REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
The day that Mrs. Bird wrote her letter to Henry was the day of Ellen’s
marriage with Mr. Edward Milward. It was settled that the ceremony should be a
quiet one, because of the recent death of the bride’s father—an
arrangement which suited Lady Graves and her daughter very well, seeing that it
was necessary to cut down the expenses to the last farthing. Indeed, the
possibility of a financial _esclandre_ at Rosham before she was safely
married and independent of such misfortunes, haunted Ellen like a nightmare.
Edward, it is true, was now perfectly in hand, and showed no further symptoms
of backsliding. Still, slips between the cup and the lip are many, and in the
event of a public scandal anything might happen. However private the marriage,
it proved, in fact, impossible to dispense with a certain amount of the
hospitality usual upon these occasions: thus a dinner must be given to the
tenants, and a reception held after the wedding to which all the neighbouring
families were invited. In these preparations Henry took but a small part,
though, as head of the family, it would be his duty to give away the bride and
to receive the guests. This marriage, and everything connected with it, was
hateful to him, but not the less on that account must he keep up appearances
before the world. There had been no reconciliation between himself and his
sister, though outwardly they were polite and even affectionate to each other;
and he had scarcely exchanged a word in private with his future brother-in-law
since the day when Edward read him a lecture upon morals and conduct.
Thus it came about that not even Ellen herself was more anxious that the
marriage should be over and done with. As it chanced, the bride’s good
luck did not desert her, and everything went smoothly. At the last moment,
indeed, Edward showed some disposition to jib at the settlements, which,
considering that the lady brought him nothing, were disproportionate and
unfair; but Ellen’s lawyers, assisted by a judicious letter from herself,
were equal to the emergency, and he grumbled and signed.
At length, to everybody’s relief, the day came—one of those rare
and beautiful November days when the falling leaves dropped silently as
snowflakes through the crisp and sunlit air to the frosted grass beneath.
Rosham church was full, and when the bride, looking very stately and handsome
in her wedding robes, swept up the aisle on her brother’s arm, followed
by her two bridesmaids, Emma Levinger and an aristocratic cousin of Mr.
Milward’s, a low hum of admiration ran round the crowded pews. Then
Edward, exceedingly uncomfortable in the newest of coats and the shiniest of
boots, took his place by her side; the service began, Henry, wearing anything
but an amiable expression of countenance, gave his sister away, and presently
Mr. and Mrs. Milward were receiving the congratulations of their relatives and
friends.
The wedding took place at two o’clock, so that there were no speeches or
breakfast, only a glorified tea with champagne, at which the rector of the
parish, _vice_ Sir Henry Graves, who declared himself quite incapable of
public speaking, proposed the bride and bridegroom’s health in a few
well-chosen words and a Latin quotation. Edward responded, stuttering horribly,
saying with much truth, but by inadvertence, “that this was the proudest
moment of his wife’s life,” whereat Henry smiled grimly and
everybody else tittered. Then the company wandered off to inspect the marriage
offerings, which were “numerous and costly”; the newly married pair
vanished, and reappeared in appropriate travelling costume, to be driven away
amid showers of slippers and rice, and after a little feeble and flickering
conversation the proceedings terminated.
Mr. Levinger and Emma were the last to go.
“You look tired, Graves,” said the former, as his trap came round.
“Yes,” he answered, “I never was more tired in my life. Thank
Heaven that it is done with!”
“Well, it is a good business well over, and, even if you don’t
quite like the man, one that has many advantages.”
“I dare say,” Henry replied briefly. “Good-bye, Miss
Levinger; many thanks for coming. If you will allow me to say so, I think that
dress of yours is charming, with those shimmering ornaments moonstones, are
they not?”
“I am glad you like it, Sir Henry,” she answered, looking pleased.
“By the way, Graves,” broke in Mr. Levinger, “can you come
over next Friday week and stop till Tuesday? You know that old donkey Bowles
rears a few pheasants in the intervals of attending the public-house. There
ought to be three or four hundred to shoot, and they fly high on those hillside
covers too high for me, anyway. If you can come, I’ll get another gun or
two there’s a parson near who has a couple of pupils, very decent shots
and we’ll shoot on Saturday and Monday, and Tuesday too if you care for
driven partridge, resting the Sabbath.”
