his practice—for
by now Henry could get about—to walk round the home-farm after breakfast.
Accordingly Rock returned on the following day; but the weather chanced to be
bad, and Henry did not come out. Next morning he was more fortunate. Having put
up his cart at the village inn, he took his stand upon an eminence, as though
he were a wandering poet contemplating the beauties of Nature, and waited.
Presently he saw Henry appear out of a cow-shed and cross some fields in his
direction, whereon Samuel retreated behind a hay-stack. Five minutes passed,
and Henry hobbled by within three yards of him. He followed at his heels,
unable to make up his mind how to begin the interview, walking so softly on the
grass that it was not until Henry observed another shadow keeping pace with his
own that he became aware of his presence. Then, not unnaturally, he wheeled
round suddenly, for the apparition of this second shadow in the open field,
where he had imagined himself to be alone, was almost uncanny. So quickly did
he turn, indeed, that Samuel ran into him before he could stop himself.
“Who the devil are you?” said Henry, lifting his stick, for his
first thought was that he was about to be attacked by a tramp. “Oh! I beg
your pardon,” he added: “I suppose that you are the person who is
coming to see me about the Five Elms farm?”
“I’ve been waiting to see you, sir,” said Samuel
obsequiously, and lifting his hat—“in fact, I’ve been waiting
these three mornings.”
“Then why on earth didn’t you come and speak to me, my good man,
instead of crawling about after me like a Red Indian? It’s easy enough to
find me, I suppose?”
“It isn’t about a farm that I wish to see you, sir,” went on
Samuel, ignoring the question. “No, sir, this ain’t no matter
between a proud landlord and a poor tenant coming to beg a few pounds off his
rent for his children’s bread, as it were. This is a matter between man
and man, or perhaps between man and woman.”
“Look here,” said Henry, “are you crazed, or are you asking
me riddles? Because, if so, you may as well give it up, for I hate them. What
is your name?”
“My name, sir, is Samuel Rock,”—here his manner suddenly
became insolent,—“and I have come to ask you a riddle; and
what’s more, I mean to get an answer to it. What have you done with Joan
Haste?”
“Oh! I see,” said Henry. “I wonder I didn’t recognise
you. Now, Mr. Samuel Rock, by way of a beginning let me recommend you to keep a
civil tongue in your head. I’m not the kind of person to be bullied, do
you understand?”
Samuel looked at Henry’s blue eyes, that shone somewhat ominously, and at
his determined chin and mouth, and understood.
“I’m sure I meant no offence, sir,” he replied, again
becoming obsequious.
“Very well: then be careful to give none. It is quite easy to be polite
when once you get used to it. Now I will answer your question. I have done
nothing with Joan Haste—about whom, by the way, you have not the
slightest right to question me. I don’t know where she is, and I have
neither seen nor heard of her for several weeks. Good morning!”
“That, sir, is a——”
“Now, pray be careful.” And Henry turned to go.
“We don’t part like that, sir,” said Rock, following him and
speaking to him over his shoulder. “I’ve got some more to say to
you.”
“Then say it to my face; don’t keep sneaking behind me like an
assassin. What is it?”
“This, sir: you have robbed me, sir; you have taken my ewe-lamb as David
did to Nathan, and your reward shall be the reward of David.”
“Oh, confound you and your ewe-lamb!” said Henry, who was fast
getting beyond argument. “What do you want?”
“I want her back, sir. I don’t care what’s happened; I
don’t care if you have stolen her; I tell you I want her back.”
“Very well, then, go and find her; but don’t bother me.”
“Oh yes, I’ll find her in time; I’ll marry her, never you
fear; but I thought that you might be able to help me on with it, for
she’s nothing to you; but you see it’s this way—I can’t
live without her.”
“I have told you, Mr. Rock, that I don’t know where Joan Haste is;
and if I did, I may add that I would not help you to find her, as I believe she
is hiding herself to keep out of your way. Now will you be so good as to
go?”
Then Samuel burst into a flood of incoherent menaces and abuse, born of his
raging hate and jealousy. Henry did not follow the torrent—he did not
even attempt to do so, seeing that his whole energies were occupied in a
supreme effort to prevent himself from knocking this creature down.
“She’s mine, and not yours,” he ended. “I’m an
honest man, I am, and I mean to marry her like an honest man; and when
I’ve married her, just you keep clear, Sir Henry Graves, or, by the God
that made me, I’ll cut your throat!”
