Joan Haste by H. Rider Haggard (cat reading book .TXT) đź“–
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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afresh in life. When I came to these parts an unknown wanderer, he
found me work; he even gave me the agency of this property, which I
held till I had no longer any need of it. I have told you all this
partly because you are your father’s son, and partly because I have
watched you and followed your career from boyhood, and know you to be
a man of the strictest honour, who will never use my words against me.
“I repeat that I have not told you everything, for even since those
days I have been no saint—a man who has let his passions run riot for
years does not grow good in an hour, Captain Graves. But I trust that
you will not think worse of me than I deserve, for it still pains me
to lose the good opinion of an upright man. One thing at least I have
done—though I borrowed from my daughter to do it, and pinched myself
till I am thought to be miserly—at length I have paid back all those
thousands that I owed, either to my creditors or to their descendants;
yes, not a month ago I settled the last and heaviest claim. And now,
Captain Graves, you will understand why I have advanced moneys beyond
their value upon mortgage of the Rosham estates. Your father, who has
long forgotten or rather ignored the past, believes it to have been
done in the ordinary way of business; I have told you the true
reason.”
“Thank you,” said Henry. “Of course I shall respect your confidence.
It is not for me to judge other men, so I hope that you will excuse my
making any remarks about it. You have behaved with extreme generosity
to my father, but even now I cannot say that I think your conduct was
well advised: indeed, I do not see how it makes the matter any better
for us. This money belongs to you, or to your daughter,”—here Henry
thought that Mr. Levinger winced a little—“and in one way or another
it must be paid or secured. I quite understand that you do not wish to
force us into bankruptcy, but it seems that there is a large amount of
interest overdue, putting aside the question of the capital, and not a
penny to meet it with. What is to be done?”
Mr. Levinger sat down and thought awhile before he answered.
“You have put your finger on the weak spot,” he said presently: “this
money is Emma’s, every farthing of it, for whatever I have saved out
of my life interest has gone towards the payment of my own debts, and
after all I have no right to be generous with my daughter’s fortune.
Not long ago I had occasion to appoint a guardian and trustee for her
under my will, a respectable solicitor whose name does not matter, and
it was owing to the remonstrances that he made when he accepted the
office that I was obliged to move in this matter of the mortgages, or
at least of the payment of the interest on them. Had it been my own
money I would never have consented to trouble your father, since
fortunately we have enough to live upon in our quiet way without this
interest; but it is not.”
“Quite so,” said Henry. “And therefore again I ask, what is to be
done?”
“Done?” answered Mr. Levinger: “at present, nothing. Let things go
awhile, Captain Graves; half a year’s interest more or less can make
no great difference. If necessary, my daughter must lose it, and after
all neither she nor any future husband of hers will be able to blame
me for the loss. When those mortgages were made there was plenty of
cover: who could foresee that land would fall so much in value? Let
matters take their course; this is a strange world, and all sorts of
unexpected things happen in it. For aught we know to the contrary,
within six months Emma may be dead, or,” he added, “in some position
in which it would not be necessary that payment should be made to her
on account of these mortgages.”
For a moment he hesitated, as though wondering whether it would be
wise to say something that was on the tip of his tongue; then,
deciding that it would not, Mr. Levinger rose, lit a candle, and,
having shaken Henry warmly by the hand, he limped off to bed.
When he had gone Henry filled himself another pipe and sat down to
think. Mr. Levinger puzzled him; there was something attractive about
him, something magnetic even, and yet he could not entirely trust him.
Even in his confidences there had been reservations: the man appeared
to be unable to make up his mind to tell all the truth. So it was also
with his generosity towards Sir Reginald: he had been generous indeed,
but it seemed that it was with his daughter’s money. Thus too with his
somewhat tardy honesty: he had paid his debts even though “he had
borrowed from his daughter to do so.” To Henry’s straightforward
sense, upon his own showing Mr. Levinger was a curious mixture, and a
man about whom as yet he could form no positive judgment.
From the father his thoughts travelled to the daughter. It was strange
that she should have produced so slight an impression upon him when he
had met her nearly two years before. Either she was much altered, or
his appreciative powers had developed. Certainly she impressed him
now. There was something very striking about this frail, flaxen-haired
girl, whose appearance reminded him of a Christmas rose. It seemed odd
that such a person could have been born of a mother of common blood,
as he understood the late Mrs. Levinger to have been, for Emma
Levinger looked “aristocratic” if ever woman did. Moreover, it was
clear that she lacked neither intellect nor dignity; her conversation,
and the way in which she had met the impertinences of the insufferable
Milward, proved it.