“I shall be delighted,” answered Henry sincerely. “I
don’t think that I have any engagement; in fact, I am sure that I have
none,” and he looked at Emma and, for the first time that day, smiled
genially.
Emma saw the look and smile, and wondered in her heart whether it were the
prospect of shooting the three or four hundred pheasants that “flew
high” with which Henry was delighted, or that of visiting Monk’s
Lodge and herself. On the whole she thought it was the pheasants; still she
smiled in answer, and said she was glad that he could come. Then they drove
off, and Henry, having changed his wedding garments for a shooting coat,
departed to the study, there to smoke the pipe of peace.
That night he dined _tête-à-tête_ with his mother. It
was not a cheerful meal, for the house was disorganised and vestiges of the
marriage feast were all about them. There had been no time even to remove the
extra leaves from the great oval dining-table, and as Henry and his
mother’s places were set at its opposite extremes, conversation was, or
seemed to be, impossible.
“I think that this is a little dismal, dear,” said Lady Graves,
speaking across the white expanse of cloth, when the butler had served the
dessert and gone.
“Yes,” answered Henry; “it reminds me of South Africa, where
the natives talk to each other across the kloofs. Suppose that we go into the
study, we sha’n’t want a speaking trumpet there.”
His mother nodded in assent, and they adjourned, Henry taking a decanter of
wine with him.
“I think that it went off very well,” she said presently, when he
had made up the fire.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. You don’t mind my smoking, do you,
mother?”
“I know that you didn’t like the marriage, Henry,” she went
on, “nor do I altogether, for Edward is not well, quite the class of man
that I should have selected. But different people have different tastes, and I
think that he will suit Ellen admirably. You see, she will rule him, and she
could never have got on with a man who tried to be her master; also he is rich,
and wealth is necessary to her comfort. I shall be very much surprised if she
does not make a great success of her marriage.”
“Ellen would make a success of anything, mother—even of Edward
Milward. I have a great admiration for Ellen, but somehow I do not envy my
brother-in-law his bargain, though he has married a lady, which, strictly
speaking, is more than he deserves. However, I dare say that he will find his
place.”
“I have no doubt that they will settle it to their mutual satisfaction,
dear; and, to look at the matter from another point of view, it certainly is a
relief to me to know that your sister is removed out of reach of our troubles
here.” And she sighed. “It has been a great struggle, Henry, to
keep up appearances so far, and I was in constant fear lest something awful
should happen before the marriage. One way and another, difficulties have been
staved off; indeed, the fact that Ellen was going to become the wife of such a
rich man—for he is very rich—has helped us a great deal. But now
the money is done; I doubt if there is a hundred pounds to go on with, and what
is to happen I am sure I do not know.”
Henry puffed at his pipe, staring into the fire, and made no answer.
“I scarcely like to ask you, dear,” Lady Graves went on presently,
“but have you in any way considered the matter of which we spoke together
after your father’s funeral?”
“Yes, mother, I have considered I have considered it a great deal.”
“And what conclusion have you come to, Henry?” she asked, making
pretence to arrange her dress in order to conceal the anxiety with which she
awaited his answer.
He rose, and, although it was only half smoked, knocked out the contents of his
pipe upon the fire-guard. Then he turned round and spoke suddenly, almost
fiercely indeed.
“The conclusion which I have come to, mother, is that, taking everything
into consideration, I ought to try my luck yonder. I don’t know that she
will have me, indeed I think that she will be foolish if she does, but
I’ll ask her. The other has vanished Heaven knows where; I can’t
find her, and perhaps it is best that I shouldn’t, for if I did my
resolutions might melt. And now, if you don’t mind, let us talk of
something else. I will let you know the end of the adventure in due
course.”
“One question, Henry. Are you going to Monk’s Lodge again?”
“Yes, on Friday week. I have accepted an invitation to stay there from
Friday till Tuesday, or perhaps longer.”
Lady Graves uttered a sigh of the most intense and heart-felt relief. Then she
rose, and coming to where her son was sitting, she kissed him upon the
forehead, murmuring, “God bless you, my dear boy! you have made me a
happier woman than I have been for many a long day. Good night.”
He returned his mother’s embrace, lit a bedroom candle for her, and
watched her pass from the room and across the hall. As she went he noticed that
her very gait seemed different, so great was the effect of his words upon her.
Of late it had been uncertain, almost timid; but now she was walking as she
used to walk in middle life, with grace and dignity, holding her head high.
