CHAPTER XXI.
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.”
‘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.”