This was the lady whom Ellen had declared to be “half in love with
him.” The idea was absurd, and the financial complications which
surrounded her repelled him, causing him to dismiss it impatiently.
Yet, as Henry followed Mr. Levinger’s example and went to bed, a voice
in his heart told him that a worse fate might befall a man.
A PROPOSAL AND A DIFFERENCE
The morrow was a Sunday, when, according to immemorial custom,
everybody belonging to Rosham Hall was expected to go to church once
in the day—a rule, however, from which visitors were excused. Henry
made up his mind that Mr. Levinger and his daughter would avail
themselves of this liberty of choice and stay at home. There was
something so uncommon about both of them that he jumped to the
conclusion that they were certainly agnostics, and in all probability
atheists. Therefore he was somewhat surprised when at breakfast he
heard Mr. Levinger making arrangements to be driven to the
church—for, short as was the distance, it was farther than he could
walk—and Emma announced her intention of accompanying him.
Henry walked down to church by himself, for Sir Reginald had driven
with his guests and his mother and sister were not going until the
afternoon. Finding the three seated in the front pew of the nave, he
placed himself in that immediately behind, where he thought that he
would be more comfortable, and the service began. It was an ordinary
country service in an ordinary country church celebrated by an
ordinary rather long-winded parson: conditions that are apt to cause
the thoughts to wander, even in the best regulated mind. Although he
did his utmost to keep his attention fixed, for it was characteristic
of him that even in such a matter as the listening to ill-sung psalms
his notions of duty influenced him, Henry soon found himself lost in
reflections. We need not follow them all, since, wherever they began,
they ended in the consideration of the father and daughter before him,
and of all the circumstances connected with them. Even now, while the
choir wheezed and the clergyman droned, the respective attitudes of
these two struck him as exceedingly interesting. The father followed
every verse and every prayer with an almost passionate devotion, that
afforded a strange insight into an unsuspected side of his character.
Clearly, whatever might have been the sins of his youth, he was now a
religious devotee, or something very like it, for Henry felt certain
that his manner was not assumed.
With Emma it was different. Her demeanour was one of earnest and
respectful piety—a piety which with her was obviously a daily habit,
since he noticed that she knew all the canticles and most of the
psalms by heart. As it chanced, the one redeeming point in the service
was the reading of the lessons. These were read by Sir Reginald
Graves, whose fine voice and impressive manner were in striking
contrast to the halting utterance of the clergyman. The second lesson
was taken from perhaps the most beautiful of the passages in the
Bible, the fifteenth chapter of the first Epistle to the Corinthians,
wherein the Apostle sets out his inspired vision of the resurrection
of the dead and of the glorious state of them who shall be found alive
in it. Henry, watching Emma’s face, saw it change and glow as she
followed those immortal words, till at the fifty-third verse and
thence to the end of the chapter it became alight as though with the
effulgence of a living faith within her. Indeed, at the words “for
this corruptible must put on incorruption and this mortal must put on
immortality,” it chanced that a vivid sunbeam breaking from the grey
sky fell full upon the girl’s pale countenance and spiritual eyes,
adding a physical glory to them, and for one brief moment making her
appear, at least in his gaze, as though some such ineffable change had
already overtaken her, and the last victory of the spirit was
proclaimed in her person.
Henry looked at her astonished; and since in his own way he lacked
neither sympathy nor perception, in that instant he came to understand
that this woman was something apart from all the women whom he had
known—a being purer and sweeter, partaking very little of the nature
of the earth. And yet his sister had said that she was half in love
with him! Weighing his own unworthiness, he smiled to himself even
then, but with the smile came a thought that he was by no means
certain whether he was not “half in love” with her himself.
The sunbeam passed, and soon the lesson was finished, and with it the
desire for those things which are not yet, faded from Emma’s eyes,
leaving in the mind of the man who watched her a picture that could
never fade.
At lunch Ellen, who had been sitting silent, suddenly awoke from her
reverie and asked Emma what she would like to do that afternoon. Emma
replied that she wished to take a walk if it were convenient to
everybody else.
“That will do very well,” said Ellen with decision. “My brother can
escort you down to the Cliff: there is a good view of the sea there;
and after church I will come to meet you. We cannot miss each other,
as there is only one road.”
Henry was about to rebel, for when Ellen issued her orders in this
fashion she invariably excited an opposition in his breast which was
sometimes unreasonable; but glancing at Miss Levinger’s face he
noticed that she seemed pleased at the prospect of a walk,
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