“Really,” ejaculated Henry, “this is too much! Here,
Jeffries, and you, Bates,” he called to two men in his employ who chanced
to be walking by: “this person seems to be the worse for drink. Would you
be so good as to take him off the premises? And look here—be careful that
he never comes back again.”
Messrs. Jeffries and Bates grinned and obeyed; for, as it happened, they both
knew Samuel, and one of them had a grudge against him.
“You hear what Sir Henry says. Now come you on, master,” said
Jeffries. “Surely it is a scandal to see a man the worse for beer at this
time of day. Come on, master.”
By now Samuel’s passion had spent itself, and he went quietly enough,
followed by the two labourers. Henry watched him disappear towards the road,
and then said aloud:—
“Upon my word, Joan Haste, fond as I am of you, had I known half the
trouble and insult that I must suffer on your account, I would have chosen to
go blind before ever I set eyes upon your face.”
Within a week of this agreeable interview with Samuel Rock, Henry set out to
pay his long-promised visit to Monk’s Lodge. This time he drove thither,
and no further accident befell him. But as he passed by Ramborough Abbey he
reflected sadly enough on the strange imbroglio in which he had become involved
since the day when he attempted to climb its ruined tower. At present things
seemed to be straightening themselves out somewhat, it was true; but a warning
sense told him that there were worse troubles to come than any which had gone
before.
The woman who was at the root of these evils had vanished, indeed; but he knew
well that all which is hidden is not necessarily lost, and absence did not
avail to cure him of his longing for the sight of her dear face. He might wish
that he had been stricken blind before his eyes beheld it; but he had looked
upon it, alas! too long, nor could he blot out its memory. He tried to persuade
himself that he did not care; he tried to believe that his sensations were
merely the outcome of flattered vanity; he tried, even, to forbid his mind to
think of her,—only to experience the futility of one and all of these
endeavours.
Whether or no he was “in love” with Joan, he did not know, since,
never having fallen into that condition, he had no standard by which to measure
his feelings. What he had good cause to know, however, was that she had taken
possession of his waking thoughts in a way that annoyed and bewildered
him—yes, and even of his dreams. The vision of her was all about him;
most things recalled her to him, directly or indirectly, and he could scarcely
listen to a casual conversation, or mix in the society of other women, without
being reminded—by inference, contrast, or example—of something that
she had said or done. His case was by no means hopeless; for even now he knew
that time would cure the trouble, or at least draw its sting. He was not a lad,
to be carried away by the wild passion which is one of the insane privileges of
youth; and he had many interests, ambitions, hopes and fears with which this
woman was not connected, though, as it chanced at present, her subtle influence
seemed to pervade them all.
Meanwhile his position towards her was most painful. She had gone, leaving him
absolutely in the dark as to her wishes, motives, or whereabouts; leaving him
also to suffer many things on her account, not the least of them being the
haunting knowledge of what, in her silence and solitude, she must be suffering
upon his.
Well, he had debated the matter till his mind grew weary, chiefly with the
object of discovering which among so many conflicting duties were specious and
which were sacred, and now he was inclined to give up the problem as insoluble,
and to allow things to take their chance.
“By George!” he thought to himself, glancing at the old tower,
“this is the kind of thing that they call romance: well, I call it hell.
No more romance for me if I can avoid it. And now I am going to stay with old
Levinger, and, as I suppose that I shall not be expected to make love to his
daughter—at any rate, at present—I’ll try to enjoy myself,
and forget for a few days that there is such a thing as a woman in the
world.”
Henry reached Monk’s Lodge in time to dress for dinner, and was at once
shown by Mr. Levinger, who greeted him with cordiality and evident pleasure, to
his room—a low and many-cornered apartment commanding a delightful view
of the sea. Having changed, he found his way to the drawing-room, where Emma
was waiting to receive him, which she did very courteously, and with more
self-possession than might have been expected of her. It struck Henry, as he
stood by the window and chatted to her on indifferent subjects in the pearly
light of the September evening, that he had never seen her look so charming.
Perhaps it was that her secret troubles had added dignity to her delicate face
and form, or that the dress she wore became her, or that the old-fashioned
surroundings of the place among which she had grown up, and that doubtless had
exercised their influence upon her character, seemed to combine with and to set
off her quaint and somewhat formal grace of mien and movement. At least it
seemed to him that she was almost beautiful that night, not with the rich and
human loveliness of a woman like Joan, but in a certain spiritual fashion which
was peculiar to her.
Presently they went in to dinner. It was a pleasant meal enough, and Henry
enjoyed the change from the cold-looking Rosham dining-room, with its pillars
and its dingy old masters, even more than he had hoped to do. Here there were
no old masters and no marble, but walls wainscoted with a dado of black oak,
and hung with quaint Flemish pictures painted on panels or on copper, such as
are still to be picked up by the discerning at sales in the Eastern counties.