“Poor mother!” he thought to himself as he resumed his seat,
“she has had much to bear, and it is a comfort to be able to please her
for once. Heaven knows that had I alone been concerned I would have done it
long ago for her sake. Oh, Joan, Joan! I wonder where you are, and why your
eyes haunt me so continually. Well, wherever you may be, it is all over between
us now, Joan.” And he put his hands before his face and groaned aloud.
On the following morning, while Henry was dressing, the butler brought him up
his letters, in accordance with the custom of the house. One by one, as the
exigencies of his toilet gave him opportunity, he opened them and glanced
through their contents. Some were circulars, some were on business connected
with the estate, two were invitations to shoot, and one was a bill for saddlery
supplied to his brother three years before.
“That’s the lot, I think,” he said, and was crushing up the
circulars preparatory to throwing them into the fireplace, when another rather
bulky letter, in a common thin envelope and addressed in an unformed
handwriting, fell from among them. He picked it up and examined it, a certain
distrust of this innocent-looking epistle creeping into his mind. “I
wonder what it is?” he thought to himself: “another of
Reginald’s bills, or a fresh application for money from one of his
intimate friends? Any way I don’t know the writing, and I have half a
mind to tear it up unread. Letters that look like that always contain something
disagreeable.”
He threw it down on the dressing-table while he arranged his necktie, and
hunted for a stud which had rolled under a chest of drawers. Indeed, the
excitement of this wild pursuit put the letter out of his mind till he went to
brush his hair, when the inaccurate superscription of “Sir H.
Grave” immediately caught his eye, and he opened it at once. The first
words that he saw were “see fit to act like an honest man.”
“As I thought,” he said aloud, “here’s another of
Reginald’s legacies with the bill inside.” And uttering an
exclamation he lifted the letter to throw it into the fireplace, when its
enclosure slipped out of it.
Then Henry turned pale, for he knew the writing: it was Joan Haste’s. In
five more minutes he had read both the documents through, and was sitting on
his bed staring vacantly before him like a man in a trance. He may have sat
like this for ten minutes, then he rose, saying in a perfectly quiet voice, as
though he were addressing the bodily presence of Mrs. Bird:
“Of course, my dear madam, you are absolutely right; the only thing to do
is to marry her at once, and I am infinitely obliged to you for bringing these
facts to my notice; but I must say that if ever a man got into a worse or more
unlucky scrape, I never heard of it.” And he laughed.
Then he re-read Joan’s wandering words very carefully, and while he did
so his eyes filled with tears.
“My darling! What you must have suffered!” he said, pressing the
letter against his heart. “I love you! I love you! I would never say it
before, but I say it now once and for all, and I thank God that He has spared
you and given me the right to marry you and the chance of making you happy.
Well, the thing is settled now, and it only remains to carry it through. First
of all my mother must be told, which will be a pleasant business,—I am
glad, by the way, that Ellen has gone before I got this, for I believe that I
should have had words with her. To think of my looking at that cloak and never
seeing the woman who wore it, although she saw me! I remember the incident
perfectly well, and one would have imagined——But so much for
thought transference and the rest of it. Well, I suppose that I may as well go
down to breakfast. It is a very strange world and a very sad one too.”
Henry went down to breakfast accordingly, but he had little appetite for that
meal, at which Lady Graves did not appear; then he adjourned to the study to
smoke and reflect. It seemed to him that it would be well to settle this matter
beyond the possibility of backsliding before he saw his mother. Ringing the
bell, he gave an order that the boy should saddle the pony and ride into
Bradmouth in time to catch the midday post; then he wrote thus to Mrs. Bird:
“DEAR MADAM,
“I have to thank you for your letter and its enclosure, and I hope that
my conduct under the circumstances which you detail will not be such as to
disappoint the hopes that you express therein. I shall be very much obliged if
you will kindly keep me informed of Joan’s progress. I purpose to come
and see her within a week or so; and meanwhile, if you think it safe, I beg
that you will give her the enclosed letter. Perhaps you will let me know when
she is well enough to see me. You seem to have been a kind friend to Joan, for
which I thank you heartily.
“Believe me to remain
“Very faithfully yours,
“HENRY GRAVES.”
