DISENCHANTMENT.
It was Sunday evening at Monk’s Lodge, and Henry and Mr. Levinger were
sitting over their wine after dinner. For a while they talked upon indifferent
subjects, and more particularly about the shooting on the previous day and the
arrangements for the morrow’s sport. Then there was a silence, which Mr.
Levinger broke.
“I have heard a curious bit of news,” he said, “about Joan
Haste. It seems that she is married.”
Henry drank half a glass of port wine, and answered, “Yes, I know. She
has married your tenant Samuel Rock, the dissenter, a very strange person. I
cannot understand it.”
“Can’t you? I think I can. It is a good match for her, though I
don’t altogether approve of it, and know nothing of the details. However,
I wasn’t consulted, and there it is. I hope that they may be happy.”
“So do I,” said Henry grimly. “And now, Mr. Levinger, I want
to have a word with you about the estate affairs. What is to be done? It is
time that you took some steps to protect yourself.”
“It seems to me, Graves,” he answered deliberately, “that my
course of action must very much depend upon your own. You know what I
mean.”
“Yes, Mr. Levinger; but are you still anxious that I should propose to
your daughter? Forgive me if I speak plainly.”
“That has always been my wish, and I see no particular reason to change
it.”
“But do you think that it is her wish, Mr. Levinger? I fancy that her
manner has been a little cold to me of late, perhaps with justice; and,”
he added, rather nervously, “naturally I do not wish to lay myself open
to a rebuff. I find that I am very ignorant of the ways of women, as of various
other things.”
“Many of us have made that discovery, Graves; and of course it is
impossible for me to guarantee your success, though I think that you will be
successful.”
“There is another matter, Mr. Levinger: Emma has considerable
possessions; am I then justified, in my impoverished condition, in asking her
to take me? Would it not be thought, would she not think, that I did so from
obvious motives?”
“On that point you may make your mind quite easy, Graves; for I, who am
the girl’s father, tell you that I consider you will be giving her quite
as much as she gives you. I have never hidden from you that I am in a sense a
man under a cloud. My follies came to an end many years ago, it is true, and I
have never fallen into the clutches of the law, still they were bad enough to
force me to change my name and to begin life afresh. Should you marry my
daughter, and should you wish it, you will of course have the right to learn my
true name, though on that point I shall make an appeal to your generosity and
ask you not to press your right. I have done with the past, of which even the
thought is hateful to me, and I do not wish to reopen old sores; so perhaps you
may be content with the assurance that I am of a good and ancient family, and
that before I got into trouble I served in the army with some distinction: for
instance, I received the wound that crippled me at the battle of the
Alma.”
“I shall never press you to tell that which you desire to keep to
yourself, Mr. Levinger.”
“It is like you to say so, Graves,” he answered, with evident
relief; “but the mere fact that I make such a request will show you what
I mean when I say that Emma has as much or more to gain from this marriage than
you have, since it is clear that some rumours of her father’s disgrace
must follow her through life; moreover she is humbly born upon her
mother’s side. I do trust and pray, my dear fellow, that it will come
off. Alas! I am not long for this world, my heart is troubling me more and
more, and the doctors have warned me that I may die at any moment; therefore it
is my most earnest desire to see the daughter whom I love better than anything
on earth, happily settled before I go.”
“Well, Mr. Levinger,” Henry answered, “I will ask her
to-morrow if I find an opportunity, but the issue does not rest with me. I only
wish that I were more worthy of her.”
“I am glad to hear it. God bless you, and God speed you, my dear Graves!
I hope when I am gone that, whatever you may learn about my unfortunate past,
you will still try to think kindly of me, and to remember that I was a man,
cursed by nature with passions of unusual strength, which neither my education
nor the circumstances of my early life helped me to control.”
“It is not for me to judge you or any other man; I leave that to those
who are without sin,” said Henry, and the conversation came to an end.
That night Henry was awakened by hearing people moving backwards and forwards
in the passages. For a moment he thought of burglars, and wondered if he should
get up; but the sounds soon ceased, so he turned over and went to sleep again.
As he learned in the morning, the cause of the disturbance was that Mr.
Levinger had been seized with one of his heart attacks, which for a few minutes
threatened to be serious, if not fatal. Under the influence of restoratives,
that were always kept at hand, the danger passed as quickly as it had arisen,
although Emma remained by her father’s bedside to watch him for a while.