Here also were no melancholy cedars shutting off the light, but open windows
wreathed about with ivy, through which floated the murmur of the sea. The
dinner was excellent, moreover, as was Mr. Levinger’s champagne; and by
the time that they reached the dessert Henry found himself in a better mood
than he had known for many a long week.
Abandoning his reserve, he fell into some harmless snare that was set by his
host, and began to speak of himself and his experiences—a thing that he
very rarely did. Though for the most part he was a somewhat silent man, and at
his best could not be called a brilliant conversationalist, Henry could talk
well when he chose, in a certain plain and forcible manner that attracted by
its complete absence of exaggeration or of straining after effect. He told them
tales of wars in Ashantee and Egypt; he described to them a great hurricane off
the coast of Madagascar, when the captain and first lieutenant of the ship in
which he was serving were swept overboard by a single sea, leaving him in
command of her; and several other adventures, such as befall Englishmen who for
twenty years or more have served their country in every quarter of the globe.
By now the coffee and cigarettes had been brought in; but Emma did not leave
the room—indeed, it was not her custom to do so, and the presence of a
guest at Monk’s Lodge was so rare an event that it never occurred to her
to vary it. She sat, her face hidden in the shadow, listening with wide-opened
eyes to Henry’s “moving accidents by flood and field”; and
yet she grew sad as she listened, feeling that his talk was inspired by a vain
regret which was almost pitiful. He was speaking as old men speak of their
past, of events that are gone by, of things in which they have no longer any
share.
Evidently Mr. Levinger felt this also, for he said, “It is unfortunate,
Graves, that prospects like yours should have been snapped short. What do you
mean to do with yourself now?”
“Yes,” answered Henry, “it is very unfortunate; but these
things will happen. As for the future it must look after itself. Ninety-nine
naval officers out of a hundred have no future. They live—or rather
starve—upon their half-pay in some remote village, and become
churchwardens—that is, if they do not quarrel with the parson.”
“I hope that you will do something more than this,” said Mr.
Levinger. “I look forward to seeing you member for our division if I live
long enough. You might do more good for the Navy in the House than ever you
could have done at sea.”
“That’s just what a man told me at the Admiralty, and I think I
answered him that I preferred a command at sea. Not but that I should like the
other thing very well, if it came in my way. However, as both careers are as
much beyond my reach as the moon, it is no use talking of them, is it?”
“I don’t agree with you—I don’t agree at all. You will
be a great authority yet. And now let us go into the other room.”
So they went into the drawing-room, where Emma sang a little, sweetly enough;
and after she had bidden them good-night they adjourned to the study to smoke
and drink weak whiskies-and-sodas. Here Mr. Levinger was the talker and Henry
the listener, and it seemed to the latter that he had rarely met a man with so
much knowledge and power of observation, or one who could bring these to bear
in a more interesting manner upon whatever subject he chanced to be discussing.
His intellect was keen, his knowledge of life and men large and varied, and he
seemed to know every book worth reading, and, what is more, to remember its
contents.
Thus Henry’s first evening at Monk’s Lodge passed very pleasantly,
and as his visit began so it went on and ended. In the daytime he would take
his gun, and, accompanied by Mr. Levinger on a pony and by an old man, half
bailiff and half gamekeeper, would limp through the bracken in search of
partridges and rabbits, an occupation in which he took great delight, although
he was still too lame to follow it for long at a time.
Failing the shooting, his host organised some expedition to visit a distant
church or earthwork, and accompanied by Emma they drove for hours through the
mellow September afternoon. Or sometimes they sat upon the beach beneath the
cliff, chatting idly on everything under heaven; or, if it chanced to rain,
they would take refuge in the study and examine Mr. Levinger’s collection
of coins, ancient weapons and other antiquities.
Then at last arrived the dinner-hour, and another delightful evening would be
added to the number of those that had gone. Before he had been in the house a
week, Henry felt a different man; indeed, had any one told him, when he came to
Monk’s Lodge, that he was about to enjoy himself so much, he would not
have believed it. He could see also that both Mr. Levinger and his daughter
were glad that he should be there. At first Emma was a little stiff in her
manner towards him, but by degrees this wore off, and he found himself day by
day growing more friendly with her.