To Joan he wrote also as follows:
“DEAREST JOAN,
“Some months since you left Bradmouth, and from that day to this I have
heard nothing of you. This morning, however, I learned your address, and how
terribly ill you have been. I have received also a letter, or rather a portion
of a letter, that you wrote to me on the day when the fever took you; and I can
only say that nothing I ever read has touched me so deeply. I do not propose to
write to you at any length now, since I can tell you more in half an hour than
I could put on paper in a week. But I want to beg you to dismiss all anxieties
from your mind, and to rest quiet and get well as quickly as possible. Very
shortly, indeed as soon as it is safe for me to do so without disturbing you, I
hope to pay you a visit with the purpose of asking you if you will honour me by
becoming my wife. I love you, dearest Joan —how much I never knew until I
read your letter: perhaps you will understand all that I have neither the time
nor the ability to say at this moment. I will add only that whatever troubles
and difficulties may arise, I place my future in your hands with the utmost
happiness and confidence, and grieve most bitterly to think that you should
have been exposed to doubt and anxiety on my account. Had you been a little
more open with me this would never have happened; and there, and there alone, I
consider that you have been to blame. I shall expect to hear from Mrs. Bird, or
perhaps from yourself, on what day I may hope to see you. Till then, dearest
Joan,
“Believe me
“Most affectionately yours,
“HENRY GRAVES.”
By the time that he had finished and directed the letters, enclosing that to
Joan in the envelope addressed to Mrs. Bird, which he sealed, Thomson announced
that the boy was ready.
“Very well: give him this to post at Bradmouth, and tell him to be
careful not to lose it, and not to be late.”
The butler went, and presently Henry caught sight of his messenger cantering
down the drive.
“There!” he thought, “that’s done; and so am I in a
sense. Now for my mother. I must have it out before my courage fails me.”
Then he went into the drawing-room, where he found Lady Graves engaged in doing
up little boxes of wedding cake to be sent to various friends and connections.
She greeted him with a pleasant smile, made some little remark about the room
being cold, and throwing back the long crape strings of her widow’s cap,
lifted her face for Henry to kiss.
“Why, my dear boy, what’s the matter with you?” she said,
starting as he bent over her. “You look so disturbed.”
“I am disturbed, mother,” he answered, seating himself, “and
so I fear you will be when you have heard what I have to tell you.”
Lady Graves glanced at him in alarm; she was well trained in bad tidings, but
use cannot accustom the blood horse to the whip or the heart to sorrow.
“Go on,” she said.
“Mother,” he began in a hoarse voice, “last night I told you
that I intended to propose to Miss Levinger; now I have come to tell you that
such a thing is absolutely impossible.”
“Why, Henry?”
“Because I am going to marry another woman, mother.”
“Going to marry another woman?” she repeated, bewildered.
“Whom? Is it that girl?”
“Yes, mother, it is she Joan Haste. You remember a conversation that we
had shortly after my father’s death?”
She bowed her head in assent.
“Then you pointed out to me what you considered to be my duty, and begged
me to take time to think. I did so, and came to the conclusion that on the
whole your view was the right one, as I told you last night. This morning,
however, I have received two letters, the first news of Joan Haste that has
reached me since she left Bradmouth, which oblige me to change my mind. Here
they are: perhaps you will read them.”
Lady Graves took the letters and perused them carefully, reading them twice
from end to end. Then she handed them back to her son.
“Do you understand now, mother?” he asked.
“Perfectly, Henry.”
“And do you still think that I am wrong in determining to marry Joan
Haste whom I love?”
“No, Henry: I think that you are right if the girl desires it
since,” she added with a touch of bitterness, “it seems to be
conceded by the world that the duty which a man owes to his parents and his
family cannot be allowed to weigh against the duty which he owes to the partner
of his sin. Oh! Henry, Henry, had you but kept your hands clean in this
temptation as I know that you have done in others, these sorrows would not have
fallen upon us. But it is useless to reproach you, and perhaps you are as much
sinned against as sinning. At least you have sown the wind and you must reap
the whirlwind, and whoever is to blame, it has come about that the fortunes of
our house are fallen irretrievably, and that you must give your honour and your
name into the keeping of a frail girl who has neither.” And with a tragic
gesture of despair Lady Graves rose and left the room.
“Whether or not virtue brings its own reward I cannot say,”
reflected Henry, looking after her, “but that vice does so is pretty
clear. It seems to me that I am a singularly unfortunate man, and so, I
suppose, I shall remain.”