“That was a near thing, Emma,” he said presently: “for about
thirty seconds I almost thought——” and he stopped.
“Well, it is over now, father dear,” she answered.
“Yes, but for how long? One day I shall be taken in this fashion and come
back no more.”
“Pray don’t talk like that, father.”
“Why not, seeing that it is what I must accustom my mind to? Oh! Emma, if
I could but see you safely married I should not trouble so much, but the
uncertainty as to your future worries me more than anything else. However, you
must settle these things for yourself; I have no right to dictate to you about
them. Good night, my love, and thank you for your kindness. No, there is no
need for you to stop up. If I should want anything I will touch the bell.”
“I wonder why he is so bent upon my getting married,” thought Emma,
as she went back to her bed, “especially as, even did anything happen to
him, I should be left well off at least, I suppose so. Well, it is no use my
troubling myself about it till the time comes, if ever it does come.”
After his attack of the previous night, Mr. Levinger was unable to come out
shooting as he had hoped to do. He said, however, that if he felt well enough
he would drive in the afternoon to a spot known as the Hanging Wood, which was
to be the last and best beat of the day; and it was arranged that Emma should
accompany him and walk home, a distance of some two miles.
The day was fine, and the shooting very fair; but, fond as he was of the sport,
Henry did not greatly enjoy himself which, in view of what lay behind and
before him, is scarcely to be wondered at.
After luncheon the guns and beaters were employed in driving two narrow covers,
each of them about half a mile long, towards a wood planted upon the top of a
rise of ground. On they went steadily, firing at cock pheasants only, till, the
end of the plantations being unstopped, the greater number of the birds were
driven into this Hanging Wood, which ended in a point situated about a hundred
and twenty yards from the borders of the two converging plantations. Between
these plantations and the wood lay a little valley of pasture land, through
which ran a stream; and it was the dip of this valley, together with the
position of the cover on the opposite slope, that gave to the Hanging Wood its
reputation of being the most sporting spot for pheasant shooting in that
neighbourhood. The slaughter of hand-reared pheasants is frequently denounced,
for the most part by people who know little about it, as a tame and cruel
amusement; and it cannot be denied that this is sometimes so, especially where
the object of the keeper, or of his master, is not to show sport, but to return
a heavy total of slain at the end of the day. In the case of a cover such as
has been described, matters are very different, however; for then the
pheasants, flying towards their homes, from which they have been disturbed,
come over the guns with great speed and at a height of from eight-and-twenty to
forty yards, and the shooting must be good that will bring to bag more than one
in four of them.
By the banks of the stream between the covers Henry and his companions found
Mr. Levinger and Emma waiting for them, the pony trap in which they had come
having been driven off to a little distance, so as not to interfere with the
beat.
“Here I am,” said Mr. Levinger: “I don’t feel up to
much, but I was determined to see the Hanging Wood shot again, even if it
should be for the last time. Now then, Bowles, get your beaters round as quick
as you can, and be careful that they keep wide of the cover, and don’t
make a noise. I will place the guns. You’ve no time to lose: the light is
beginning to fade.”
Bowles and his small army moved off to the right, while Mr. Levinger pointed
out to each sportsman the spot to which he should go upon the banks of the
stream; assigning to Henry the centre stand, both because he was accompanied by
a loader with a second gun, and on account of his reputation of being the best
shot present.
“The wind is rising fast and blowing straight down the cover,” said
Mr. Levinger, when he had completed his arrangements; “those wild-bred
birds will take some stopping, unless I am much mistaken. I tell you what,
Graves: I bet you half a crown that you don’t kill a pheasant for every
four cartridges you fire, taking them as they come, without shirking the hard
ones.”
“All right,” answered Henry, “I can run to that”; and
they both laughed, while Emma, who was standing by, dressed in a pretty grey
tweed costume, looked pleased to see her father show so much interest in
anything.
Ten minutes passed, and a shrill whistle, blown far away at the end of the
cover, announced that the beaters were about to start. Henry cocked his gun and
waited, till presently a brace of pheasants were seen coming towards him with
the wind in their tails, and at a tremendous height, one bird being some fifty
yards in front of the other.
“Over you, Graves,” said Mr. Levinger.
Henry waited till the first bird was at the proper angle, and fired both
barrels, aiming at least three yards ahead of him; but without producing the
slightest effect upon the old cock, which sailed away serenely. Snatching his
second gun with an exclamation, he repeated the performance at the hen that
followed, and with a similar lack of result.