The better they became acquainted, the greater grew their mutual liking, and
the more complete their understanding of each other. There was now no question
of love-making, or even of flirtation between them; their footing was one of
friendship, and both of them were glad that it should be so. Soon the sharpest
sting of Emma’s shame passed away, since she could not believe that the
man who greeted her with such open fellowship had learned the confession which
broke from her on that night of her despair, for if it were so, surely he would
look down upon her and show it in his manner. Taking this for granted, in some
dim and illogical fashion she was grateful to him for not having heard; or if
by any chance he had heard, as she was bound to admit was possible, still more
was she grateful in that he dissembled his knowledge so completely as to enable
her to salve her pride with the thought that he was ignorant. Indeed, in this
event, so deeply did she feel upon the point, she was prepared in her own mind
to forgive any sins of omission or commission with which he stood charged,
setting against them the generosity of his conduct in this particular. Of the
future Emma did not think; she was content to live in the present, and to feel
that she had never been so happy before. Neither did she think of the past,
with its disquieting tales of Joan Haste, and its horrible suggestions that
Henry was being driven into marriage with herself for pecuniary reasons. If a
day should ever come when he proposed to her, then it would be time enough to
take all these matters into consideration, and to decide whether she should
please her pride and do violence to her heart, or sacrifice her pride and
satisfy her heart. There was no need to come to a decision now, for she could
see well that, whatever might be his thoughts with reference to her, Henry had
no immediate intention of asking her to be his wife.
Although of course he could not follow all the secret workings of Emma’s
mind, Henry grasped the outlines of the situation accurately enough. He knew
that this was a time of truce, and that by a tacit agreement all burning
questions were postponed to a more convenient season. Mr. Levinger said no word
to him of his daughter, of Joan Haste, or even of the financial affairs
connected with the Rosham mortgages, for all these subjects were tabooed under
the conditions of their armistice. Tormented as he had been, and as he must
shortly be again, he also was deeply grateful for this indulgence, and more
than content to forget the past and let the future take care of itself. One
thing grew clear to him, however; indeed, before he left Monk’s Lodge he
admitted it to himself in so many words: it was, that had there been no Joan
Haste and no mortgages in the question, he would certainly ask Emma Levinger to
be his wife.
The more he saw of this lady, the more attached he grew to her. She attracted
him in a hundred ways by her gentleness, her delicacy of thought, her
ever-present sympathy with distress and with all that was good and noble, and
by the quaintness and culture of her mind. For these and many other reasons he
could imagine no woman whom he should prefer to marry were he fortunate enough
to win her. But always when he thought of it two spectres seemed to rise and
stand before him—one of Joan, passionate, lovely and loving, and the
other shaped like a roll of parchment and labelled “Mortgages, Sixty
thousand pounds!”
At length the ten days of his stay came to an end, and upon a certain morning
the old Rosham coachman appeared at the door of Monk’s Lodge to drive him
home again.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Levinger,” he said,
“for your kindness and hospitality to me here. I have not had such a good
time for many a long day. It has been a rest to me, and I have come to the
conclusion that rest is the best thing in the whole world. Now I must go back
to face my anxieties.”
“Meaning the eleventh of October?” said Mr. Levinger.
“Yes, meaning the eleventh of October and other things. I am sure I do
not know what on earth I am to do about those farms. But I won’t begin to
bore you with business now. Good-bye, and again, many thanks.”
“Good-bye, Graves, and don’t fret. I dare say that something will
turn up. My experience is that something generally does turn up—that is
to say, when one is the right side of forty.”
“Oh, Sir Henry!” said Emma, appearing at the door of the
drawing-room, “will you take a note to your sister for me? It is just
ready.”
“Certainly,” he answered, following her to the writing-table.
“It is about my going to town with her next month,” she went on.
“I have been speaking to my father, and he says that I may if I like. It
is a question of trousseau—not that I know anything about such matters,
but I am glad of the excuse for a change. Are you going with her?”
“I don’t know. An old messmate of mine always gives a dinner at the
Rag on the twentieth, to celebrate an adventure in which we were concerned
together. I had a letter from him the other day asking me to come. I
haven’t answered it yet, but if you like I will accept. I believe you go
up on the eighteenth, don’t you?”
Emma coloured faintly. “Of course it would be pleasant if you
came,” she answered. “We might go to some picture galleries, and to
the British Museum to look at those Egyptian things.”
“All right,” said Henry; “we’ve got to get there first.
And now good-bye. I can assure you that I shall never forget your goodness to
me.”
“The goodness is on your side, Sir Henry: it is very kind of you to have
come to see us.”
“And it is very nice of you to say so, Miss Levinger. Again good-bye, or
rather _au revoir._”