“There go four cartridges, anyway,” said Mr. Levinger.
“It isn’t fair to count them,” answered Henry, laughing;
“those birds were clean out of shot.”
“Yes, out of _your_ shot, Graves. You were yards behind them. You
mustn’t be content with aiming ahead here, especially in this wind; if
you don’t swing as well, you’ll scarcely kill a bird. Look out:
here comes another. There! you’ve missed him again. Swing, man,
swing!”
By this time Henry was fairly nettled, for, chancing to look round, he saw that
Emma was laughing at his discomfiture. The next time a bird came over him he
took his host’s advice and “swung” with a vengeance, and down
it fell far behind him, dead as a stone.
“That’s better, Graves; you caught him in the head.”
Now the fun became fast and furious, and Emma, watching Henry’s face as
he fired away with as much earnestness and energy as though the fate of the
British Empire depended upon each shot, thought that he was quite handsome.
Handsome he was not, nor ever would be; but it is true that, like most
Englishmen, he looked his best in his rough shooting clothes and when intent
upon his sport. Five minutes more, and the firing, which had been continuous
all along the line, began to slacken, and then died away altogether, Henry
distinguishing himself by killing the last two birds that flew over with a
brilliant right and left. Still, when the slain came to be counted it was found
that he had lost his bet by one cartridge.
“Don’t be depressed,” said Levinger, as he pocketed the
half-crown; “the other fellows have done much worse. I don’t
believe that young Jones has touched a feather. The fact is that a great many
of the birds you fired at were quite impossible. I never remember seeing them
fly so high and fast before. But then this wood has not been shot in half a
gale of wind for many years. And now I must say good-bye to those gentlemen and
be off, or I shall get a chill. You’ll see my daughter home, won’t
you?”
As it chanced, Emma had gone to fetch a pheasant which she said had fallen in
the edge of the plantation behind them. When she returned with the bird, it was
impossible for her to accompany her father, even if she wished to do so, for he
had already driven away.
Henry congratulated her upon the skill with which she had marked down the cock,
at the same time announcing his intention of reclaiming the half-crown from her
father. Then, having given his guns to the loader, they started for the high
road, accompanied by the two pupils of the neighbouring clergyman. A few
hundred yards farther on these young gentlemen went upon their way rejoicing,
bearing with them a leash of pheasants and a hare.
“You must show me the road home, Miss Levinger,” said Henry, by way
of making conversation, for they were now alone.
“The shortest path is along the cliff, if you think that we can get over
the fence,” she answered.
The hedge did not prove unclimbable, and presently they were walking along the
edge of the cliff. Below them foamed an angry sea, for the tide was high,
driven shore-ward by the weight of the easterly gale, while to the west the sky
was red with the last rays of a wintry sunset.
For a while they walked in silence, which Emma broke, saying, “The sea is
very beautiful to-night, is it not?”
“It is always beautiful to me,” he answered.
“I see that you have not got over leaving the Navy yet, Sir Henry.”
“Well, Miss Levinger, to tell you the truth I haven’t had a very
pleasant time since I came ashore. One way and another there have been nothing
but sorrow and worries and disagreeables, till often and often I have wished
myself off the coast of Newfoundland, with ice about and a cotton-wool fog, or
anywhere else that is dangerous and unpleasant.”
“I know that you have had plenty of trouble, Sir Henry,” she said
in her gentle voice, “and your father’s death must have been a
great blow to you. But perhaps your fog will lift, as I suppose that it does
sometimes even on the coast of Newfoundland.”
“I hope so; it is time that it did,” he answered absently, and then
for a minute was silent. He felt that, if he meant to propose, now was his
chance, but for the life of him he could not think how to begin. It was an
agonising moment, and, though the evening had turned bitterly cold, he became
aware that the perspiration was running down his forehead.
“Miss Levinger,” he said suddenly, “I have something to ask
you.”
“To ask me, Sir Henry? What about?”
“About about yourself. I wish to ask you if you will honour me by
promising to become my wife?”
Emma heard, and, stopping suddenly in her walk, looked round as though to find
a refuge, but seeing none went on again.
“Miss Levinger,” Henry continued, “I am not skilled at this
sort of thing, and I hope that you will make allowances for my awkwardness. Do
you think that you could care enough for me to marry me? I know very well that
I have little to recommend me, and there are circumstances connected with my
financial position which make it almost presumptuous that I should ask
you.”
“I think, Sir Henry,” she answered, speaking for the first time,
“that we may leave money matters out of the question. I have heard
something of the state of affairs at Rosham, and I know that you are not
responsible for it, though you are expected by others to remedy it.”
“It is very generous of you to speak like that, Miss Levinger; and it
helps me out of a great difficulty, for I could not see how I was to explain
all this business to you.”
“I think that it is only just, Sir Henry, not generous. Provided that
there is enough on one side or the other, money is not the principal question
to be considered.”
“No, Miss Levinger, I agree with you, though I have known others who
thought differently. The main thing is whether you can care enough about
me.”
“That is one thing, Sir Henry,” she answered in a low voice;
“also there are others.”
“I suppose that you mean whether or no I am worthy of you, Miss Levinger.
Well, even though it should destroy my chances with you, I will tell you
frankly that, in my judgment, I am not. Listen, Miss Levinger: till within a
few months ago I had never cared about any woman; then I saw you for the second
time, and thought you the sweetest lady that I had ever met, for I understood
how good and true you are, and in my heart I hoped that a day would come when I
might venture to ask you what I am asking you now. Afterwards trouble arose
through my own weakness and folly—trouble between myself and another
woman. I am sure that you will not press me for details, because, in order to
give them, I must betray another person’s secret. To be brief, I should
probably have married this woman, but she threw me over and chose another
man.”
“What!” said Emma, startled out of her self-control, “is Joan
Haste married?”
“I see that you know more about me than I thought. She is
married—to Mr. Samuel Rock.”
“I cannot understand it at all; it is almost incredible.”
“Nor can I, but the fact remains. She wrote to tell me of it herself,
and, what is more, her husband showed me the marriage certificate. And now I
have made a clean breast of it, for I will not sail under false colours, and
you must judge me. If you choose to take me, I promise you that no woman shall
ever have a better husband than I will be to you, for your happiness and
welfare shall be the first objects of my life. The question is, after what I
have told you, can you care for me?”
Emma stopped, for all this while they had been walking slowly, and looked him
full in the eyes, a last red ray of the dying light falling on her sweet face.
“Sir Henry,” she said, “you have been frank with me, and I
honour you for it, none the less because I happen to know something of the
story. And now I will be equally frank with you, though to do so is humbling to
me. When I stayed in the same house with you more than two years ago, you took
little notice of me, but I grew fond of you, and I have never changed my mind.
Still I do not think that, as things are, I should marry you on this account
alone, seeing that a woman looks for love in her marriage; and, Sir Henry, in
all that you have said to me you have spoken no—”
“How could I, knowing what I had to tell you?” he broke in.
“I cannot say, but it is so; and therefore, speaking for myself alone, I
should be inclined to answer you that we had best go our separate ways in life,
though I am sure that, as you promise, you would be a good and kind husband to
me. But there are other people to be considered: there is my father, who is
most anxious that I should make a satisfactory marriage—such as I know
this would be for me, for I am nobody and scarcely recognised in society
here—and who has the greatest respect and affection for you, as he had
for your father before you. Then there is your family: if I refuse you it would
mean that you would all be ruined, and though it may hurt your pride to hear me
say so, I shrink from such a thought——”
“Oh! pray do not let that weigh with you,” he interrupted.
“You know well that, although much of what you say is unhappily true, I
am not seeking you that you may mend my broken fortunes, but because you are
what you are, and I desire above all things to make you my wife.”
“I am sorry, Sir Henry, but, though I believe every word you say, I must
let it weigh with me, for I wish to be a blessing to those about me, and not a
curse. Well, for all these reasons, and chiefly perhaps, to be honest, because
I am fond of you though you do not care very much for me, I will be your wife,
Sir Henry, as you are good enough to wish it,” and she gave him her hand.
He took it and kissed it, and they walked on in silence till they were near to
the house. Then Henry spoke, and his voice betrayed more emotion than he cared
to show.
“How can I thank you, Emma!” he said; “and what am I to say
to you? It is useless for me to make protestations which you would not believe,
though perhaps they might have more truth in them than you imagine. But I am
sure of this, that if we live, a time will soon come when you will not doubt me
if I tell you that I love you.” And, drawing her to him, he kissed her
upon the forehead.
“I hope so, Henry,” she said, disengaging herself from his arms,
and they went together into the house.
Within ten weeks of this date Henry and Emma were spending a long honeymoon
among the ruined temples of the Nile.